We drive in awkward silence, and I press my forehead to the window, seemingly fascinated by the homes surrounding us. Honestly, I just don't know what to do when I'm around him anymore. Especially when he's being nice.
"Can we talk a little bit?"
"What?" I look at him, confused.
"I mean, is it okay if I ask you some questions? I know it's probably weird to talk to me about this, but I really want to understand what's happening."
"Sure, I guess so. But I reserve the right to ignore any questions I deem inappropriate or otherwise annoying."
He laughs a little. "Fair enough."
At that moment, I notice his hand. Apparently it had been hidden by his jacket sleeve, but as he grips the wheel I notice that his knuckles are bruised and split, and his hand is swollen. "What happened?" I touch his hand gently with my fingertips, and he shifts uneasily. "Tell me what happened, Lindsey."
"Well, we told you Richard came back while we were there."
"You hit him," I say matter of factly, and I can tell Lindsey thinks I'm going to be furious.
"He came at me, and then he started saying the most horrible things about you. I couldn't take it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."
"No, no. It's okay. Thanks for sticking up for me," I say, and he takes my hand.
"Does he always talk to you like that? Because I couldn't stand it for ten seconds."
"He says a lot of awful things to me," I admit. "I think I stopped listening a while back." His forehead creases in concern, but we're at the house now. We carry my things to the guest room and he sits on the bed while I start to unpack.
"I'm so sorry, Stevie."
"For what?"
"For all of this," he says, sighing. "I feel like I should have noticed sooner."
"It isn't like you and I talk anymore. And I certainly haven't been around much," I say, joining him on the bed. "Thank you. For being here."
"Even when we're fighting, I'm here." He pulls me into his arms and I don't even protest. He hasn't held me like this in years. "Are you okay? I've seen your face, obviously, but are you hurt anywhere else?"
"Just some bruises. I'm okay."
"Where?"
"It's no big deal. This is the worst of it," I assure him, gesturing at my face, trying to downplay the situation.
"Where else are you hurt?" Knowing he's not going to let it go, I stand and lift my dress, showing him my bruised hip and ribcage. He frowns and reaches out to touch me, brushing the discolored skin with his fingertips. "Jesus Christ." I'm oddly self conscious all of a sudden and quickly drop my dress, sitting beside him again. "How much pain are you in?"
"Not much," I say, and it's honestly pretty true. I don't feel much of anything anymore.
"And you're sure nothing's broken or anything?"
"Lindsey, I'm okay."
"Okay, okay," he says, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I should've hit him harder."
"When did you become such a fighter?" I ask, slightly amused.
"The minute I learned that he'd laid his hands on you." I wasn't expecting such a serious answer, and I'm a little stunned by his protective tone. He stands abruptly. "I guess I should start dinner."
