Page 58 of The Love of My Next Life
I just want to touch her.
She turns to where I’m standing in the doorway and her smile drops away.
“Shit,” she whispers. “Be right back.”
She walks past me and heads back to the car, pops the trunk, and pulls out a red plastic box. I laugh when I see what it is.
“Oh, shut up,” she says with a huff. “Go sit down. You’re a mess.”
I snort and roll my eyes, but I follow her direction and stumble onto the couch as she kneels in front of me. She pops open the travel first-aid kit and rummages through the contents, pulling out some antiseptic wipes, band-aids, and a tube of anti-bacterial ointment.
She sits back on her ankles and studies me, her eyes flitting over my injuries. My eyes stay trained on hers. She rips open one of the antiseptic wipes.
“This might sting a bit,” she whispers. Her breath fans over my cheeks. I don’t feel a thing as she uses the wipe to dab at the cut on my lip. Just the pressure of her delicate, talented fingers and the vibrations of her closeness. I work to keep my breathing even, secretly pulling her rose-scented shampoo into my lungs with each inhale.
Her brow furrows.
“This looks bad, Macon. You might need to go to a hospital.”
I shake my head slightly, just enough to let her know I won’t go, but I don’t speak. I’ve been in worse fights. Had more serious injuries. My wrist aches just at the thought. This split lip is nothing. It will heal quickly on its own.
“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “Just let me...”
She cleans the blood off my lips and chin, then puts some anti-bacterial ointment on the cut. She prods at my jaw lightly, and I hiss.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “It looks nasty. It’s already bruised and swollen. I’m going to go see if there’s anything we can use as an ice pack.”
She hops up and walks into the kitchen. I hear a door open, drawers rustling, and then she’s back with a balled-up dishtowel in her hand.
“Bingo,” she says. “The fridge has an icemaker.”
Instead of handing me the ice, she kneels back in front of me and presses it to my jaw. The chill hits me, and my eyes fall shut. We’re quiet for a moment. Me breathing her in, her holding me together.
“So that was your dad,” she says finally. Inevitably.
“Yeah.”
“He’s...” she trails off, so I finish for her.
“A dick.”
She laughs, but she doesn’t argue.
“He told Mom he’s not going to pay for Claire’s college,” I tell her. Her face folds into sorrow.
“No,” she whispers, and I nod.
“It wasn’t in the custody agreement, but it was something he always said he would do.” I shrug off the fury. “He changed his mind.”
She shakes her head, confused.
“I didn’t even realize he was still part of your lives. You never see him or talk about him.”
“Cause we don’t fit into his perfect little life with his perfect little family,” I say honestly. I try to sound unaffected, but I fail. “He still paid child support, though. Until Claire turned eighteen.”
Hush money,is what it should be called.
“Anyway, he’s decided he’s done with us for good, now. Claire’s eighteen, and the honorable Phillip Morrison has relinquished all financial responsibility.”
