Page 40 of The Unlikely Pair
He’s right. Damn it, he’s right. I’m not stupid enough to disagree with him just for the sake of arguing when he’s making sense.
We continue to walk alongside the river, the sky leaden above us.
For some reason, Harry always seems to walk a few steps in front of me. He’ll argue it’s because he’s the one with the compass, but I think it’s because he naturally sees himself as the leader in all situations.
As I blindly stare at Harry’s form ahead of me, I notice something odd about his gait.
His usual confident stride has been replaced by a slight limp, and he’s wincing every time his right foot makes contact with the ground.
I don’t say anything, but I keep an eye on him, and now that I’ve noticed the weirdness in how Harry is walking, I can’t unsee it. His steps become shorter and more tentative with each passing minute.
“Stop for a break?” I suggest.
Harry’s shoulders sag in relief, but when he turns back to me, his face is as composed as ever.
“If you need to,” he says.
I try not to snort.
Sure enough, as soon as Harry collapses onto the log, he takes off his shoes and peels off his bloodied socks.
And without thinking, I drop to my knees to closely examine Harry’s feet.
“Oh my God, Harry, your feet are a mess.”
“It’s just blisters,” he says. He’s looking down at me, his breath coming more rapidly than usual.
“Your heels are shredded,” I say.
“Well, I didn’t exactly pick my shoes with the intention of hiking through the Scandinavian wilderness, did I?” There’s something slightly off in his voice, but I’m too busy focusing on his ravaged feet to dwell on it.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
I can’t believe he’s been suffering through this without a single complaint. It really does reinforce my cyborg theory. Although I guess you could argue that the fact he’s currently bleeding up a storm provides evidence he’s human.
“Not everyone feels the need to make a fuss about every little thing,” he mutters.
“You are the stubbornest son of a bitch I’ve ever come across.”
“That’s something coming from you,” he replies coolly.
He has a point. I hate to think Harry Matheson and I have anything in common, but I have to concede stubbornness is a trait we share.
I turn my attention back to his feet. They are long and lean, just like the rest of him. Seeing his perfectly formed feet with their perfectly cut toenails stirs a weird emotion inside me. I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to run my fingers along the arch of his foot, to feel his smooth skin and delicate bones beneath.
“We’ll need to dress your heels,” I say.
His jaw clenches. “I can do it myself.”
“Don’t be stupid. You won’t be able to do it properly from that angle.”
I retrieve the small first-aid kit out of the survival kit. Then I touch the flesh around his heels softly, trying not to hurt him, making sure I keep my fingers gentle.
Harry makes a choked sound.
I look up at him.
But it’s not pain on his face.
