Page 41 of A Summer of Stars

“Scared of blood?”he guessed, his voice cutting through the silence.

I cleared my throat. “Moderately.”

A huff of laughter. “That’s surprising for an athlete.”

“I don’t have much of a history with injuries.”

“Of course you don’t.” Another beat. “It’s nothing that’ll need a hospital visit. Come to the sink.” Still holding my hand, he turned on the tap, letting the cold water hit the cut. “This may sting,” he warned.

I kept my mouth shut as he added a drop of soap. I wasn’t sure which hurt more: the suds hitting the wound, or his complete and utter focus on me. I watched as he tore off a paper towel, folding it a few times horizontally before carefully wrapping it around my thumb.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” he asked.

I pursed my lips.

“Gauze?”

I shook my head.

“Band-Aids?”

I looked to the ceiling.

“For the love of God, woman, how have you survived this long? Do you at least have tape?”

“Top drawer to your left.”

He kept one hand on the paper towel around my finger, opening the drawer—

“No, not that one!” I yelped.

But I wasn’t quick enough. He was already opening the wrong drawer, a framed photo of Jeremiah and me sitting face up, ready to greet him, and taunt me. I hated Jeremiah. But there were some things I hadn’t been ready to let go of. Like holding on to thewedding ring given to you by your widow. Pawning it off would mean accepting you’d never need it again. I could sign all the divorce papers I wanted and ignore all of his pleas for forgiveness. But that didn’t mean I wanted to completely scrub the last two years of my life away.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he apologized, shutting the drawer abruptly and opening the next (correct) one, pulling out the tape.

“It’s fine,” I said, hiding a cough.

With his other hand, he brought the roll to his mouth, ripping a piece off, adding it to the makeshift gauze to keep it in place.

“No more blood—you can look now. I’ll check that in an hour to make sure it’s fine.” He backed up, leaning against the countertop, realizing just how close we had been. I did the same, taking my position across from him.

“Thanks… Are you patching up cuts often, or is this something you do to impress all your fake girlfriends?”

He smiled, but only the floor got a full view of it. “I grew up working in the restaurant my dad owned. Kitchen injuries were expected.”

“Oh, that’s funny, my mom used to work in a restaurant too.”

His eyes flashed. Having something in common was as rare as finding a sand dollar during high tide. “Did she let you prep the ingredients?” he questioned.

He got me there. Mom tried numerous times to wave me over whenever she caught me watching her prepare dinner. I’d shake my head. I already had my thing. I didn’t need another to obsess over until I was perfect at it.

“God, no, I—That was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it? You ass. For your information, Idoknow how to cook.”

“I said nothing like that.” He raised his hands.

“Your body language did.”

“Did you just admit to looking at my body?” He tilted his head.