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Winter: Please come home.
Winter: Haze, please. I’m worried sick.
Nothing.
I don’t even think he opened them.
There’s so much he doesn’t know. I can understand why he might feel betrayed that I kept a secret from him, especially one that he had to find out this way, but I never intended to lie to him. I just thought I’d spare both of us the heartache, because, to me, it was nothing but a bad memory: The night where I lost both my virginity and my closest friend, all in a span of hours. Definitely not my brightest moment.
When I think I hear the front door open, I hold my breath, begging, praying, that I didn’t imagine it. That he’s really here. Home. Safe.
A sharp sound.
Then a low curse.
“Fuck.” He ran into something. Probably the empty boxes we left by the door.
Yep. That’s Haze.
My heart jolts as I climb out of bed, swing open the bedroom door, and hurry down the hall. There he is. Standing in the dark kitchen. Relief overwhelms me. We didn’t hang curtains to conceal the city lights yet, which allows me to see his tired features and the twinge of pain glimmering in his eyes. He’s wearing the black T-shirt he left in. It wasn’t a warm night. He must’ve been cold as heck.
None of us say a word.
“Where were you?” I’m the first to speak.
“Nowhere.” He shrugs and tumbles down the hall. I mirror his every step.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I needed some air.”
“Until 2:00 a.m.? I was worried out of my mind, Haze. I swear to God—”
“Relax, this is Canada,” he snorts. “You can sleep with the keys in the door here.”
I roll my eyes so hard they enter a new dimension. He walks into the bathroom, flicks the light switch on, and lowers the light’s intensity to its minimum. The faint orange lights above the tub come on, illuminating the room as he twists the tap and waits for the water to cool. That’s when I see his hand. His knuckles are scraped. It doesn’t look too deep, more like a surface wound, but it’s enough to send me spiraling.
“What the hell happened?” I gasp and close the door.
“I’m not sure.” He places his hand under the freezing water and smirks. “I think there was a wall behind my punch.”
“What? You punched a wall? Are you insane?” I scold him. “Can you move your fingers?” He does but not without a slight wince. “Does it hurt?”
“Nah. It’s all right. I found something to numb it.” He gives me a lazy grin. He’s been drinking, that much is clear. He’s not wasted, but he definitely had a few more drinks after he left.
“We really need to talk about what happened.”
His cocky smile fades away, leaving a stern face behind.
“No, we don’t. So, you had a past before me. Big fucking deal.” He continues to watch as the water drowns his hand.
“You say that, but you’re mad. I know you are.”
He doesn’t reply at first. Just sighs.
“I spent the whole night trying not to be,” he admits.
“Why did you do that?” I flinch at his bruised hand. “You could’ve broken your hand. You could’ve gotten really hurt.”
