One of Ronan’s eyes was swollen shut, a shiny mess of blue and purple. Blood stained his chin; his nose was horribly broken. He peered at me through one eye, confused. As if he were drunk.
I hurried to his side and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. He winced, and a groan of pain issued from his throat. I jerked my hands back.
“My God, what happened?”
Panic was lighting up my veins and I fought for calm while my heart felt a sensation I’d never known—to see him in so much pain.
“Shiloh?” His voice was a croak. He sat up a little, looking around. “Where…?”
“You’re at my house. You don’t remember? God, I’m calling an ambulance—”
“No!” He tried to get to his feet and sat back down. Fear lit up his good eye. “Are you okay…?”
“Me? Ronan, who did this to you?”
He didn’t hear me or wasn’t listening. He looked around blearily. “I shouldn’t have come here. I thought they might… No. Fucking stupid. I shouldn’t be here.” He got to his feet, his body hunched over and wincing in pain. He looked around as if unsure what to do next. “I have to go…”
They hurt him. They hurt him so bad…
I gripped his arm through his denim jacket as gently as I could while still keeping hold of him. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re coming inside. Right now.”
I guessed he was too weak or confused to argue because he let me take him inside. Bibi was in her room, her door closed. I longed for her help and advice but didn’t want to scare her as badly as I was. Quietly, I led Ronan to my room. He leaned heavily on me, his steps stumbling. I sat him on my bed where he slumped over in the dim glow of the rainbow lights.
“Stay right there,” I told him, though he looked like he could hardly lift his head.
I hurried to my bathroom, keeping my focus on my task so my mind wouldn’t spin out into outright panic. I grabbed a towel and the same first aid kit I’d used to clean his cut all those months ago, then hurried to the kitchen. I took an icepack from the freezer and filled a bowl with warm water from the sink.
In my room, Ronan was in the same position I’d left him. I set my supplies on my dresser, not knowing where to begin. With a shaky hand, I touched his bloody chin and gently lifted his head.
Tears filled my eyes. “Oh, baby…”
“Shiloh, I’m sorry…”
“Don’t say that,” I said, sucking in a breath, willing the tears back. “I’m going to take care of you. But Ronan, your nose is broken. Badly. You need a doctor.”
“No doctor. I’ll fix it.”
He tried to take off his jacket and winced. I helped him out of it, scared to death at what lay beneath his T-shirt, and Ronan hauled himself to his feet. In the bathroom, under the harsh fluorescents, he looked even worse. His skin was pale where it wasn’t bloody, his puffed eye a rainbow of purples and blues, his nose flat against one cheek.
He raised his head and looked at his reflection. Beneath the blood and swelling, his expression was heartbreakingly sad. Hopeless. He propped himself up on the sink with both hands for a moment, head hung.
I wrapped my fingers around his arm and carefully rested my cheek on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” I whispered weakly. “We’ll make it okay. I promise.”
He inhaled, steeling himself, and then stood straight. Stoic. “You might want to look away,” he said dully.
“No,” I said, my voice hard. “I’m right here with you.”
He nodded and then turned back to the mirror, mentally bracing himself. He huffed three breaths in rapid succession, gripped his nose, and set it with an audible crack. A hoarse cry issued from his throat and fresh blood splattered the white porcelain sink. His nose was now more or less straight, though it was too swollen to tell.
“I’m sorry…” he croaked. “The mess…”
“Doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is making you better, okay?”
I opened the bathroom door and peered down the hall. Bibi’s door was still closed.
“Go,” I said, gently pushing him back to my room. “I’ll be right there.”
He went and I rinsed the sink out, cleaned the spatters of blood off the faucet, the tears threatening again. In my room, Ronan was back on the bed. I shut the door and knelt in front of him.