Page 59 of The Design of Goodbye
“Uh-huh.” I felt lightheaded. Had I lost that much blood already? Was that even possible?
Gently, he lifted my hand to inspect my finger. The cut stung without the coldness of the water. My left index finger? It looked so bad. I’d cut it from mid-knuckle and through my nail.
“I almostdidcut my finger off.”
“You’re going to be fine.” He placed my finger under the cold water again. His warmth left me when he walked over and rummaged through the first aid kit.
I didn’t believe him. I’d seen the cut. I’d seen the blood; it was hard not to. It was all over my cream sweater vest. A strong hand gripped my shoulder, steadying me. Had I been swaying? Because I think I might have.
“You need to sit down.” He made sure I was steady before letting go. He turned off the water and wrapped gauze around my finger. His hand gripped my finger, applying pressure to it as he moved me to sit on the toilet. He didn’t let go. He continued to keep pressure on my finger as he squatted on the ground. “Feeling okay?”
“If you don’t count my embarrassment, I think so.”
“Good. You were getting kind of pale.”
“I’m already pale. I’m the palest of pale there is.”
“You werepaler.”
My eyes filled with tears—because why did this boy always say and do the right thing? All it did was bring back those terrifying butterflies, even when I kept telling them to fly far, far away.
“Don’t cry,” said Liam. “You’ll be okay.”
I dissolved into full-blown tears. The ugly kind of crying, with the terrible hiccupping noises, unstoppable tears, and disgusting snot. All in front of Liam Strom. This was far worse than the other times I’d cried in front of him. This was the kind of crying one should only ever do alone.
But I couldn’t help it. Everything was falling apart.
“I’ve ruinedeverything. I ruined everyone’s Sunday because I forgot to do my job, and I’ve made it worse because I was rushing.” I wiped my face. Sure enough, my tears were black from my terrible waterproof mascara. I sniffed. “I hate that rotary cutter.”
“Hey,” he said softly. “You forgot to do something. You didn’t ruin anything. Everyone makes mistakes. Some, you can fix and some, you can’t. That’s life.”
“Sometimes, life is really hard.”
“Yeah,” he agreed solemnly, “it is.”
“Have you ever made a mistake at your job?”
He chuckled. “Loads of them.”
“Like what?”
He thought for a few seconds. “One time, I dropped a whole rolling cart of eggs.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Hundreds of eggs shattered everywhere.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
“No.” He leaned back on his heels. “I’m lucky I have an understanding boss. Olive still follows me around, clucking like a chicken, though.”
“I’d like to see that.” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob.
“Madison,” he started cautiously, “why do you hurt so much?”
I was shocked at his question because it meant he saw my pain went far deeper than my failing math grade, deeper than the mistake I’d made at work, deeper than my toxic friendship with Jules...
“I miss my mom.”
