Page 51 of All Our Almosts

Andy turns back to me and very pointedly does not look at my chest. Instead, he leans in to look at the gash in my right tricep.

“Alright,” he says, gently turning my arm in his hands, “it looks pretty deep, which explains the bleeding, but it’s not very long. I think we can skip the stitches if we need to.”

“Thanks.”

“First, I’m going to wipe off the blood,” he explains, “then I’ll check if there’s glass in the cut, and if there isn’t we’ll just wash the whole area with soap and water and bandage you up. Okay?”

I nod, and he begins.

“You know, I have a scar in almost the same spot,” he says in a low, even voice, like I’m an animal he doesn’t want to spook. “From when Owen and I were kids. We were playing in the forest by our house when I was probably five or six.” His touch is feather light as he slowly wipes the blood from my skin. “I was chasing Owen but he was faster than me, and I was a kind of clumsy little kid, so I tripped on a stick and it poked right into my arm.”

With his attention locked on the task, I can watch him openly. It’s not often I get a full, uninterrupted story out of him—especially not a story about Owen—and I’m captivated.

“I threw a real fit about it. But Owen was there and he was so calm.” Andy carefully examines the wound for glass, clearing away the drops of red as they well up. “He was only seven or eight, but he was so confident I would be okay that I just believed him. And when I stopped crying, he took my hand and walked me home, and we seemed so normal when we got into the house that our mom wasn’t even worried. She just cleaned me up and that was that.”

His eyes meet mine, earnest as they’ve ever been. “There’s a piece of glass I have to remove. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply, my voice hoarse.

Andy cleans the tweezers with a sterile wipe, then holds my arm in place with gentle fingers as he goes to remove the shard.

“Ah!” I flinch at the first touch, a cascade of new tears falling.

“I know it hurts, baby—”

Baby. My heart trips on the word.

“—but I need you to stay still for one more second and then it’ll be out. On the count of three give me a long exhale. One, two, three.”

He’s so sure, and I’m grateful he’s here to tell me what to do. I obey, taking a deep breath in and out, and he’s done before I am.

And he called me baby.

“Good job.” He catches the tear trailing along my jaw with his index finger. “This next part might sting too, but I’ll be quick.”

The clean end of the cloth dips into the sudsy water.

“It sounds like you and Owen used to be really close,” I say, pleading for distraction again.

“We were,” he replies, but doesn’t offer more. The cloth touches my arm with tenderness, the gentlest scrape over my raw skin and rawer nerves. Then he looks up again. “Just have to bandage it up. You doing alright?”

I force a smile. “You’re really good at this. It’s like you were a battlefield surgeon in a past life or something.”

“Nah,” he says as he pulls ointment, cotton pads, and gauze from the kit. “I’m not great under pressure.”

“Don’t do that.”

He instantly pulls his hands back.

“You’re always putting yourself down. Clearly tonight proves you’re great under pressure.”

Andy exhales, but doesn’t argue, just silently treats and wraps the wound.

“There. All done. How does it feel?”

I test out moving my arm a bit. “Honestly? Horrible.” I smile up at him so he knows I’m okay. “But you did an amazing job. Thank you.”

“I’ll get some ibuprofen.”