The Chemist

“Who?”

“The dog-boarding place for Lola. Damn, Ollie, you need some sleep. You’re getting dumber by the second.”

“Maybe I’ll write your e-mail now, while I’m in the right frame of mind.”

“Call me when you’re on the road again.” Kevin hung up.

“You’re bleeding through the bandage,” Daniel said anxiously.

She handed him the phone. “It’s fine. I should have glued it last night.”

“Let’s take care of it now.”

She looked up at his face – the panic and ferocity in his eyes had dimmed to simple concern. His chest was still slick with sweat, but his breathing was regular. She wasn’t sure she had reached a similar state of calm.

“Right now?” she asked.

He gave her a measured look. “Yes, right now.”

“Is it bleeding that much?” She touched the gauze gingerly but felt only a bit of warm wet. From his expression, she’d expected blood to be gushing out in a torrent.

“It’s bleeding; that’s enough. Where is the first-aid kit?”

With a sigh, she turned to the piled duffels. The wrong one was on top, so she had to readjust. While she dug, she felt his fingers cautiously brushing along her left shoulder blade.

“You’re all over bruises,” he murmured. His fingers followed the line of her arm. “These look fresh.”

“I got tackled,” she admitted as she pulled out the kit and turned around.

“You never told me what happened in the house,” he commented.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Okay. I don’t want you to know.”

Daniel took the first-aid kit from her hands and then crossed his legs and set it between them. She followed suit with a heavy sigh, angling the left side of her face toward him.

Gently, he started easing the tape from her skin.

“You can do that faster,” she told him.

“I’ll do it my way.”

They sat in silence for a moment while he worked. The stillness allowed her body to remind her how exhausted she was.

“Why don’t you want me to know?” he asked as he dabbed a medicated wipe against her skin. “Do you think I can’t handle it?”

“No, I just…”

“What?”

“The way you look at me now. I don’t want that to change.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him smile. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

She shrugged in response.

“How do I do this?” he asked, pulling her superglue from the case.

“Push the edges of the cut together, draw a line of glue across the top, then hold it till the glue dries. About a minute.”

She suppressed a wince as he pressed his fingertips firmly against her skin. The familiar smell of the adhesive filled the space between them.

“Does this hurt?”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you ever get tired of being tough?”

She rolled her eyes. “The pain is manageable, thank you.”

He leaned away to examine his work. “It looks messy,” he told her. “You should have saved the life of an EMT.”

She took the glue from him and screwed the cap back on. She didn’t want it to dry out. Who knew how soon she might need it again, the way this trip was going.

“I’m sure it will do the job,” she said. “Just hold it for a little longer.”

“Alex, I’m sorry about just now.” His voice was quiet, apologetic.

She wished she could turn her head and look at him straight on.

“I don’t know what that was,” he continued. “I can’t believe I was so rough with you.”

“I wasn’t exactly pulling my punches.”

“But I’m not injured,” he reminded her sourly. “Not a scratch on me, as you put it.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true anymore,” she told him, brushing her fingers against the skin of his chest. She could feel the faint welts her nails had left.

He inhaled sharply, both of them caught for one second in the memory, and her stomach contracted. She tried to turn her head, but he held her face still.

“Wait,” he cautioned.

They sat motionless in the charged silence while she counted to sixty in her head twice.

“It’s dry,” she insisted.

Slowly, he lifted his fingers from her jaw. She turned to him, but his face was down as he searched the kit. He found the antibacterial spray and applied it liberally to her wound. Then he pulled out the roll of gauze and tape. Gently – and without looking her in the eye – he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and repositioned her head. He taped the gauze in place.

“We should sleep now,” he said as he pressed the last piece tight to her skin. “We’re both overwrought and not thinking clearly. We can reopen this… discussion when we’re rational.”

She wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. They weren’t acting like themselves. They were acting like animals – responding to a near-death experience with a subconscious imperative to continue the species. It was primitive biology rather than responsible adult behavior.

She still wanted to argue.

His fingers rested against the side of her neck, and she could feel her pulse begin to jump under his touch. He could, too.