Page 10 of When Ben Loved Tim
“Nice meeting you, Benjamin,” Tim says, grabbing the door frame and hopping out of my grasp. “Make sure you get those sleigh bells, and if you’re really good, maybe Santa will make you one of his reindeer.”
“Wait!” I say, “I can’t leave you on your own!”
“Sure you can,” Tim says. “I’ll be fine. See ya.”
“Okay.” The door swings shut and I’m on my own again. “But for the record, it’s just Ben,” I murmur.
I’m about to leave when I hear a crashing sound. And then more swearing. How am I supposed to walk away from that? Especially when he’s all by himself.
“This is ridiculous,” I say after opening the front door. “You need my help!”
I glance around and then down at the floor, where Tim is lying on his side. A small decorative table is next to him along with the ceramic shrapnel of a former vase.
“Yeah, all right,” he says with a sigh. “Just get me to the couch.”
“I hope that wasn’t expensive,” I say, because even a quick glance around has convinced me that his family is wealthy. The entryway is grand, the height spanning both floors. Stairs lead up to a landing that merges with a hallway. I can see a spacious living room in the direction Tim was attempting to go, and the pristine white couch that was probably his goal.
“Back on your feet,” I say, pulling on both his hands this time. Tim catches himself on the wall once up and resumes his struggle. I follow him into a living room that reminds me of the decorating magazines my mom reads. She’s the type of interior designer who likes to incorporate the personality of her clients into her work, so they are represented in their surroundings. Everything here feels too prim and proper and in its place. Like there isn’t much actual living that goes on. To be fair, Tim’s family hasn’t been here long. And they have good taste. Although I’m already eyeing the couch with unease.
“I don’t think blood is a good accent color for this room,” I say.
“Huh?” Tim replies. “Oh. Good call. Grab a blanket or something, will ya?”
I prop him against the wall and follow his instructions to a basket of neatly folded blankets. I spread one over the couch before helping him reach it. Tim sinks into the cushions with a sigh of relief.
“What else?” I ask.
Tim inhales and exhales a few times, as if catching his breath. Then he gingerly rotates his ankle while wincing. “This happened to me last year,” he says, “when I was sliding into home base. I still have the brace upstairs. Oh, and some painkillers. They’re both under the sink, in a cardboard box.”
“I’ll go get them,” I say, happy to be of use, since it’s the only way I can make up for my transgressions. I race up the stairs to the bathroom. In the cabinet, I find a moving box that has clearly been rifled through numerous times. Some items give me pause, like an old bottle of cologne that I’m tempted to sniff, but for all I know it belongs to his dad. I’d rather go straight to the source. And then I’ll check myself into the looney bin. For now, I pocket some adhesive bandages that I find in the box. On my way out of the bathroom, I grab a towel and washcloth. I take all of it downstairs and set it on the couch next to him. “The kitchen is this way?” I ask before heading toward it.
“Yeah, make yourself at home!” I hear Tim call after me.
“Thanks!” I reply, even though I know he’s being sarcastic. The kitchen gleams with brand new appliances, but I’m all business as I open cupboards to find a big enough bowl. I fill it with water and carefully carry it back to the living room.
“Dinner is served!” I joke.
Tim laughs when able to see into the bowl. I set it on the floor next to his feet. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Checking how bad the damage is,” I say, dipping the washcloth into the water. I bring it close to his bloody shin and look up, seeking his permission. Tim is already bracing for pain, but he nods. I begin dabbing at the dried blood to reveal the actual wound. Once I see the spot to avoid, I gently wrap my hand around his leg to take hold of his calf. I’m wiping his shin clean when I notice goosebumps race across his skin. Probably because the air conditioner is running. Or maybe it’s my touch. The hairs are standing up on his legs where they are dry enough to do so. I hope I don’t creep him out. My eyes meet his, but what I see there isn’t fear. I’m not sure what’s behind them, but my skin has reacted too, tingles racing up my arm.
“Does that feel okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Tim says, his voice husky. “It’s fine.”
I keep working, dipping the washcloth into the bowl when needed, the water getting steadily darker, and wonder why we associate red with love. Because of the liquid pumping through our hearts? Or did some ancient Egyptian knock a cute guy off the top of a pyramid when having a bad day? I pat his leg dry, resisting the urge to smile as I apply an adhesive bandage over the cut.
“Doesn’t look so bad,” Tim says, leaning forward to watch.
“The bleeding has already stopped,” I say, nodding in agreement. “What about your ankle?”
“I dunno. Let’s check it out.” Tim leans forward in an attempt to untie his shoes.
I put my hand on his bare shoulder and gently push. “I’ve got this,” I say.
He leans back, wearing a curious expression as I untie the laces of his blue shoes. I start with the good leg, pulling that shoe off first. I’m braced for stinky socks, which even my twisted libido can’t turn into something sexual. Not on such short notice at least. But his socks smell fine. He tenses as I gently wiggle off the other shoe, and so do I, because I can already see how pink and swollen the ankle has become. One of the socks is stained with blood, so I peel those off next, revealing big brown feet with hairy toes. Which I am way more into than I care to acknowledge. Fortunately, the injured ankle continues to distract me.
“I think you need to see a doctor,” I say, looking up in concern.
