Out of Nowhere (Middle of Somewhere 2)

I’ve been so relaxed all evening, but then Russell Crowe’s character, Maximus, is stabbed by a coward. And even though he keeps fighting, there’s nothing he can do. I know he’s going to die, and for some reason, I hate it. Yeah, okay, Maximus was a warrior, but war is different—people know they might die and they do it anyway, and these warriors seem to welcome a death in battle. But Maximus didn’t want to hurt anyone in the arena. He just wanted to be left alone on his farm with his wife and kid, but they made him hurt people and then killed him because he was a threat that they created. I hate it and my stupid fucking breathing thing starts. I hadn’t even noticed it was gone until this second. I sit up very straight, trying to breathe deeply and evenly, but once I’m aware of it, it’s too late. It’s all I can think about.

The movie ends and even though they make it look happy—like Maximus is getting what he wants and being reunited with his family—everyone knows that’s bullshit. The dead are just dead and you never see them again. Hell, at least people remember Maximus. I’ve never done anything more memorable than fixing someone’s damn transmission. If I died tomorrow, no one would remember me and no one would care except Pop, Brian, and Sam.

Rafe’s not like that. I bet if he died tomorrow, tons of people would remember him. I mean, all those kids at the Youth Alliance would definitely care. They all seemed crazy about him.

The music in the closing credits is incredibly fucking depressing.

“Hey.” A tentative hand on the back of my neck startles me and I pull away. “What brought that on?”

“Brought what on?” I breathe as quietly as I can, taking shallow sips of air.

“That change in your breathing?”

“Dude,” I say, trying to play it off, “are you listening to me breathe? Sounds like you’re the one with the problem.”

“Mmhmm,” he says, like he’s humoring me.

No one’s ever noticed it before. Okay, so usually it happens when I’m alone, when I have time to think. But it’s definitely happened while I was watching TV with Sam, Brian, and Pop, and none of them ever noticed a thing.

“Um, it’s getting a little late,” I say. As if I’ll be able to sleep anyway. “And I have to work in the morning, so.”

I go to open the door, but before I can, he steps right up next to me, and then that warm hand is back on my neck and he’s so close I can smell my soap, and damn, why does it smell so much better on him?

He leans toward me, and for one panicky second I think… I don’t know what I think. I can feel his breath on my face and see the thick spread of his eyelashes.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” he says, voice low and calm. “But don’t think for one second that I buy your bullshit.” One side of his mouth tenses in what I’m learning is his version of a knowing smile. “And don’t think I don’t know exactly what’s going on here.”

He leans a fraction of an inch closer and strokes my throat with his thumb. I hear my gasp before I’m aware it’s happening.

“Good night, Colin. I’ll see you on Saturday.” He opens the door, then turns back to me. “Sweet dreams.”

“GOD FUCKING—mmmf.” I cradle my right hand, looking around for a cloth and finding none. I dart into the office for some paper towel before I bleed all over the concrete.

“Colin!” Sam’s followed me into the office. “Are you okay?”

It’s not so deep that I need stitches, I don’t think, but it’s bleeding pretty good. It’s the third time in two days that I’ve hurt myself because I wasn’t paying attention. The third time since Rafe left my house the other night after his mysterious pronouncement and goddamned perfect face.

“Jesus, what’s got you so distracted, bro?” Sam asks, his brow furrowed. “You’ve been wandering around like a fucking space cadet all day.”

“Nothing, man. Just an accident.”

“Are you sure? Is it okay? Do you need me to get Pop?” He looks down at my hand. God knows Pop’s bandaged up enough of us over the years to know when it’s bad.

“Nah, I’m fine. I’m almost done anyway.”

I tape the paper towel over my hand and go back to Mrs. Wilson’s truck. She’s only got a broken drive belt, so it shouldn’t take too long to finish. That is, if I can get my head out of my ass long enough to avoid chopping a finger off.

“You’re bleeding all over Mrs. Wilson’s belt, you knucklehead. Get out of there!”

Pop jerks me up by the shoulder and grabs my hand.

“You idiot—did you even clean that?”