Page 53 of Always Love You More

I put the first-aid kit on the desk, and Johnny motions toward it. “You need help?” he asks. “I can stay.”

I shake my head. “I can do it.”

He looks between the two of us. It seems like he’s about to say something, but then he just nods. “Seven a.m. tomorrow,” he reminds us.

We both mumble in agreement.

He’s still for a moment before eventually starting toward the door. “Lock it behind me.”

“I will.”

I follow him and wait as he closes the door then lock me and Jameson inside.

Chapter 15

Jameson

Samturnsawayfromthe door, her eyes meeting mine. She looks almost … shy.

I watch her walk over to me, her gaze moving from my face to the floor. It’s surreal to be here with her. To be in her room. In her space, the two of us alone.

She stops in front of the desk that’s shoved between the two beds. It’s old, with lots of drawers that I wish I could go through.

Her room is so empty it makes me wonder where she keeps all her things. I expected her space to be chaotic, overflowing with the pieces of her life. The bag she always carries around seems to hold an endless amount of stuff. But the only way you can even tell the room is hers is the small stack of books that’s balanced on her side of the desk.

She has some posters up on the wall of bands I’ve never heard her talk about. Other than that, the room is lifeless, sterile even.

I move the frozen bag of peas from my face to my side. They aren’t very cold anymore, but I don’t want her to leave again, so I don’t say anything.

She looks over her shoulder when she hears me move, her hands hovering above the first-aid kit. After setting something down, she spins the desk chair around so it’s facing me, lowering herself into it.

Her face is level with mine as she twists to grab a wet washcloth off the desk. “I’m gonna start with your face. Is that all right?”

I nod.

She leans forward, and I spread my legs to accommodate hers. Her attention quickly drops down before she settles it back on my face. Gently, she presses the washcloth to my eyebrow and rubs at the dried blood. She watches me for a reaction, but I keep still. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” I lie.

She pulls the washcloth away, folds it over, then runs it down my cheeks and above my lip.

I close my eyes and drop my shoulders.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it feels nice.” I sigh. “I’ve never had someone do this for me before. I always do it myself.”

Her hand slows, but she doesn’t say anything. She just keeps dragging the washcloth along my face. Eventually, she pulls away, and I hear a wrapper being ripped open.

I open my eyes as she says, “This is gonna hurt.”

She pours hydrogen peroxide on a gauze pad then presses it against my eyebrow. I hiss at the sting, and she winces from the sound.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

I lick my lip. “I’m fine.”

She peels open a butterfly bandage, and it reminds me of the time I first saw her.