Look Again

But it’s not his job. It’s ours. Our job. I know it. He knows it. He makes a small sound of protest, which I absolutely do not want to hear, and I turn my back on him. I hear him walk away through the crunch of fallen leaves, and I let myself mutter the words that I held inside for as long as any human could be expected to. Then the tears come. Not sobbing, gasping tears. Just a steady roll. Is it from the pain? Because oh, there is pain. Or from the humiliation of losing control of yet another part of my body? Or the sadness of missing the opening moments of the show?

Hard to say.

I stand with my back against a tree, head tilted up at an angle that’s maybe going to keep blood from draining down my face, at the cost of definitely making blood drain down the back of my throat. I gag a little and pretend I can ignore that. After a couple of minutes, I hear Ginger’s steps (and I know they’re hers because they’re accompanied by a steady stream of Gingery curses).

She stands in front of me, holding out a rumpled hoodie. “Oh, well. I guess you made do with what you had.” She folds the sweatshirt up and tucks it under her arm. “I found this in a pile of jackets and sweaters in the back room. Think anyone will miss it?”

I remove my own sodden sweater from my face and mop myself up as well as I can. Ginger helpfully stands there trying not to gag and gesturing to places I need to wipe off.

When I feel reasonably unbloodied, I wrap the sweater and tie the arms around it, hoping to hide the worst of the mess.

“If I put this under a tree, will it lure bears?” I ask.

Ginger laughs with a little more hysteria than my question—totally legitimate, thank you very much—warrants.

“Am I clean?”

“No.”

“Don’t sugar coat it. I can take it,” I say, trying for a smile.

“You look like an extra in a crime procedural TV show, the one who goes jogging alone at the beginning of an episode.”

We catch each other’s eyes and smile. “Beautiful, though,” she adds. “You look great in red.”

I drop the tied-up sweater at my feet. “I guess it’s time to go in and do my job,” I say.

“Nope,” Ginger responds. “You’re not going in there.”

“Of course I am. I have to. I can’t just skip it. I’m not even bleeding anymore.”

“Joey. Slasher-film makeup effects aside, you’re not very dressed. People’s parents are in there. The ones who pay our salaries.”

I look down at the effect of my camisole and slacks. There are places this would be completely appropriate attire. This is not one of those places.

“Okay. I’ll walk back to my place and grab another sweater. Back soon,” I say. But even as the words form, the absolute exhaustion of the thought floors me.

I shake my head. “Or not. Let me see the hoodie,” I say.

When I see the logo covering the sweatshirt Ginger found for me, I know there’s no way I keep my job if I walk in wearing that. I don’t even say those words, much less wear them emblazoned on my front.

I hear footsteps coming close, and I turn to see Dexter, walking out of the chapel and through the little stand of trees toward me. Looking polished and dashing, dammit.

“I know you’ve got this,” he says, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, as if he needs to fight off my assault, which to be fair, I deserve. “But I thought maybe you could use this.” He pulls off his argyle sweater and hands it to me. He’s somehow remained unrumpled in the transaction, and as I carefully put the sweater vest over my head, I duck my face away from the fabric, just in case I might get something on it.

Which proves a bigger challenge than you might think. It’s so soft, my skin all wants contact with it. Cashmere? A for-real cashmere sweater vest. It feels delicious everywhere it touches me. I want to rub my whole face in it. And it’s holding his body heat. I want to smell it. I want to taste it.

I am losing my everloving mind.

I put my arms out to the sides and let Ginger, who has stood in silence since she mentioned the Chamberlain parents, give me a once-over. She nods. “It will do.”

Then the smallest miracle happens. She turns toward Dexter and says, “Thanks, Dex.”

He nods.

That’s it. No snarky, stabby commentary. Just a moment of politeness. I feel myself warming, but it’s probably the sweater, right?

Dexter pulls a napkin and a tiny water bottle out of his pants pocket and hands them to me. “You still have a little something,” he starts to say, but then stops talking and gestures to my entire face.

I hand the cleanup supplies to Ginger, and she tentatively touches the damp napkin to my cheeks and chin. She gives me a nod. “Getting there,” she says.

Dexter stands beside me, hands in front of him like he’s ready to catch a pass, and I watch him as he watches Ginger clean up my face. He’s waiting to be useful, I think. When our eyes meet, he gives me a smile that I hope isn’t masking a deep revulsion. Because eww. I am so entirely gross.

“Thanks for your help,” I say as Ginger steps back to inspect me. “Thank you both. We ought to get back in there now.”

Dexter’s eyebrows go up in a look of surprise, as if maybe he forgot what we’re doing here. He nods, turns, and leads the way back into the old chapel.