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TWENTY-FOUR
Felix
“Careful,” Laia squeaks from where she’s slid her arm around my waist, her cool fingers skimming under the hem of my T-shirt as I stand from the wheelchair they made me ride in to the hospital exit.
As if she could hold my weight.
“I’m fine. Nothing’s broken,” I laugh. Then wince. Pain shooting up the back of my neck to my rattled skull.
She flaps around me, her hands lifting to press against my forehead, my cheeks.
“Stop.” I cover her hands with mine and pull them down between us.
“Sorry.” She slips her fingers from my grip as she turns and yanks hard on the passenger side door handle of her truck until it creaks open. “Jump in.”
The storm might have passed, but the air is still crisp, its usual humidity replaced by a biting freshness. The tarmac glitters wetly under the streetlights. It’s cold. And Laia’s in nothing but those damn pajama shorts, a knitted jacket, and a thin, thin tank. “You need bigger clothes.”
“I know, I—” She tugs the sides of her jacket closed and steps back to let me pass her, lips turned down, gaze lowered. “I should have changed. I’m a mess, I didn’t think.”
“Laia, no. I mean you look cold. I didn’t mean I don’t like your … what you’re wearing…” I trail off and drag my sorry ass into her truck before I can make her any more uncomfortable.
Seat belt on, she leans forward on the leather bench seat and turns the ignition. The engine roars to life, vibrating the cab as she shifts into gear. Forehead creased, delicate fingers curled around the big, old fashioned steering wheel, she pulls out of the parking space.
For a second, I just—look.
Laia in motion is pure nervous energy, startled glances and so many fucking apologies. But Laia focused is different. A quiet, careful confidence wraps her movements. It’s in every gear change, every check of the mirrors as she drives us towards the exit of the car park. It was the same when she was baking the other morning. Gone was the skittishness that seems to plague her and in its place something else. Something special.
Tongue peeking between her lips, she glances over, the truck idling at the exit.
I scan her face—the last face that flashed in my mind before that fucking tree knocked me unconscious. My skull throbs with what that could mean. That my thoughts hadn’t gone to Rosa’s face, her smile, her laugh, like they always have when things get fucked up. They’d gone to Laia.
“Which way?” Her quiet question has me blinking to focus on her darkening cheeks and her wide green eyes.
“Left.” I clear my throat and face forward. “Follow the road straight out of town.”
We travel in silence. The roar of the engine and the patter of yet more rain against the windshield our only soundtrack.
I glance at the side of her face as we leave town and head down the winding, tree-lined road. Her slim forearms peek out of the loose sleeves of her jacket, two silver bangles on her right wrist. And her hands. No Band-Aids. “How are your fingers?”
She flexes her fingers, straightening them then curling them back around the steering wheel. “Good. Great.” She glances my way. “Thank you … for last night.” Her full bottom lip disappears into her mouth, a move I know means she’s thinking, or worrying, or just trying not to come out with something random.
I shift on the bench to face her, my arm stretched along the back, my fingers almost close enough to catch one of the curls that have fallen from the more disheveled than usual knot on the top of her head. “Laia, last night—”
“—I was drunk.” She chews on that lip, her gaze still resolutely on the road. “If I was sober, I never would have…” Even in the darkness of the cab I can see that her cheeks have flushed even darker. “Tried to make you do something you didn’t want to do.”
My house appears to the left of the road, slightly back into the forest before I can reassure her that my reasons for stopping last night had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
“This is it.” I point in the direction of my driveway, not that there are any others she could mistake it for. There are no other houses for miles.
“It’s beautiful.” She leans forward to look out of the windshield as she pulls into the driveway, her lips parting, slightly curved up, exactly like they did when she slid her top down last night.
My dick throbs with the memory. I almost reach for her—almost forget how last night ended, how royally I fucked up.
The smile fades from her face before I get the chance. She cuts the engine, her cheeks puffing out like she’s having to psych herself up to come inside.
She’s nervous. My jaw clenches tight, the knowledge that it’s me making her nervous winding itself around the tendons in the back of my neck making my head throb ten-fold.
“You don’t have to stay.” I sit back in the worn leather bench seat and rub my forehead.
“But the doctor said you shouldn’t be alone.” She twists the corner of her jacket around her finger.
It’s impossible to miss the hurt in her voice.
I drag my hands down my face. “I don’t mean I don’t want you here, Laia. I just don’t—I don’t want you to feel obligated to.”
“I don’t feel obligated.” She finally meets my stare. “I want to.”
