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“I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think it’s broken.”
“I like your confidence. What about my skull?”
“No broken skull. Probably. But we should get some ice. Your nose is already starting to swell.” I run my fingers featherlight across where his nose meets his forehead, and he winces again.
“Okay, yeah, let’s . . . let’s do that. You have to help me up, though.”
“Of course,” I say, and help him into a sitting position.
No one offers a hand or comes over to see if Ian is okay. People watch us from a distance like we’ve got some kind of communicable disease. Jackson, Nick, and Tyler are nowhere to be seen.
It’s no easy feat in heels and a miniskirt, but I get Ian to his feet and help him out of the house.
“Did you drive or walk?” I ask.
“Drive.”
I silently thank the Fates, because it is too cold and too far of a walk for me to support this half-sober, beaten-up boy back to the apartments.
He hands me his keys and points to the parking lot. I would not normally drive after even one drink, but the drive to theapartments is barely three minutes and the speed limit is 10 mph.
I drive Ian back to his apartment and get him situated in bed with an ice pack. After setting him up with painkillers and a glass of water, I offer to stay, but he waves me off.
Hesitant to leave him alone, I stand in the doorway to his room. He looks so vulnerable propped up in bed with an ice pack on his face.
I’ve always considered myself fiercely independent. I take care of myself and proudly tell anyone who’ll listen that I don’t need anyone. People who pay for things for me get paid back. People who do favors for me get a favor in return. I don’t ask for help and rarely accept it when it’s offered. But I cannot deny that having someone stand up for me like that feels . . . nice. It feels like maybe I’m not quite as alone in this world as I’ve always bragged about being.
“I’ve never punched anyone before,” he admits.
“Thank you,” I say, walking back to stand beside his bed. I brush his hair back, away from his face, careful not to touch any developing bruises. “You don’t think less of me?” I ask, trying to erase the look on his face when I told him the truth.
“Nah. If you say you thought they had an open relationship, I believe you.”
For years, people have believed Nick. My reputation is what it is because of that moment. No one before Ian has asked for my side of the story and I don’t think anyone would have believed me anyway.
But Ian believes me.
“How does it feel, being so heroic?” I ask, shifting my tone so I can talk around the lump that’s formed in my throat.
“Painful.”
He gives me a weak smile, and I give him one back. My heart squeezes. I take one of his hands in mine.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“I know. But I’m glad I did.”
“No one’s ever done anything like that for me. Not even close.”
“I’d punch a thousand Nicks for you,” he says, his eyes drifting closed.
Inside, I am cracking and splintering. If I were to open my chest and examine the walls I built around my heart, they would be fractured and crumbling. I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining myself patching them back up, convincing myself they’re as strong as ever, but even I’m not sure how much longer they’ll hold.
12
IAN
“The will of man is by his reason swayed . . .”Act II, Scene II
