The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Joke,” he says.

I clear my throat and take a deep breath, reveling in oxygen.

“Sorry. Thanks.”

I nearly ask if the drunk he had to bandage was him, but I bite my lips together to keep my mouth shut because even if it’s true, now’s not the time to go dredging up bullshit that’s more than a decade past.

“That should do it,” he says, tearing off the tape and tamping the end down gently. He gathers the supplies, sees to the tweezers with the alcohol wipes, clicks the first aid kit shut. I breathe in and out, still sitting on the toilet, and wish I’d brought a valium or a klonopin or even some Advil, but at the last second before I left in a moment of panic I opted for the Chic Professional Clutch over my usual purse and there’s nary a pharmaceutical in it.

Silas turns to me, and I stand. I only sway a little at the head rush.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay what?”

“I’m ready to head back.”

He rubs his hands together slowly. A soft line appears between his eyebrows.

“No,” Silas says.

“I have a deal to uphold,” I point out.

“You just had a panic attack and bled all over the bathroom,” he says, and folds his arms over his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbow.

I know, I want to say.

This happens, I want to say. How many times in the last year have I had a panic attack in the bathroom and gone back to work? How many times a day did I do that in the weeks after Evan dumped me and I still had to see his face every day?

“It’s not my first time, you know,” I finally tell him.

“I wasn’t under the impression that it was.”

“I’m fine,” I go on. “The edge is off now.”

The line between his eyebrows deepens, but the look he gives me is indecipherable. I feel like a tricky bit of legalese, about to be untangled. He shifts his stance slightly as he thinks.

“I’m not having you go back to the situation that gave you a panic attack in the first place,” he proclaims. “You can wait in the truck while I make up an excuse.”

“Yes, you can, and you can’t order me around like—”

“God almighty, stop fighting me on this,” he says, loud enough that I wonder if anyone else can hear. “I’m not taking you back there to drop another glass and bleed on another floor, Nakamura.”

My stomach curls in on itself at the unbidden thought: smash, trip, and my fingertips and cheeks go cold. I fucked this up pretty good, didn’t I?

I take a deep breath, counting to four, release to the same rhythm.

“Right,” I say, my voice surprisingly even. “The truck, then.”

Silas fishes the keys from his pocket, hands them to me, then brushes past me on the way out of the bathroom.

“Ten minutes,” he says over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.