Page 86 of Up in Smoke

Since receiving the call about Tripp’s accident and then handling the damage at my house, I promised myself I’d hold it together. No more heaving sobs or violent sniffs. Now that it’s damn near time for the sun to come up again, I’m approaching the bunkhouse, with every intention I had of notlosing itgone.

I go inside and make my way toward his bathroom with a fat pair of identical tears trailing down my cheeks. I don’t hear him talking or fumbling around, but the shower is on.

Steam rolls through the cracks of the thankfully unlocked door. I knock while entering, but get no response. The outlines of his body are clouded from the fogged-up glass shower door.

“T?”

I tiptoe around the mess of clothes on the floor until I’m right next to him, only the glass door separating us. Even with the obstructed view, I can tell that his head is down. His body still. One hand is braced on the tiled wall to hold himself up.

Tripp’s flattened palm slides down the shower wall until he nods forward and then lifts it to put it back in its original place.I’m taking off my clothes the moment I see his shoulders begin to shake.

He doesn’t flinch when the shower door loudly clicks closed behind me. I gently rest one hand on the middle of his hunched back, and then slowly smooth it up his spine. Of course I want to comfort him. But I’m also taking inventory. Other than some scratches and faint bruises on his arm, everything seems intact.

Heart still beating.

Lungs still expanding.

Confirming for myself that he isn’t seriously harmed is a relief, but a dull headache builds behind my eyes at the same time. The adrenaline keeping me on edge through the early hours of the morning until he got home has finally lowered in its intensity.

Waiting for him to say something proves pointless. After a minute of silence and rubbing his back, I step closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper. Not just to him. To both of us.

He shakes his head that’s hanging directly under the stream of hot water. I smooth a hand over his trembling arm that’s braced against the wall, careful to avoid any scratches. He doesn’t move or pull it down. In fact, he lifts his shoulder to try and shake my hand off his back.

I don’t take it personally because Warren admitted to me how drunk they were tonight.

I wish Tripp would turn toward me, but taking his other hand or pulling at his shoulder might hurt him if he’s sore. I could let it be and give him space, but my heartbeat picks up the moment I back away.

I step closer, and it slows to a normal rhythm again.

“I’m not leaving,” I say, soft but confident.

He swipes angrily at the water on his face with his free hand, then shifts the bulk of his body weight from one foot to the other.

I’d hold him if I could. My brain took that thought as a literal suggestion, and my feet carry me forward until my front is fully pressed to his back. My head turns so that I can lay my cheek flat between his shoulder blades. My arms circle his torso, one hand landing over his belly button and the other just below his chest.

No holes. No cuts. I take a deep breath.

I squeeze once, then settle into a gentle but steady hold. He allows the embrace for a while. My face is soaked from the spray of water cascading down his back, reminding me that I’ve been nothing but a punching bag for falling water tonight. I close my eyes and press my cheek to his back with even more pressure.

“You scared me,” I whisper.

It’s not until he lifts the arm at his side and covers my hand near his chest with his that I let a few more tears fall. His hand fully cloaks mine with a warm weight that I think, Ihope, soothes both of us. His head lifts slightly, and his arm that’s braced against the wall comes down.

Eventually, both of his hands trap mine to his body.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks to me. “You’re my one good thing.”

I lift my head, turn it the other way, and press my opposite cheek to his back. His thumbs trace over my knuckles. I sigh to keep myself from breaking down right along with him. That, or spill every desperate thought in my head.

“You’re made up of nothing but good things,” I say. “That’s what I think.”

“You don’t know the half of what I’m made up of.”

I’d like to slap him on the hip and hit him with ahow dare you.Instead, I shake my head with enough movement for him to feel it against his skin.

“That’s a lie. I know everything about you.”

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