Best Fake Fiance (Loveless Brothers 2)

I’m at the bathroom door in another second. Locked.

“RUSTY!” I shout, rattling the knob, shoving at it. I slam my hand against the door, full-blown panic blossoming through my chest even as I tell myself that it’s not that much blood, just a few drops, she’s not in there bleeding to death.

Nothing happens. She doesn’t unlock the door and it doesn’t magically unlock itself. I try the knob again, as hard as I can, hoping that maybe the old mechanism will break and when it doesn’t, I slam my shoulder into the door. It’s old, solid wood, as old as the house and it shudders but doesn’t break.

“Hit it again,” Caleb’s voice says behind me. Pain spikes through my shoulder as I do and the door shudders, gives slightly, and then when I slam it one more time with my shoulder the frame splinters and the door comes open and I half-fall into the bathroom.

“Rusty,” I gasp.

She’s there, sitting on the toilet with the lid down, legs dangling, a mass of toilet paper pressed between her hands, bloody strands of it littering the floor.

Not covered in blood, not lying broken on the floor. There are no head wounds or severed limbs, no sliced arteries.

“I’m sorry!” she says, looking at me wide-eyed, her face already tear-stained.

I’m already on my knees in front of her, her hands in mine even as I’m still checking her over: head fine, body fine, legs fine, one hand hurt.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay, what happened?”

She sniffles, another sob breaking through as she holds out her left hand.

“It slipped,” she whispers as I peel back the wadded mass of toilet paper, the last few layers soaked through with blood, until I can see the wound.

She flinches as I unstick the paper, more blood welling up from a two-inch gash in her palm, right through the meat below her thumb.

“Ow,” she whispers.

“I bet that hurt,” I say, trying to commiserate while my heart is still beating wildly, every nerve in my body still rattling even as I hold her hand, trying to assess the wound.

“It was an accident,” she says, her voice still small, hurt.

“I know, honey,” I murmur.

Sniffle. More blood wells up as I try to examine her blood-stained hand as well as I can. I don’t think it’s deep enough to need stitches, but it’s hard to tell. Every time I touch her hand, she jerks it away slightly, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

I’m rattled. My heart is still pounding. I’m still sweating, still half-imagining the worst things that could happen, even though they haven’t, and I take a deep breath and try to concentrate.

“Here,” says Charlie’s voice, and I realize that she’s kneeling next to me on the bathroom floor, a first aid kit open next to her. “Can I see?”

“I don’t think she needs stitches, but I can’t tell,” I say as Rusty holds out her hand to Charlie. I rub my knuckles across my forehead, trying to tamp down the quake making its way through my core.

She’s fine, I tell myself. She’s fine. It’s a cut.

What the hell happened?

“Okay, Rusty, I need you to hold your breath for a few seconds because this is gonna hurt,” Charlie is saying. She’s got a pad of gauze pressed to the wound, holding Rusty’s small hand in both of hers, totally calm and patient and in control. “Ready?”

Rusty nods and sucks in a breath, eyes still wide.

“Here we go,” Charlie says, and pulls the gauze off. Gently, she touches Rusty’s palm, pulling the edges of the wound apart. Rusty’s turning pink, her feet kicking against the toilet.

“All right,” Charlie says, completely unfazed. “Good news, kiddo, I don’t think you need stitches.”

Rusty exhales in a rush, then sniffles.

“Okay,” she says.

“We’ll bandage you up and have you out of here in no time,” Charlie says. “Can you be brave again for a little while?”

“I think so,” Rusty says.

Charlie coaxes Rusty to the sink, has her hold her breath again while she rinses out the cut and I slump on the bathroom floor, back against the bathtub. Rusty whimpers and I close my own eyes for a moment, listen to Charlie soothe her slowly, calmly.

She’s always been good at emergencies. It’s the strangest thing, because in the rest of her life she can be scattered, a space cadet, but the moment something goes wrong she’s completely on top of it. Once we saw a car accident while we were getting coffee during Rusty’s ballet class, and I swear Charlie was the first person out there, calming down the drivers and ordering me to call 911 and telling the other onlookers to direct traffic, all before anyone else had managed to stand up.

When they’re done at the sink Rusty comes over to me, sits in my lap while Charlie bandages her up: gauze, medical tape, a big bandage to hold everything in place. By the time they’re finished Rusty’s smiling again, even though she’s got the hiccups from crying.