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"They can take care of themselves," I say. I don’t know if I believe it, but I know I need to look after her, and it seems to me like she’s seriously hurt. I grab her hand again, intertwining my fingers with hers, and pull her away from Tom’s bedroom.
We can’t have this conversation in Tom’s house. We need to get the fuck out of here. I drag her toward the front door, past the shelves on the wall, the family photos interspersed until we get to the foyer.
I practically push her out the door, my breath catching in my throat when I close it behind us.
As soon as we’re outside—even with the horrid humidity and the fog closing around us—I feel like I can breathe a little better.
"Show me your neck," I say.
Trine tilts her head up toward the sky, and I inch my face close to her skin. "It hurts," she says, her breath shaking. "Does it look bad?"
I swallow. "No," I say. "No, it doesn’t look like anything. I don’t think it left a mark. Can I touch you?"
"Yes," she says.
I press my fingertips against her skin, which is warm and soft to the touch, but it doesn’t look scarred. It doesn’t look hurt. She seems totally fine. "How does that feel?" I ask her.
"I don’t know," she says. "Like nothing, I guess."
When I pull away from her, and she tilts her head down to look into my eyes, she looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
