Page 4 of Best Man on Campus

“You’re right, I didn’t mean to offend you. But the bacteria doesn’t care if you’re offended, so I’m going to get your cut cleaned up.”

“The only reason I’m letting you take care of this is because it hurts like a bitch. And I can’t stand the sight of blood.” She leans against me and somehow I know it’s the last thing she wants to do, so she must be hurting.

“Don’t look at it. Keep your mind on something else,” I say, as if that might be doable. It’s the way I try to deal with blood.

Leon, the bartender and manager, points me into a back room.

“She okay? She need an ambulance?” he asks.

“Hell no,” she grits out, stumbling forward.

“I can take care of it if you have a first aid kit.” I say, trying not to grit my teeth, trying not to let dizziness win out.

Leon nods and goes into the small office ahead of us and gets a white box emblazoned with a red cross. He sets it on the desk that faces the far wall. Someone calls him from the bar and he looks at me for permission to leave.

“Don’t worry—I got this.”

He leaves and closes the door behind him. Jazzy’s leaning heavily on me now and the stench of blood mixing with the dust and stale beer of the closed room forces me to close my eyes for a second.

“Let’s get you in the chair.” I have one arm under her shoulder, half carrying her, and I look at her face, really look at it. It’s paler than white and her dark-lashed eyelids flutter. “Don’t lose it now, Jazzy.”

“I know, but I…” That’s all she manages to whisper as she faints in my arms, eyes fluttering closed.

Shit. I let go of her bloody wrist and lift her with both arms, carrying her the last few steps to the chair and wishing for a couch or a cot or something I can lay her on. But I make do, taking my hoodie off and stuffing it behind her head for support and putting her bloody hand on the desk where I can remove the glass.

First, I pat her face lightly to revive her. Mistake. Her eyes fly open and she tenses, struggles against me.

“What are you doing?” She tries to hit me with her bloody hand, but I catch it.

“Shhh, it’s all right Jazzy. I’m Ben Weaver. I’m going to take care of your cut.” I hope she doesn’t need stitches, but I don’t think so. Most of the cuts I’ve seen on the hockey team get butterflied and are good to go.

I force her hand back onto the desktop. She glances at it and loses whatever fight she had.

“Oh my god…” Her voice fades.

“Keep your eyes averted.” I put a hand on her cheek and turn her head to face me. “Why don’t you look the other way, sing a song or something.” She gives a nervous laugh.

“I don’t mind looking at you. You have a movie-star face, which is strange for a hockey player.”

I smile as I open the box and find the antiseptic and tweezers.

“This might hurt, Jazzy. Sing me a song.” I don’t tell her I could use the distraction as much as she can as I tense everything in me against the shaking and the rise of nausea, the pinpricks of dizziness faint against my need to concentrate.

She starts singing in a shaky voice and I listen as I work, removing the largest piece of glass from her palm.

“This might sting,” I say as I clean the cut with antiseptic. She doesn’t flinch while I breathe deep through my mouth, trying not to smell the blood although I have no idea if it’s the smell that makes me want to hurl. I check her arm for any more glass, removing a few small pieces.

You are the one shiny star in my life,

the one who gives meaning to my strife;

Having you is something I never thought I’d savor;

It’s like the devil himself has God doing me a favor;

Sweetness to the point of pain;

Jasmine, I gave you your name;