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So I do what any sane woman would do.
Hurl the trophy at his head.
SCORE! Heavy lead crystal and sheer panic combine really well when it comes to weaponizing them to stay alive.
Unless you’re Will Lotham.
“OW!” he shouts, arms up to defend against his own Most Valuable Player trophy attacking him. You know how in movies a moment like this is captured in slow motion, as if the victim lives through it on a time delay?
The exact opposite happens to my adrenaline-filled bloodstream. Time speeds up.
Blood runs pretty damn fast, too.
“Jesus, Mallory, what the hell?” he grunts out, holding his right hand against a spot on his scalp above his ear. Our eyes meet. His are outraged, full of pain, and instantly, I feel awful.
But still very, very pissed.
“Don’t ever come up behind me like that! You scared the hell out of me!” My knees go weak. I’m standing on the bed, the mattress soft enough to make it hard to balance as stress hormones turn my joints into silly putty.
“You didn’t have to give me a concussion!” He winces.
“I thought you were a velociraptor!”
“Do I look like an eighty-million-year-old beast with lightning-fast reflexes that loves to tear flesh off people?”
“How would I know? I haven’t seen you for ten years!”
“What are you doing in my bedroom? Turning my inanimate objects against me?”
“I’m–I’m–” Of course, I can’t tell the truth about why I’m in here. I pivot and move close to him, worried about the blood dripping down his jaw line, staining his shirt. “I need to look at that.”
“You are not touching me. You’ve done enough damage.” He flinches, but doesn’t step back. I’m close enough to smell his cologne, the scent mingling with fresh blood, my nose filled with my own adrenaline-fueled fear that is winding down.
“Will, you need a first aid kit. Where is it?”
“Bathroom. Through that door.”
Skittering over to the next room, I rummage through drawers until I find the kit, part of my brain admiring the exquisite vanity from Waterworks. Finding a washcloth, I wet it with cool water and return to find Will sitting on the edge of his bed, glaring at the trophy like it was all the crystal football’s fault.
“At least she didn’t drop to the floor and kick me in the balls,” I hear him mutter to himself as I enter the room.
“If I had, you’d have deserved it,” I tell him matter of factly, bending before him and looking up at his face. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re telling me I deserved it but you are also sorry in the same sentence?”
“Complexity is the hallmark of being a mature human being.” I carefully dab the cut with the wet washcloth as he winces.
“Then you’re the most mature person I know, Mallory, because you’re exceptionally complex. Always have been.”
My heart has been pounding like crazy from fear, but as Will’s words wash over me, it picks up the beat, dancing a new set of steps that are unfamiliar, exhilarating.
Always have been. That implies he’s paid attention to me across time.
What does that mean?
Carefully, I reach for his hand, the one pressed to the head wound I created, and as our fingers touch, he sucks in a deep breath. I assume it’s from pain, and make a sound of compassion. He lets his hand drop, and I quickly press a big square of gauze to the cut.
“I am truly sorry,” I whisper, wincing as I look at his split flesh. I did that to him. Adrenaline rushes through my blood again, like a sugar high after eating baklava at my favorite local Greek restaurant, Athena’s Delite, and as much as I’m still crazy upset by what I thought was an attack, I’m starting to realize how much I really hurt him.
