Graves did exactly what he was paid to do. What Ilethim do. I just didn’t stay down.
The hot water stings every cut. I brace my hands against the tile and the water runs red, then pink, then clear. It swirls down the drain like evidence disappearing.
When I step out, she’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed,flipping through channels on the ancient TV. She’s taken off her shoes, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She looks up. Her eyes track down my chest, cataloguing the damage.
“How bad?” she asks.
“Three cracked ribs, maybe. Nothing’s broken.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what broken feels like. This isn’t that.” I towel off my hair, wincing when I hit the gash. “It’s just loud.”
She unfolds herself from the bed and comes to me. Takes the towel out of my hands. Presses her fingers gently to the bruise on my side, her touch featherlight, and I flinch.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I cover her hand with mine, splaying it flat against my ribs. “I like that it hurts when you touch me. Means I can still feel it.”
She stretches up and kisses the corner of my mouth, the side that isn’t split, and it’s so careful it makes my chest ache worse than the ribs.
“Get dressed,” she whispers. “I’m starving.”
“Do you really think going out is safe?”Paxton would kill me.
“Can we just pretend for the day? One day where it’s just us, on a normal trip, being a normal couple, before we have to go back to the real world.”
Inhaling slowly, I roll over the thought in my head, and even though I know I should refuse, I don’t.
Because I’d give her anything she asked.
We get food from the diner across the street. Burgers and fries and milkshakes that taste like they were made in 1985.
The place is mostly empty. Just us and an old man nursingcoffee at the counter and a waitress who calls everyone “hon” and doesn’t bat an eye when I order two slices of pie.
“You have a sweet tooth,” Genevieve observes, dragging a fry through her milkshake.
I point at the motion. “That’s disgusting. I thought you’d have better standards, given that you’re a trained chef.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” She grins and offers me one.
I lean in, my eyes on hers, and take a bite from her fingers. It’s good, actually.
“I’m not admitting you’re right.”
“You just did.”
“I have manners. You literally just dragged a french fry through a vanilla milkshake. You should be in chef jail.”
“Bold talk from the man who ordered two slices of cherry pie after eating a double cheeseburger and drinking a chocolate malt.”
I beam at her. “I’m a growing boy.”
She laughs.
“Besides, you’re enabling me.”