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“I can get it,” I say.
Mom lifts a brow while giving me a knowing look. I, of course, ignore the mom look and go about pulling a plate down from the cabinet and piling on some pancakes. My back is turned toward Harlem, but I can feel his gaze.
Leaning one crutch against the counter, I twist and set my plate on the table. The room is filled with awkward tension as we sit at the small breakfast table. Harlem stares daggers at me like I kicked his puppy, while my mother looks back and forth between me and the broody biker like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
I reach for the syrup in the middle of the table while Harlem picks up his coffee. I pause when I note the red, swollen knuckles on his right hand. Several of his knuckles are split open. Harlem follows my line of sight, but his expression doesn’t change, and he doesn’t offer an explanation. I don’t know what happened, but when he left yesterday, his hands did not look like he’d gone head-to-head with a brick wall.
Standing, I grab my crutches and maneuver away from the table. Then I look at Harlem.
“Come on.”
I don’t wait for his reply. Instead, I feel his looming presence behind me as I enter the bathroom. My pulse begins to race, and my heart feels like it will beat out of my chest.
What the heck are you doing, Sukie?
I bend over and peer under the sink. Spotting what I’m looking for, I grab the first aid kit. Leaning the crutches against the wall, I sit down on the edge of the tub. Harlem looms in the doorway while I look impatiently at him for several uncomfortable seconds. I purse my lips and nod to the closed toilet seat. When he steps into the tiny bathroom and sits, his knee brushes against mine.
The air in the small space crackles with electricity, and I try not to squirm under his gaze. It takes all my strength not to let him see how being this close to him affects me. Heat rushes back to my face when my mind drifts back to the granny panty debacle.
Pushing those thoughts away, I pop open the kit resting on my lap and sift through the contents in search of some antiseptic. My hands shake as I tear open the packet.
“This might sting a little.”
I reach out and take Harlem’s large hand in mine. I ignore the intensity of his stare as I clean the cuts along his knuckles. When the alcohol hits his skin, he doesn’t so much as flinch. When I finish wiping away the dried blood, I lift his hand to my mouth and blow. Harlem’s palm flexes against mine, and a rumble vibrates in his chest. I pause what I’m doing and peer up at him through my lashes. His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “These cuts needed to be cleaned before they got infected.” Again, he doesn’t respond, so I apply some ointment. Curious, I ask, “Were you in a fight?” There is a long silence. He won’t answer my question.
Then he responds, “Wasn’t much of a fight since I was the one doing the beatin’.”
His comment has me thinking back to his reaction to the vandalism of my house yesterday and his abrupt departure. Then today, he shows up to fix the broken window, and his hands are all torn up.
Licking my dry lips, I ask, “Who did you beat up?”
Harlem holds my stare as I search his face for his answers. I know immediately who was on the receiving end of his fists. “Is…is he…”
“He isn’t dead,” Harlem cuts me off. “Though I left the pussy wishing he was. He won’t be fuckin’ with you anymore.”
I let Harlem’s confession sink in and try to digest my feelings about the fact that the man in front of me left me yesterday and went straight to the person responsible for the vandalism and harassment that has caused so much anguish and so many sleepless nights.
“I…I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
Harlem stands abruptly. “Nothin’ to say. The fucker knows his place now.” On that note, he turns and walks out of the bathroom, leaving me reeling again.
A few seconds later, I hear the front door open and close, followed by the rumble of his bike starting. I don’t know how long I sit on the tub’s edge, but I’m eventually knocked out of my stupor when my mom appears in the doorway.
“Everything ok?” she asks. “Your friend left so suddenly.”
I blink away the brain fog caused by Harlem and plaster a smile on my face. “Everything is fine. He had something to do.”
“Oh.” The look on Mom’s face says she’s not convinced. Luckily, she doesn’t press. “Do you want to finish your breakfast before going into the shop?”
“Sure. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I leave Mom in the greenhouse an hour later and head into town. I turn the radio on, hoping to drown out my wandering thoughts about Harlem. The man is infuriating. He gives me whiplash with how he runs hot and cold all the time. I don’t know which way is up or down with that man.
I’m pulled from my inner turmoil when red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I bring my car to a stop on the side of the road. Turning down the music, I give myself a mental pep talk for the bullshit I’m about to be forced to choke down. Incidents like this one are becoming increasingly frequent. I’m not sure how much more I can take.
“Damnit.”
