Elijah McCay and Me

Vol. 2: Fifteen

"Is your lip and hand feeling okay?" I grimace when he sends me a really, sort of look.

Then, he nods. "Yes. It feels great actually. That's why it's 12am and we're sitting in an emergency room."

Scoffing, I cross my arms and settle back beside him. "I was just asking,"

Soon enough, Elijah's name is called and we both stand, me entirely prepared to follow him into the back room. He places a hand on the back of my neck, sending me a grateful yet detached look.

It causes coil in the pit of my gut, having felt utterly guilty for the fact that Elijah had gotten into a bar fight because of me.

"Just wait for me out here—it shouldn't take too long." He turns to walk away. I don't let him, reaching for his uninjured hand, not letting go.

I don't say anything, hoping that my eyes portray what I need them to. His eyes meet mine, the air leaving my throat, leaving it a dry pit. I don't feel comfortable letting him go into the back room by himself—even if there isn't necessarily anything I can do to protect him from his already broken hand.

Not that I could do much protecting, anyway.

"I'll be fine, it's probably just a sprain," he says lower, hand on my neck trailing down to my spine, falling lower and lower. I try not to gasp for air. "I promise. Just wait here."

I oblige, finding it incredibly hard to disagree with anything he's saying when his hand has found it's way down to my lower back, dangerously close to a place I wish he'd venture toward.

Though, I know it'll never happen.

Just then, I look over his shoulder, realizing that the emergency nurse just watched our intimate little interaction. My cheeks flush and I sit back down on the cold chair, eyes staring up at Elijah.

His Adam's apple bobs, bright green eyes unmistakably twinkling beneath the fluorescent lighting of the hospital waiting room.

Is that... no, it couldn't be. Could it?

Then, he turns and staggers away through the doorway leading back to patient rooms, but he sends me one more reassuring glance before the nurse firmly closes the door.

With shaky hands from Elijah's and I's intimate glance, I reach over for his cellphone he's left sitting in his chair, sliding it into my back pocket.

After buying a fun-sized candy bar and cold coke from the vending machines, I settle back into my chair, surprised when I feel my cellphone ring from my pocket.

I reach into it, pressing the answer button before reading the caller ID.

"Hello?"

The other end is silent for another few seconds, stirring a hint of uncertainty in me. "Hello?" I repeat, a little louder into the speaker this time.

"Um, is this—I mean, are you Gage?" The small voice surprises me, familiarity sparking. But I still don't completely recognize who is speaking on the other end.

Just as I'm about to pull the cellphone from my ear to check the caller name, the woman on the other end speaks again. "It's uh, it's Sabine. From the bar. Jeremiah's girlfriend."

"H-Hi." I don't mean to stutter, to sound so guilty.

"I know this is kinda weird, I just," she pauses, "I haven't been able to shake this feeling that something was wrong at the bar. I tried to ask Jeremiah but he insists I'm going crazy," another pause, "but I need to know."

"K-Know what?"

"If there's something wrong." She says it as if it's the simplest thing in the world. If only she knew.

Even though I can't be the one to tell Sabine, I can't find it in my heart to lie. This is his secret, not mine.

"Look, Sabine," I begin, softly and steadily. "This is something you should ask Jeremiah about. Not me."

"But he won't—"

"I'm sorry. I have to go." Guilt pools into my chest when I end the call abruptly. I clench my eyes shut, resting my head against the brick wall behind me.

Then, I wait.

Within the next two hours, Elijah is walking calmly out of the back of the emergency room, a bandage on his lower lip and a cast surrounding his injured hand. When he reaches me, I stand, facing him head on.

He glances down at me, clutching onto his well casted hand, "well," he sighs, "it's broken."

We don't say much on the way to his car, and once I've slid into the drivers seat without buckling myself in, I reach across the center console and pull him into a bone-crushing hug. He reciprocates without hesitation, his non-injured hand rubbing my lower back in appreciation.

A pile of guilt spills out of me with every apology I say, my nose burning with the urge to cry. I clutch onto his shoulder, "I'm so sorry—i-if it weren't for me, your hand would be fine and your lip wouldn't be cut," my next words are softer, "I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. Now he and his friends could press charges and you could be kicked out of school and it's all my fault. I-I thought at first that he actually liked me. I'm so sorry."

Elijah rips apart from my hug, his expression unlawfully serious. Those bright green eyes burn into my darker brown ones, unapologetically holding me there. "This is not your fault and you aren't an idiot, Gage. He's a piece of shit who deserved to get hit," he settles back into the passenger seat, still holding onto his hand. "Now let's go, we're going to my place."

I freeze.

"What?"

"We're going to my apartment. My roommate should be gone with his girlfriend for the night so it'll just be me and you."

The guilt turns to nerves and as I start the engine, I begin to contemplate how I'm going to handle myself once we're alone at his apartment. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make an even bigger fool out of my myself? And how the hell will I get home if he's got a broken hand and my car is still sitting outside of my dorm building?

"I've got a t-shirt and sweatpants you can sleep in when we get there."

I guess that answers that question.