Page 93 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I take the towel, rubbing it over my face, hair, and arms, then fold it and put it on the table. Tom sets the first aid kit down, and pours two coffees. The normalcy of it feels out of place, like I’ve stepped into a different version of reality. One where someone bothers to notice that I’m bleeding.
Once he’s put one of the mugs down in front of me, he opens the kit.
“It’s old, but it’ll do the job.” He pulls out gauze and antiseptic. “Hand.”
I stretch my right arm across the table. Tom doesn’t comment, just cleans each cut gently, pausing whenever I wince. When he’s done with the right one, he nods toward the left.
“That one too.”
It’s not as bad, but the sting of antiseptic still makes my fingers twitch. I focus on the pain, instead of replaying the sound of Dan’s fist hitting Lily’s face.
“You do this often?”
“Used to be a firefighter.” He tapes the last piece of gauze into place. “Learned real quick that some people will walk around bleeding to death before they’ll ever admit they need help.”
I don’t think the words are meant to hit quite the way they do.
He leans back, studying me. “Want to tell me what happened?”
I curl my fingers around the mug. “No.”
Instead of pushing, he gathers up the wrappers from the gauze and tosses them into the trash can, then sits down across from me and takes a slow sip of his own coffee. “You know the town is gonna talk either way.”
“They always do.”
He nods. “Usually easier when they have the right facts though.”
My sighs comes out as an explosion of pent-up frustration. “Dan Hartman threw a punch at me. Lily got in the way.”
Tom’s expression doesn’t change, but his grip on the mug tightens. “Shit.”
“Split her lip. Maybe worse.” The memory rises again—her head snapping back, blood on her mouth, the sound she made, small and pained. “I should have been faster. I should have …”
“Hey now.” Tom’s voice cuts through my spiraling. “Breathe.”
I force air into my lungs, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
“I left her there, without checking whether she was okay. I just … left. I couldn’t …”
“No. I expect you couldn’t.”
The clock on the wall keeps ticking, marking time while rain drums against the windows. Tom sits quietly, while I try to find words for the rest of it.
“I lost control.” The confession spills out. “As soon as I saw her blood, everything?—”
“Went red?” He gets up and refills our mugs without asking. “You did what anyone would do if they saw someone they care about get hurt.”
“I don’t?—”
He just looks at me, one eyebrow raised, until I drop my gaze back to my drink, heat rising up my neck.
“That’s not?—”
“It’s a small town, Ronan. People notice things. Even things they pretended not to see back then.”
I drop my eyes, and focus on the coffee in front of me.
“Are you worried someone is going to come looking for you?”
