Page 29 of John Wilder Gets Schooled
Wilder nodded and then closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
I hurried to my place to grab the Percocet. When I got back to Wilder, he hadn’t moved. His eyes were still closed, and I found myself studying the angles of his face and the way the light caught on his sweat-damp throat. His hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail, had escaped its tie in tendrils that were every shade of gold from sun-soaked beach to ripe wheat.
He suddenly looked very, very young. How old was he? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Mom had given me a houseplant last weekend, and I’d had a flutter of panic as the weight of the responsibility of keeping it alive had hit me, and I was twenty-four years old. I wanted to hug him and tell him he was doing great. I also wanted to crawl under a rock and never show my face because I couldn’t even remember to water a lily and he was keeping a whole-ass little human being alive.
“I’m going to get you a drink,” I said. “I think you need something sweet. My mom always says that sugar is good for shock, but I don’t know if that’s really true or if it’s just something they used to say back in the day when they also thought smoking was good for asthma.”
Wilder’s mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes closed. “Okay.”
I found a can of soda in the dented refrigerator and brought it to him. I sat down on the coffee table in front of the couch, my knees brushing his, and cracked the soda open. “Here you go.”
Wilder opened his eyes and reached out for the soda with his injured hand. Then he rethought that and used his good hand instead. He took a swallow. “Thanks.”
“I brought the Percocet,” I said, “if you want it.”
“Thanks.” He took one of the pills and then let out a long breath.
“How long were you yelling before I heard you?” I asked him.
“Couple of minutes, that’s all.” He looked at his bandaged hand. His fingers were still trembling. “It’s not even that bad.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but sometimes shock isn’t about how bad a thing is. It’s about how bad it could have been. Anyway, I bet it stings like hell.”
He snorted. “Yeah, it does.”
“The Percocet will help.” I sat down next to him. “Where’s Gracie?”
“Grandparents. They have her some weekends.” His eyes slipped closed.
“That’s good,” I said, thinking of how I’d seen the name on the church we’d passed on Wednesday and that I might have misread the expression I’d seen on Wilder’s face at the time. “That you have some family support.”
He made the sound of the buzzer you’d get on a game show for the wrong answer and then snorted. “Nope. Not either. Not family and not support.” He opened his eyes again, and they were a little bleary. “Percocet isgood.”
“It’s very good,” I agreed, pocketing the little orange bottle safely. “And you have an incredibly low tolerance, apparently.”
“I haven’t slept inforever,” he said, nodding his chin. “So it’s hitting real hard.”
“You know what? We should put you in bed for a nap. Which one is your bedroom?”
“This one,” he said, patting the couch with his bandaged hand.He gave me a dopey smile. “Probably shouldn’t have been using a nail gun when I’m tired. Steve would kick my ass, but guess what?”
“What?”
He leaned up, eyes wide. “I didn’t mess up because I was tired.”
“No?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I messed up because I was watching your ass.”
What?
“You have a nice ass,” he continued. “But it’s not as pretty as your face.”
Again,what?
I tried to laugh, because this wasn’t one of those in vino veritas things. This was an in Percocet poppycock situation, and one we would both need to pretend had never happened once Wilder was no longer high as a kite. “My face is prettier than my ass. That’s a low bar, but it’s good to know.”
“Noooo! That’s not what I meant! You’re jus’ pretty, Avery. Period.” And he leaned forward and kissed me.