Nerves. Good or bad nerves, who the fuck knows, but they make themselves known, buzzing in the base of my skull. I don’t bring women here. “Let’s go in then.”
“Okay.” She throws her whole body against the rusted door of her truck to open it, then jumps out.
I watch her jog around the front but shove my door open before she tries to get it for me.
She holds her hands out like she’s gonna help me down, bracelets jingling, knitted jacket falling open, her thin tank clinging to her braless chest. It’s almost enough to make me forget about the pain.
“Laia, seriously, I’m fine.” I climb down without taking her hand.
“Right. Sorry.” She clasps them behind her back and steps out of the way to let me pass, eyes flicking awkwardly towards the front door with every step we take towards it. “This place is amazing.”
Shoulder leaning against the door frame, hand massaging the ever-present twitch in the back of my neck, I watch her walk into my home and down the step into the open living area.
Her face breaks into a huge, unguarded grin and she spins in a tight circle in the middle of the hardwood floors, her boots squeaking as she moves. “It’s not like anything I’ve seen here. It’s so modern.” She stops, facing me, her jacket hanging off her shoulders.
I swallow thickly and hold her stare. If it was surreal having her in the hospital, it’s even more surreal having her here.
Her lips part again. I shove my hands in my pockets, unable to look away.
“Even the door is amazing.” She closes the distance between us, walking back up the step to where I’m still standing.
She doesn’t touch me, but she does slide her hand down the waxed barn door. “You built this place yourself.” It’s not a question. She sees so much more than she possibly can.
“I did.” It was the only thing that kept me sane after Rosa—building somewhere that didn’t have memories of her—of us connected to it.
“I knew it.” Her hand pauses on the door. “It’s beautiful.” Her tongue sweeps across her bottom lip before she pulls it between her teeth. “It’s so you.”
I need to lie down. There’s too much blood running in too many directions. I slip past her toward one of the big gray sofas in the living area.
“Are you okay?” She hurries behind me. “Ice. We were supposed to ice your head as soon as we got home.”
I sit down, leaning back into the sofa, my eyelids heavier than they were a minute ago.
I don’t have to look to know that she’s standing by my knee, watching me with big, worried eyes. I do anyway, just lifting my head taking more effort than it should.
“I’ve taken the painkillers they gave you before. They make you drowsy.” She offers me a little smile. “I’ll get something to ice your head.”
“The freezer’s under the island,” I call after her.
A couple of minutes later she’s back, lowering herself onto the sofa beside me, one knee tucked under herself so she can face me.
“Where does it hurt?” A towel-wrapped ice pack in her hand, she peers down at me, her elbow resting on the back of the sofa by my head, so close the smell of vanilla and clothes softener fills my nostrils.
“Everywhere,” I groan, letting my lids slide shut again.
I’m not lying. Every fucking part of me hurts, but despite the ache, her soft puff of laughter curves my lips up.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
The barely-there touch of her cold fingers to my hairline shocks me still. My eyes stay closed, but the rest of my exhausted body slides into a strange sort of hyper-awareness as her gentle exploration travels over my skull, carefully probing, parting my hair, skimming for injury.
I hiss when she reaches a spot just above my left ear, a sharp pain rushing over my skull.
“Sorry.” Her fingers disappear, replaced with the frigidness of the ice pack. It molds to the shape of my head better that any bag of ice cubes could. Frozen veg if I had to guess. I don’t have the energy to ask. I barely have the energy to think.
Comfortable silence settles in, her slight body pressing a little more into my side with every second that passes.
“Frozen peas are better for bumps.” Her soft musing breaks through my semi-sleep. “Ice cubes have too many hard edges.”
My mind drags itself back from its painkiller-induced haze, my consciousness grabbing hold of her words to pull me from slumber. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”
She shifts beside me, the warm puff of her sigh tickling my jaw. “Maybe,” she whispers quietly.
I feel her head rest on her elbow by the side of my face, her breath over my temple, her body pressing even closer to mine with the movement.
Keeping my eyes closed would probably be the right thing to do, but I can’t make myself do it. I roll my head on the back cushion of the sofa to look at her, her hand, the one holding the ice pack, follows the lazy movement, keeping it pressed to the side of my head. “That’s what you want to forget.”
She watches me carefully, her face just centimeters from mine, close enough to pick out the darker ring that circles her irises and the single gold fleck just above her left pupil.
More seconds pass, each one melting away any hope I have of her answering. My eyes start to drift again, too heavy to keep open and I finally quit fighting the oblivion.
