Page 25 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

Silas is on his knees in front of me, sitting back on his heels, my hands palms-up in his. A supplicant’s position except for the way his thumbs are pressing into the bones of my wrists, like through that one small, firm touch he can keep me from floating away.

There’s a slice on the heel of my left hand, blood oozing out, and jagged cuts on my forearm where I tripped onto my wine glass. Silas has blood on his thumb, a single drop on the pretty marble tile below us.

And he has freckles, almost. I’ve never seen them before but I’ve never been this close to him. Why would I? We’re unfriendly acquaintances at best, but up close his skin has flecks of deeper color across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, barely there and undetectable from any further away. I could have gone a lifetime without knowing about them, and now that I do, it feels like I know his secret.

Gray hairs, too, a handful shot through the deep golden brown. I wonder what else I’ve never noticed.

“Keep going,” he says, and I take a deep, perfect breath that feels so good I shiver.

“Air freshener,” I say. “Bleach, probably. And… chardonnay.”

Silas nods. He looks at me for a long time, a lock of hair coming loose from the rest and twisting around on itself, resting against forehead. It makes him look roguish, charming, just the right amount of carefree.

I wonder if he planned it this way.

“Did it help?” he asks, softly.

I sit up straight, breathe in, leave my hands in his for now.

“Yes,” I say, formally as I can, my voice sounding oddly distant to my own ears. “Thank you.”

“Sometimes the simplest tricks work the best,” he says, and leans over my hands, examining. “Let me see if there’s a first aid kit here somewhere.”

It’s under the sink, and Silas pulls out a pair of tweezers as I scoot back onto the toilet, push my glasses back up my nose, smooth my dress against my legs with one hand. At least black won’t show blood, or won’t show it much.

“I think you’ve got a piece of glass in there,” he says, standing in front of me. “Can I, or do you want to?”

Even though I can breathe again I still feel strange, fizzy and shaky, like a penny that’s been dropped in champagne, and whatever part of my brain might normally go ugh, Silas, is smart enough to be quiet right now.

“You don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t’ve offered if I minded.”

I hold out my hand and this time he goes down on one knee, steadies the back of my hand against his other kneecap.

“Yes, you would’ve,” I say as one thumb presses down on the heel of my hand, pulling the cut apart. It hurts, but not so much that I react.

“You think I’m in the habit of offering to do things I don’t want to do?”

“I think you’re in the habit of helping when you know it’ll make you look good.”

His eyes flick to mine and instantly, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut or said something pleasant and normal like thank you, especially to the man who’s fishing glass from my cut.

A few moments later, he carefully lifts the shard out and it shines red in the bathroom light. It looks small for something that hurts so much, and he taps the tweezers on the trash can, looks into the slice again.

“Feel like anything’s still in there?”

I open and close my hand, press the sides of the cut together and watch red ooze out.

“I think I’m good,” I say, and then, finally: “Thanks.”

Silas nods. Without standing he puts the tweezers on the sink, grabs a hunk of gauze and a roll of medical tape from the kit, and starts wrapping my hand.

“You’re good at this,” I say, for lack of something better.

“You’re not the first drunk I’ve had to bandage up,” he says.

“I’m not—”