And since I had a feeling she’d ask me more about myself, questions I wasn’t ready to answer, I asked, “Why do you have a bruise on your face?”
I tried to soften my voice, hiding the anger I was feeling. It wasn’t the same anger I felt when I was a child. Back then, I was angry for and at myself—for being mistreated, the unfairness of the world, for being weak and not growing fast enough, so I could run away from everyone. The anger I felt now was for…her. Anger so hot and sharp I wanted to destroy something out of helpless wrath because I couldn’t protect someone special to me.
Was that what she was to me? Special?
I’d seen her bruise earlier when she got up from the bleachers. I knew she was confrontational. Had she been in an argument and someone had hit her?
She sniffed. “I thought I hid it pretty well with makeup.”
“You did,” I answered calmly. “But I think you wiped it off when you were sleeping.”
“A patient got confused and hit me.” She was whispering, and so was I.
“Does that happen a lot?”
“I’ve heard stories from coworkers, but it was my first time.”
She exhaled softly, her hand on her lap curling. I wanted to hold it. No, I wanted to do more than hold her hand.
Slowly, I turned toward her. It was getting dark now. The lampposts in the parking lot were on, and only a couple of cars were scattered in the huge parking lot.
The car felt like our own little world.
Her eyes looked vulnerable. I held her face with both my hands, my thumb stroking her lip. I wanted to kiss it, taste it, but I leaned closer and kissed her bruise instead. I felt her body soften and lean into me.
I want to take care of you.
There was a hunger I felt for her inside me. It was always there, so strong I’d never felt it with anyone else before. But it felt like I was taking advantage of her vulnerability if I kissed her now.
“I’ll drive,” I said. Damn, my voice sounded rough. I’d drive her to her place, park her car, and walk home.
“No. I got it.” She pulled away from me and ran a hand on her hair. “I just needed a moment. Thanks,” she sa
id softly. “Cameron.”
That was the first time she said my name. It sounded…good coming from her lips.
Would it be all right to reach for her hand right now? I’d never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. I wondered how her hands would look in mine. They looked dainty. Mine would swallow hers whole.
“I got you a drink,” she said.
What did it mean, I thought, when my heart jumped in my chest at what she said? When warmth was sneaking in like a thief?
“I got it because I didn’t want to give you a dollar,” she added.
“Where is it?”
“At home.” She laughed. “Just kidding. In my bag.”
She grabbed her bag, unzipped it, and reached inside.
There was something so soft and sweet about her when she was like this. I must’ve stared at her longer than what was normal because she nudged me with a can. It was ginger ale.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, starting the car. “Thanks for helping me yesterday too.”
She threw me a smile—a genuine one. I thought there was affection in the way she looked at me. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe, but I was keeping it.