Page 33 of From Square One

“Home,” I whisper.

“Did you hit your head?”

I’m not sure how he knows I fainted. “No.”

“Are you on the floor? Can you move?”

I don’t answer.

“Ten minutes,” he says, and I hear rustling and clinking sounds, like he’s putting supplies down. “Stay where you are. Focus on breathing, okay?”

The pain is sharp and overwhelming. All I can do is exist on the wooden floor, half-conscious, and stare at the front door. I count the minutes, forcing myself to breathe through the aches. One minute. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

The door handle wriggles. It’s locked. I hear a faint curse.

Seven.

There’s a thud in my bedroom. Then thunderous footsteps are sprinting down the staircase, and a shadow falls over me. Aaron’s pale face is flushed, and he’s heaving deep breaths as he glances between me and the toppled chair. He’s wearing white overalls flecked with teal paint, along with a scrappy bandanna to keep his hair off his forehead.

This is a humiliating situation, but I can only feel relief.

“I’m here,” he says, collapsing onto his knees. He slides one hand delicately under my head, settling it on his thighs. “Where does it hurt?”

I blink up at him lethargically. “Don’t know,” I mumble.

“Everywhere?” he translates.

I don’t answer.

“Do you know how long you were out?” he asks.

“Couple of seconds.”

“You’re sure you didn’t hit your head?” His hand roves my scalp gently, feeling for any new welts before shifting to my neck and shoulders, pressing light divots into the skin. “I don’t see obvious signs of broken bones, but we should go to the hospital to check—”

“No!” I say. “I’m fine. Just got jostled, I think…Just need to catch my breath…”

Aaron gives me a stern look, which I return with as much ferocity as I can muster. He says, “I’ll move you. Try not to tense up.” His left arm slinks beneath my shoulder blades, and my head sags as he cradles me to his chest and leans my face in the scoop of his shoulder. His right arm notches beneath my knees, and he hoists me off the ground. “You can cry,” he says softly, lips brushing my forehead as he proceeds toward the staircase.

“No,” I mutter. I don’t need to cry, so I won’t.

He climbs up to my bedroom, then shoulders me into one arm like my weight means nothing to him as he draws my sheets back. He nestles me into my mattress and pulls the blankets to my chin. “You can cry,” he says again, apparently having not heard my answer the first time.

“I’m fine,” I say wearily, though I’m still throbbing relentlessly. At least my voice is strengthening, and feeling is returning to my hands and feet. A blessing and a curse, since they’re the coldest parts of me.

Aaron bends over me and locks eyes with my tired, drooping ones, his own full of such ardency that it stuns me. “You don’t have to pretend,” he says. “Not around me.”

“I’m not going to cry,” I snap.

He smiles with a kindness I’ve never seen and strokes a tear streak from my temple.

“I don’t need to cry, so I won’t.”

He massages away another one.

“Crying doesn’t help anything, so I…”

Both of his thumbs are working my cheekbones now, smoothing the wetness away.