Page 22 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Millie swiped more iodine onto a cut, and I screamed.

“Oh, Dash, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes, it hurts,” I said. “That’s why I’m screaming.”

For some reason—probably because Millie is secretly a sadist—that made her beam.

Keme, on the other hand, was giving me a look that suggested I’d better stop being such a baby.

And Bobby was in one of his states of silent fury.

If you didn’t know what to watch for, it just seemed like he was incredibly calm during a state of emergency. That was partly what made it so scary.

After Keme saved my life (in the rudest, boyest, awesomest way ever), we limped back to Hemlock House.

Sure, we could have called and gotten a ride.

But honestly, that would have ruined it.

We were both riding this weird adrenaline high.

And we were basically brothers (even if everyone assumed he was the older one).

And let’s be real: tackling someone to save them from being hit by a car is some action-hero-level shiz.

Bobby and Millie, though, didn’t seem to appreciate the awesomeness.

Mille said, “That was dumb.”

And Bobby said, “Why didn’t you call me? You could have been killed!” about fourteen times while he cleaned me up with a washcloth—imagine vigorous scrubbing.

Now, they were both getting their revenge.

“I don’t think that one needs it—” I said as Millie swooped in to “treat” (notice my use of scare quotes) a long, ugly rash on the back of my arm.

“It does,” Bobby said in a flat tone.

“It’ll only sting a little,” Millie said brightly before slathering my arm with liquid fire.

Yes, I screamed. Again.

Also, I want it on record that Bobby was aggressive with the bandages.

Do you want to know the part that’s totally unfair?

Keme only had one scrape, and it was on his knee.

Millie kissed it, and Bobby gave him a fist bump and then did this macho-guy-hug thing where he wrapped his arm around Keme’s neck and pulled him against him.

It’s probably the happiest I’ve ever seen Keme.

Eventually, though, the abuse ended. Millie cleaned up from her “treatment” (yes, scare quotes again), and Bobby made everyone microwaved hot chocolate—if you needed a sign that this was a state of emergency and we were sorely missing Indira, that was it.

“This wasn’t an accident,” Bobby said. “Someone tried to hit you with a car.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, at the time, it seemed like—” I hesitated. “It all happened so fast.”

“Someone tried to hit him,” Keme said. “He was standing in the road like a donkey, waving his arms. They didn’t slow down. And when he tried to move out of the way, they followed him.”

“It might have been an accident—” I said.

“There were tire marks on the shoulder,” Keme said. “They barely managed not to go off the road.”

Bobby’s hands tightened around his mug.

“Did you see anyone else out there?” Millie asked. “OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE A GHOST?”

“Nobody saw a ghost,” I snapped.

“There wasn’t anybody else out there,” Keme said. And then, “I could have killed Dash, like, three different times.”

“Why would you brag about that?” I asked. “What is wrong with teenagers these days?”

“Push him into a ravine, smash his head with a rock, break his neck with my bare hands.”

“Are you kidding me? Where’s Indira? Someone punish him.”

“I don’t want you leaving the house until we know what’s going on.” Bobby put down his hot chocolate so fast that it slopped over the lip of the mug, and he said again, “Someone tried to kill you tonight.”

“Bobby—”

“It’s probably WHOEVER KILLED KYSON!” Millie’s face was alight with excitement. “AND THEY’RE TRYING TO STOP DASH FROM SOLVING THE MYSTERY.”

“Yes, obviously, Millie,” I said through the ringing in my ears. “But let’s be realistic—”

“Realistic?” Bobby said. “You want to be realistic?”

I opened my mouth. I shut it again. In that moment, I didn’t want to be realistic. I wanted to be invisible.

“You need to rest,” Bobby said as he stood. He glanced at Keme. “You’re okay?”

Keme nodded.

With a firm grip on my arm, Bobby marched me upstairs.

He shut the bedroom door behind us. Hard. He sat me on the bed. And then he dropped down next to me. He gripped his knees, and he stared straight ahead.

“I know that was scary,” I said, “but I don’t get why I’m in trouble—”

“I need a minute.”

He sat perfectly still, and he was so tense that veins popped out along his arms. The wind batted at the house, playing with the shutters, and something—a hinge, a weathervane, a flue—sque-sque-squeaked.

Bobby’s hands opened once and then tightened again around his knees.

He took deep breaths through his nose. I could almost hear him counting them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lashed down and rough. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said that about not leaving the house. I’m sorry I talked to you that way.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, Dash.” He rubbed his face. “It’s not okay. Obviously you can leave the house.”

