Page 9 of This Might Hurt

He growls softly, ragged with so much pain and even more anger because we both know it’s not really over. But he presses his wet palm flat against mine. When I curl my fingers tight around his hand, the wide, firm shape of it and his smooth skin, he squeezes back.

Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough that I feel Andrew flinch.

I can’t see past the rain in my eyes, and I’m starting to shiver uncontrollably as it soaks through even my thick canvas shorts and my sneakers.

If I could get into town and buy the card for Lena, maybe I’d have a few bucks left for a change of clothes before it gets dark and the real chill sets in.

Then Ramona can throw these in her dryer tomorrow when I get back.

People are waiting on me. I can’t sit here forever, but I can’t go either.

“Let’s call someone to help you get home.

” My words come out a little unclear between chattering teeth.

Andrew doesn’t move or lift his head, but I spot his glossy, expensive phone face down on the ground where he must have dropped it.

Shifting my weight awkwardly, I manage to reach across and grab it without letting go of his hand.

It’s still unlocked, so I balance it on my thigh and struggle uselessly to smear water off the screen when no part of me is dry. “Um, let’s see.” Shuddering and wiping my nose, I flick through his contacts alphabetically. “We have Archie… Colin… Your, uh, fiancé.”

His hand jerks out of mine. When I look up, he’s watching me over his folded arm. Everyone says “if looks could kill” like it’s funny, but his eyes are so fucking dark it feels like he’s crushing my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” I say pleadingly, holding his stare because he deserves to have someone watch, even if it hurts. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave you out here, so you have to pick someone. Anyone.”

His eyes drift half closed, his head sagging. I’m losing him, I can see it. I won’t let him disappear, but whatever was fueling his body is fading like a dying engine. “Grant,” he croaks finally.

“Thank you.” Relieved to see that there is, in fact, a contact named Grant, I turn off airplane mode and hold the phone out to him. “I know this is hard. Please do this for me and we can go somewhere warm.”

After a long pause, he takes it and hits call.

His eyes focus on the trees behind me as we listen to it ring.

I can’t follow his gaze because I’m afraid if I take my eyes off him for even a fraction of a second, he’ll disappear.

Someone speaks on the line, and he blinks, squinting miserably into the rain.

“It’s me. I need your help.” This is a new voice, not the one he uses with me.

Even when it’s shredded with misery, it sounds older, more commanding.

“Wait a minute.” When he clears his throat, I realize he’s holding the phone out to me between two fingers like it disgusts him.

“Tell him where the fuck you want him to go and what you want him to do,” he demands.

When I take the phone, he stands up and wipes his palms on his jeans, watching me with lidded eyes. “Hello?”

“Who is this?” The man sounds in his late thirties or early forties, his voice deep and dominant and mildly terrifying. “What’s going on?”

I watch Andrew hug himself and look toward the river, which must be swollen and choked with branches now.

He glances over his shoulder at me when I pause, like he’s waiting to see if I tell the guy everything.

“I’m Jude. Andrew’s friend.” Andrew snorts bitterly and spits in the mud.

“He’s out here in this BMW, but he can’t drive home.

You need to hire an Uber or something and come get him. Also, who are you?”

Silence, even though I feel like I did a great job explaining. The guy’s voice gets quieter, tinged with worry. “Where is he? Why can’t he drive? He’s been missing all day.”

I fumble for my wallet, searching for the sticky note with Ramona’s address she tucked in there in case I ever forgot. In the two seconds it takes me to snap a photo of it, the rain makes the ballpoint pen run everywhere. “I’m gonna send you an address and we’ll meet you there.”

“I asked you a question,” he warns, like he’s capable of fucking me up. If he was actually here, I think I’d be intimidated. But he’s not. “Tell me—”

“I asked you a question too.” Closing my eyes, I try to picture bonfires and deserts and summer by the creek, anything warm.

“I’m his bodyguard,” Grant concedes, surprising me. He must actually care. “Is he in trouble?”

“I’ll get him to you and you can ask him yourself.” Hanging up, I text the photo of the address. Then I type it in and send that too, in case he can’t read the handwriting. Andrew hasn’t moved. “You have a bodyguard?” I ask, prying myself off the ground as my clothes cling disgustingly to my skin.

He ignores me. Keeping one eye on him, I go over to the bag and push it open with my toe so I can see.

Besides the tape, there’s just a couple of random tools—a wrench, a screwdriver—like the poor guy didn’t even know how to accomplish what he wanted to do.

Out of everything, for some reason that hits me the hardest. I soccer-punt the entire fucking thing into the bushes.

Maybe I’m killing the sea turtles with my pollution, but there’s no way I’m letting it back into the car.

“Do you want to get warmed up, or would you rather fucking die out here?” I holler over my shoulder.

He turns around slowly and raises his eyebrows. “Oh, now it’s an option? Great.”

When I realize what I said, I cough a wretched laugh. “You’re sick.”

He doesn’t smile or even meet my eyes, but he wraps his arms around himself tightly and trudges toward the car, slipping in the mud.