Page 69 of The Design of Goodbye
“Ineverwould’ve guessed.” I went to kick him in the leg, but he easily maneuvered away. “So, about Thimble.”
“Oh no,” I groaned, knowing exactly where this was going. “He didn’t.”
“He did,” he said solemnly, but his mouth was curved up in a grin. “I had no idea he was in the bathroom with me until it was too late. I dried him off, but he smells like lilacs, too.”
Here I was again, jealous of my cat.
“Well, I guess you two have bonded now.” Liam snorted. Curious, I asked, “Where’d you get the clothes?”
“Had them in my backpack.”
“That’s a strange but lucky coincidence.”
He leaned over the stove to inspect the chili I was stirring, and our shoulders touched. “That smells amazing, but you could’ve microwaved it.”
“Absolutely not. It tastes better this way.”
“I’m not complaining.” He faced me, and I immediately missed the warmth of his touch. “Do you think you could fix this?”
He handed me his wet and muddy jacket, and I noticed what he was talking about right away. The elbow of the right sleeve was ripped.
“I don’t know.” I felt the fabric. It was thin and worn. “It’s hard to tell because it’s so dirty. The fabric’s too weak to sew back together. I could maybe try to patch it, but I’d need to wash it first.”
“Can you please try? It’s all I have.”
“Of course.” I walked a few feet to the laundry room and placed his jacket in the utility sink for handwashing later. “Did it rip when you fell tonight?”
“Yeah. That reminds me,” he said. “Could I get a Band-Aid?” He raised his elbow and sheepishly added, “Or two.”
Along his elbow was a long painful-looking scratch. It looked like a bad rug burn. He’d cleaned it in the shower, but it was still bloody and raw. “That looks awful.”
“This is nothing.”
It wasn’t. “I’ll be right back.”
When I got back from grabbing some bandages and antiseptic cream from the linen closet, he said, “I can do it.”
“No way,” I argued. “I owe you.”
“This is kind of like déjà vu,” he said, as I dabbed antiseptic cream on his elbow.
“With a lot less crying.”
“If you want, I can try to produce some tears.”
“It might make me feel better,” I said, applying the bandages. “I’m still recovering from the embarrassment.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”
“That’s impossible.” I attached the last bandage—it’d taken four—and stood back to admire my work. “All done.”
“Thanks. Feels better already.”
He was staring at me now, looking at me with an expression I’d never seen before.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whispered.
“I’ve never seen your hair like that.”
