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I give them my address, barely able to get the words out. The operator assures me help is on the way and asks me to stay on the line. But I can't. I drop the phone and rush back to the bathroom.
Hunter is still there, pressing down on Diesel's wound. Diesel's face is pale, his eyes unfocused.
"They're coming," I say.
Hunter doesn’t answer, simply clenches his jaw and keeps his focus on Diesel, on the wound, on fixing my mistake; confusion and rage radiates off him in waves. I want to shrivel in on myself and disappear. I want him to say something, to tell me what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, to tell me he understands, and that everything will be OK.
For a minute or two, I simply stand there, answering his infrequent, muttered requests for more bandages, more gauze, more tape, for disinfectant, while he manages Diesel’s wound and offers encouragement to his friend. Other than the times he asks me for something, I might as well not exist to him.
From the bathtub, Charlie cries, and I’m too paralyzed to even go to him. So I stand, rooted, helpless, terrified, until, minutes later, there are sirens and paramedics coming through my front door.
“I’ll be by soon to check on you,” Hunter says, patting Diesel on his non-wounded shoulder. “Don’t go dying on me. I’m going to need you at that party.”
“Wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Diesel says. For a second, he looks at me, and I can tell he wants to say something more. There’s a softening in his eyes, a flash of understanding, like he knows I made an honest mistake, but then his eyes go to Hunter and he simply nods. “And don’t worry, buddy, I’ve had worse. I’ll see you in a few.”
They wheel Diesel away, and the moment my battered door shuts behind them, Hunter turns to me, eyes blazing.
“What in the fuck just happened?” He says. His voice burns, his eyes scorch into my heart like red-hot pokers. “You have so much to answer for, Emily. Why do you have a gun? Why were you hiding in your bathtub — armed — with my son?”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. The weight of what I've done crashes down on me, and I sink to the floor, my back against the wall. Hunter's anger is palpable, filling the room, suffocating me.
"I thought..." I stammer, trying to find the right words. "I thought it was Jay. I thought he had come for me."
Hunter's expression shifts, confusion mixing with the anger. "Jay? Your ex? What does he have to do with this?"
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "He's been threatening me. Sending messages, showing up at my work, and he was the one who broke into my apartment. I was scared, Hunter. I was so scared. He doesn’t just want to torment me anymore, he wants to destroy my life and hurt everyone I love."
"So you got a gun? Without telling me? Without even mentioning that you were in danger?"
Shame washes over me. "I didn't want to worry you. I thought I could handle it on my own."
Hunter runs a hand through his hair, frustration clear in every movement. "Emily, we're supposed to be partners. We're supposed to trust each other. This isn't trust. And that you brought that gun around Charlie, that you put him in danger, and you shot my friend… what the fuck? I don’t even know who you are anymore."
His words cut deep, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."
Charlie's cries from the bathtub grow louder, and Hunter moves past me to pick him up. He cradles his son close, whispering soothing words. The sight breaks my heart all over.
“I thought you were better than this,” he says, his voice a potent cocktail of disappointment and rage. “I don’t even understand how you could be so reckless, so fucking irresponsible.”
It’s as he’s holding Charlie that I finally notice his appearance. Finally see the blood on his hands, his shirt, and even the few droplets on his cheek. That’s not Diesel’s blood. With a deep breath, I calm myself enough to search my memory and realize he was that bloody before he even tried to tend to his friend’s wound.
“Why are you so bloody, Hunter?” Even disoriented, remorseful, with my heart pounding in my chest, I put a knife’s edge of sharpness into my words. “Tell me about that.”
“What?”
“That blood all over you. It was there when you got here. It’s not from your friend Diesel, so you must have been doing something dangerous. Why don’t you explain what you were up to?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“None of my business? You scream at me like a maniac for putting others in danger, but while you’re doing it, it certainly looks like you aren’t some model of safety either. What happened? Did you kill someone?”
“Tread lightly, Emily,” Hunter says.
“Tread lightly? Tread lightly?” My voice rises to a strident pitch. Charlie wails, and Hunter glowers at me like a menacing statue. “The fucking nerve to lecture me about all of this when you were out shooting people and freaking bathing in their blood from the looks of it. How the hell do you expect me to trust you?”
"I expect you to trust me because I've never given you a reason not to!" Hunter shouts back, his face reddening. "Everything I do, I do to protect my family. To protect you!"