I pulled his hands down. Wrapped them in mine.

Bobby took several long seconds before he dragged his eyes up. He took a breath. “I was scared.”

For anybody still in the dark, here’s the thing about Bobby: he has lots of feelings. Big feelings. And he’s been working hard over the last year to overcome a lot of macho-man conditioning in his life so that he can, you know, share those feelings. (Yes, even the negative ones.)

“That’s okay.”

A longer pause followed before Bobby said, “I am scared.” His voice was thick, and the words sounded broken off. “God, Dash, I’m terrified. If Keme hadn’t been there tonight—”

His next breath was uneven. And the one after that was even shorter, and it sounded high in his chest.

“But I’m okay. I’m right here.”

He nodded. His eyes drifted halfway shut. He took more of those thin, awful breaths.

Another thing about those big emotions? Sometimes, Bobby had panic attacks. (It’s probably a surprise to nobody that I’m usually the cause.)

Although, a little voice in me noted, I’d been in danger plenty of times before and Bobby hadn’t—to use a medical term—freaked out. The panic attacks had almost always been when other things had already pushed Bobby to the brink of losing his famous self-control.

Like, oh, I don’t know—a huge, confusing, inexplicable fight with your boyfriend, after which he then literally runs out of the house and almost gets mowed down by a maniac.

“It’s okay. Slow. Deep. Take those breaths all the way into your tummy.”

For some reason, that made him smile—a watery, slanting expression that drained away almost immediately.

But he did deepen his breathing. He sat up straighter.

And after a couple of minutes, he gave my hands a softer squeeze, and he blinked tears away.

They didn’t fall—he got rid of them, reabsorbed them, something. That pretty much sums up Bobby.

“I know you want to help Fox,” he said. He sounded exhausted. He looked exhausted. “I know they’re your friend. I know you care about them. And I know I have no right to tell you what to do.”

For once in my life, I managed to think before I opened my mouth.

I’d put Bobby through so much. And tonight, we’d reached a new pinnacle in Bobby’s climb to sainthood for putting up with me.

So, I said, “If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.

Yes, Fox is our friend. Yes, I want to help them.

But you’re my boyfriend, Bobby. You come first. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. ”

Bobby’s thumbs bumped across my knuckles. Crinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes. And finally he murmured, “I think you actually believe that.”

“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A little quieter,” he said, but he smiled as he ran his fingers through the hair above my ear. And then, the smile growing, he said, “Dash, I left you alone for five minutes, and you broke into a murder victim’s apartment.”

I made a sound that I hoped communicated the ineffable rudeness of what was happening right now.

Bobby’s smile broadened.

“I didn’t break in,” I said.

“Look me in the eye.” Bobby touched my chin, tilting my head. “Tell me that window was already open.”

For lack of anything better, I made that sound again.

“Uh huh,” Bobby said.

“You know, a lot of couples don’t tell each other everything. They keep secrets. It adds spice to the marriage.”

Bobby isn’t exactly the kind of guy who goes for dramatic facial expressions. But right then, his eyebrows did do a thing.

“Um,” I said.

He didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” I said. “That wasn’t—”

Still nothing.

“You didn’t hear what you think you heard,” I explained.

“I thought I heard you describe our relationship as a marriage.”

I laughed. To show how funny that was. I scooted backward. I did some more laughing. I got to my feet. Of course I was laughing because this was such a funny situation.

“Oh my God, not marriage . Carriage .”

“Couples keep secrets because it adds some spice to the carriage,” Bobby said.

“It’s slang. All the kids these days are saying it. The relationship carriage—that’s what they say.” And then, in a fit of inspiration, I added, “It’s on Instagram.”

“Uh huh,” Bobby said again. He smoothed out the pair of mesh shorts he was wearing, straightened them along his thighs. “Dash, about earlier—”

“I was totally out of line,” I said. “I overreacted. I was in a weird headspace.”

His hands stilled, and the whisper of cloth against skin stopped. “I feel like we should talk about what happened.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I kept my tone light, easy. “We’re good. I’m so sorry, and I appreciate you trying to help, and did I mention the part where I’m sorry?”

Lamplight streaked along Bobby’s dark hair. Shadow fell in the hollow of his collarbone, where his T-shirt hung askew. The dark, earthy bronze of his eyes gave back a tiny, mirrored version of Dashiell Dawson Dane, the original, not-yet-improved version.

“We’re good,” I said in a softer voice, and I crossed the space to him and kissed him and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Everything’s good, sweetheart. I promise.”