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“I know, I know. It doesn’t seem to make sense, but I have opposing thumbs and I can see it from an angle you can’t. And anyway, I did this…so I should fix it.”
My throat tightens. My eyes feel hot, and all I can think is someone new moved in, a really pretty guy moved right next door, and what do I do? I go make the worst impression possible!
Holy hell. I cannot believe I’m on the verge of crying. What a lunatic. That’s what he thinks, you know that’s what he thinks, you’re such a freak. I refrain from blinking, willing the few tears my eyes have brewed to disappear.
His dark brows scrunch, giving him a vaguely eagle-like look. I can see the moment he notices the feelings pooling in my eyes, because his sharp expression gentles.
“What’s the matter?”
I cover my face and shake my head. My heart is pounding. Only you, I snarl at myself.
I suck a small breath in, rub two fingers over my eyes, and pull my hands down. (Why hide now?) “I’m sorry. This is not my day.” I shake my head. “I know it’s not yours either. Let me help you fix it. Then I’ll go.”
He looks mystified. Maybe concerned. I don’t know which. He steps closer and I get so hot, I think I might catch fire.
When there’s just a foot or two between us, he tilts his head. I force my wet gaze to hold his gorgeous blue-gray one. Which, I can’t help noticing, is filled with nothing but what I’m coining concerned curiosity.
I have the urge to roll my lips, or cover them with my hand. I’m not sure when I last stood so close to a man who wasn’t my brother or Jamie’s boyfriend. I sigh. “This whole thing is embarrassing, and unfortunate for you, I realize. I am really sorry. I’m just— I’m your weird new neighbor.” I tilt my head back, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. “Heaven help you.”
When I dare to look at him again, I find that same kind concern in the press of his lips and the tension at his brow.
“I swear, I’m not always such a nutjob. Sit down—if you want to. I’ll do what you tell me to if you’re a Dermabond pro.” I hold my hand up. “I’m just here to lend a hand.”
I wipe my eyes and paste on an apologetic smile.
It occurs to me a half-second too late that I am snariling at him. Perfect. My eyes shut—on their own accord.
I suck a big breath in and hold it in my chest. I’m lonely, I realize. It hits me with gale force as I stand here in my neighbor’s bathroom.
I’m so lonely, I could shrivel up and die.
That’s when I feel a light touch on my cheek.
EIGHT
Gwenna
I stand painfully still, my eyes shut, my heart throbbing, trying to decide if I’m imagining the touch. Everything but my sore heart is paused mid-furl, awaiting new life. I wait like an idiot—until I hear a little tap a few feet away. I open my eyes and find him seated on the stool.
He’s got his right hand around his left one, and he’s looking down. The look on his face reminds me of the one I used to see in the mirror at Helga’s office in those first months of 2012. When Mom or Dad or Rett would take me and I’d just sit on the couch, occasionally catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind her chair.
His jaw is slightly tight. He looks like he’s trying to hold onto something: anger, maybe, or sadness.
My own sadness rocks in my chest like an ocean wave, so deep it threatens to choke me.
Of course he didn’t touch your cheek. He doesn’t even know you.
I really want to turn and run straight home, but that’s not what I do. I find my feet stepping over to him, as if we’re linked by an invisible cord.
I can’t seem to find the nerve to look him in the face—not after how insane I’ve acted since I got here—so I only guess his eyes are still on his lap. As I stop mere inches from his bare, tattooed back, he reaches into a brown, tin-looking box on the counter and draws out a saline-filled syringe.
For the barest second, our eyes meet in the mirror.
I step over to the sink, where there’s a bottle of Dial soap. I wash my hands. My gaze flicks toward him as I rub my soapy hands together. It bumps into his. He’s watching me. Of course he is. You’re the only other human in the room, Gwen.
I dry my hands on a beige towel hanging from a rack that’s standing on the counter, oddly comforted by the knowledge that neither of us is going to talk until I take my place behind him again.
When I station myself there, he hands me the syringe. “Have you irrigated a wound before?” His words are low and clipped.
