He carried her past us, and we followed as I zoned in on her hands locked around his neck. He took her up the stairs, to his room, setting her on the bed as we all lingered by the door.
He could’ve taken her to the kitchen. He had a first aid kit there, too.
She lifted her foot up, setting it on her knee, probably trying to keep the blood off the carpet, but he knelt down in front of her and took it, holding a cloth to the bottom.
“It’s okay,” she said, trying to pull her leg away and hold the cloth herself.
He wouldn’t let it go.
Lifting it up, he inspected the damage, and I got angrier by the second. She’d stepped on a shard. She was an architect. She’s had her share of splinters, asshole.
Aydin looked up, jerking his chin at the guys. “There’s a bottle in the pantry,” he told them. “Go have fun.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Taylor said, sliding back out of the room.
Rory slapped Micah’s stomach. “Pool party.”
He breathed out a laugh, and they all left, heading back down the stairs and leaving Alex and me with Aydin and Emory.
I looked after the guys as they disappeared down the stairs, a sinking feeling in my gut. They were going to be drunk in an hour.
Aydin wanted them drunk.
I stepped closer, watching her and him, bracing myself for the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to stop myself.
“I want a bottle,” she joked to Aydin.
He looked up at her, a smile playing on his lips. Without taking his eyes off of her, he reached over into the cabinet on the bedside table and pulled out another container and a glass, setting them both next to the lamp.
She grinned as he opened the bourbon and poured her two fingers.
“Here you go.” He handed it to her.
I could smell the amber liquid from here, my tongue suddenly ash in my mouth as he returned his attention to her foot.
Alex remained near the door, and I just wanted to pull Em out of the room and get the girls away, but I had plans for Aydin, and I wasn’t ready to escalate it right now.
Even though it looked like that decision was getting more and more out of my control.
Emmy cupped the glass in her lap, staring down at it. “My brother got so drunk on this stuff once,” she said. “I remember how it tasted like it was yesterday.”
Aydin tore open an anti-bacterial wipe with his teeth, his eyes darting to hers before cleaning the blood off her foot.
“I could never figure out why he hated me so much,” she continued. “Like where did the anger come from, you know? We had good parents. They didn’t abuse us. He wasn’t bullied.” She trailed off, staring at the glass. “But he was always like that. As early as I can remember, everything had to be perfect. My hair. What I wore.” She started breathing heavier as the memories played behind her eyes. “Something was always out of place, and it never pleased him. Everything I did was wrong.”
She fell silent, and I forgot the others in the room, remembering her dirty, untidy cuffs, and the hair always in her face.
“So I stopped talking,” she nearly whispered. “The outbursts got worse, and then the shouting started. Waking me up in the middle of the night, because I forgot to unload the dishwasher, or there were streaks on the bathroom mirror.” The look in her eyes grew distant, like she wasn’t here anymore. “I peed my pants one night at dinner,” she said. “I was fifteen.”
I frowned, imagining going home to that every day after school.
“I realized he was sick, and nothing was going to be good enough,” she told us as Aydin bandaged her foot, “so I stopped trying. My clothes would be wrinkled and my hair not brushed, because if he was going to hit me anyway, then…” She met Aydin’s gaze. “Then fuck him.”
I watched him watch her, the space between them disappearing as he held her leg, but neither of them moved.
“I hardly ever saw him drunk,” she told us, “but one night, he passed out with a quarter of this bottle left. I emptied it into a water bottle and took it to school.”
She chuckled, but a look of sadness crossed her eyes, remembering that day. When was it? Did I talk to her that day? Mess with her? Was I nice?