Page 112 of The Frathole

“Ry?”

The other volunteers move out of the way so I can see him. He’s on his ass, Atlas on his knees at his side. Ry’s face is tense as he grits his teeth. He grips his hand, his thumb red and swollen.

“Okay,” Atlas says, “let’s get you off the roof and get some ice on this. Come on.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ryan says through his teeth before hissing.

And all I care about is making sure he’s okay.

*

Since he can’tuse his hand, it takes a little time to get Ryan off the roof, but we manage. Then Troy takes us to the nearest urgent care, where they assess the damage and tend to his injury—a hairline fracture, which they set in a splint. I don’t leave his side the entire time, and finally we’re alone again in the patient room, since Troy’s calling Atlas to assure him everything’s okay.

“How’s the pain?” I stand beside the examination table where he sits.

He huffs. “This really was too much drama. I’ve had less care after having ten two-hundred-plus-pound guys stacked on top of me.” He says that in a particularly frustrated tone before glancing at me. He assesses my expression, then takes a breath. “But it’s better. Thank you for caring.” He takes my hand with his goodone. “Sorry, Mart. I’m just frustrated with myself. I should have been paying attention. I was…” He trails off, but I know what’s been distressing him.

His eyes bulge. “Wait. What time is it?”

“What?”

“We were supposed to meet up with your family.”

After what happened, it totally slipped my mind, and I haven’t been keeping track of the time. As I’m pulling out my phone, I tell him, “Don’t worry. I’ll call and let them know that’s not happening. I would rather stay at home with you anyway.”

“Don’t do that, Mart. Go hang with your parents. Honestly, I could use some time to myself.”

His words catch me by surprise, and I tense up.

Time to himself?

Since we started messing around, the only times we haven’t been around each other have been when we were working, and even during my shift, I was absorbed with thinking how great it was gonna be when I got off so I could…well, get off. Sure, we spend time with our friends and family, but outside of that, we’re practically on top of each other.

He must notice how uneasy I am because he says, “I’m not saying I need time awayfromyou. I…”

But I don’t know how else to take it, and my anxiety-prone mind’s already spinning with theories. Have I spent too much time with him? Is he getting bored with me already? Now that he’s seen his parents’ relationship implode, is he thinking we might not work out either and it’s not worth it?

Ryan releases my hand and rests his hand against my cheek, caressing with his thumb. So gentle, so reassuring.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s trying to pull me out of my head. “This is not the part where you get all anxious and insecure thinking I’m gonna break up with you over the shit I’m going through.”

“Why did you have to use the B-word, then?” I spit out.

He sighs. “Because I may not have been your boyfriend for long, but I know how you get all twisted up in that sexy head of yours…and I’m not going to let you have a moment where you think any of this stuff is coming between us. Got it?”

That cuts through my fear before I’ve had a chance to sit with it for long, and I appreciate that he understands my anxiety enough to make sure my mind doesn’t go there. Of course, it will anyway, but it was thoughtful of him to give it his best effort.

Ry moves in quickly for a kiss, and I hadn’t realized just how much I needed one until I feel his lips against mine, releasing me from all that hot tension that rose up after he got injured.

It’s the sort of kiss that makes it easier to remind myself: He’s fine. We’re fine.

The past few days, we haven’t kissed like this. They’ve felt forced, like he was going through the motions, trying to say things are fine when they’re not. But this one offers me assurance that despite wanting some space, he still cares about me.

When he pulls away, he says, “So…this is not an I’m-so-frustrated-and-confused-about-us moment. This is an I care about you. I want you in my life. And I-could-use-a-night-to-sulk moment.”

I get that. But I hate it too. Not for myself, but because he has a reason to sulk. And because there’s nothing I can do to cheer him up.

“We’ll get back to the apartment,” he says, “and then you go spend time with your family. I’ll probably order in, and when you get back, we’ll cuddle the fuck out of each other. How’s that?”