Page 144 of The Design of Goodbye
“Okay,” I said, grateful he’d finally spoken. I straightened his glasses and touched his still-bleeding cheek. “How’d this happen?”
“Fell.”
“Did you bike here?”
“Tried,” he said. “Walked some. Bike kept slipping.”
“It’s really dangerous out there,” I said, thinking of the snow-packed sidewalks, icy roads, and freezing temperatures. “You have no jacket. No gloves or hat.” I took in his slightly damp and muddy hair, and my pulse quickened. “And nohelmet. You could’ve knocked yourself out and frozen—”
“I needed to get away from him.”
“Your dad?” I asked softly.
“Yeah.”
What had his daddoneto him?
“You’ll be okay.” I ran a finger down the side of his face. “You’re safe now.”
For the next twenty minutes, he slowly warmed up. I cleaned his scratched-up hands and cut cheek the best I could because I had to feel like I was doingsomething.
When his shivering subsided, he said, “I need water.”
“I can get you water,” I said, grateful I could do something. “I’ll be right back.”
In my kitchen, I filled a glass with lukewarm water. When I got back, he took the glass from me and drank like he hadn’t had water in days.
“More,” he said when he’d emptied the glass. “Please.”
I went to my bathroom and quickly refilled it. When I handed the water to him, I asked, “Have you been sick?”
He drank the entire glass before responding, “I wasn’t sick.”
“I didn’t think so. What happened?”
“I know you have a lot of questions,” he started, “and I will answer them, but can I take a shower and maybe get some food first?”
“Of course,” I said. “What do you want to eat?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll eat anything.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Liam peeked his head out of my bathroom. “Do you still have my pajamas I left here?”
“Of course I do.” He didn’t need to know I’d slept in his shirt every night until I’d become worried it would no longer smell like him. “I’ll go get them.”
They were sitting on a shelf in my closet, perfectly folded. He opened the bathroom door wider to take them from me, and with only a towel wrapped around his waist, I saw them: new and fading bruises all over his chest and stomach. Some even on his arms.
“I was so worried about you,” I whispered, lightly touching one of the bruises. He backed away, and I tried not to feel hurt. “And for good reason.”
“I know.”
I let my hand fall. “Do you need anything else?”
He nodded. “An elastic bandage or brace for my wrist, if you have one.”
“What’s wrong with your wrist?” I glanced at his right hand, which was hanging limply at his side.
