Delicate Scars

Chapter Eleven

My arm around Tyler's neck and his hand pressed against my ribs is the only thing keeping me from falling down the stairs. The one's leading to what I can only assume are bedrooms. In his house. I wince with every step, scrunching my eyes closed as if not seeing the cut will make me stop feeling it too. We reach a bathroom with sky blue paint covering the walls. It reminds me of his eyes. The ones that are now pooling with concern and regret and worry. For me. My heart hurts for being the reason he's feeling all those emotions.

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

"It's not your fault. I should've been by your side." The light above casts a shadow across his face, plunging him into darkness. My hand itches to reach out and smooth the creases that have burrowed into his skin. "I'm going to need you to sit on the countertop. Do you need help getting up?"

I can't remember how to do anything but blink. Tyler places a comforting hand on my shoulder and bobs his head so we're at the same height. His eyes search mine. "Scarlett, sweetheart, are you okay getting up there?" He asks.

Sweetheart. That one word snaps me back to reality.

"No, uh- yeah. I've got it."

All I can hear is the whirring of my heart. It's like I'm in a wind tunnel. It could be the adrenaline that's making my skin clammy and my throat drier than the flowers we had back home, but I know it's not.

I clutch the edge of the counter and try to pull myself up, but my arms give out. All the weight I was holding up lands on my leg. I have to bite back a scream. My eyes scrunch closed as I shift my weight onto the other, breathing heavily. Tyler's hands come around my waist. Squeezing gently. The only thing stopping his hands from being on my skin is the towel wrapped around me.

"I'm going to help you up, okay?"

His eyes search mine for confirmation. I nod.

He lifts me up and onto the countertop with ease. His hands still linger around my waist. I stare at them. At the heat building beneath his fingertips. I almost place my hand on top of his so he can't move it. But he clears his throat and it's too late. He's already rummaging through a cupboard beside my head.

"Sorry for ruining your shirt, by the way, I would've used mine, but I didn't want to leave you."

I stretch my leg out so I can see the makeshift bandage wrapped around the cut. My mind was too focused on trying not to throw up to care about the shirt he ripped. "I didn't like the shirt that much anyway," I reassure him. He shoots me a grateful smile.

The cupboard squeaks closed, and he sets a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, cotton pads, Bactine, and a pack of gauze swabs on the countertop. He unties the shirt, revealing the cut on the underside of my calf. I press my fist to my mouth and swallow the bile threatening to come up. Most of the blood is already soaked into the shirt.

"You look like you know what you're doing," I say.

He unscrews the cap off the hydrogen peroxide. His brows are pulled together in concentration. A lock of curls has fallen into his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and push it back.

"This isn't the first time I've dealt with a cut from the fin. Trust me, I've cut myself more times than I can count." He pours the hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton pad and meets my gaze. "This is going to sting, okay?"

I take a deep breath. "Yeah, okay. Just do it."

He gently presses the cotton pad to the cut and wipes around it, cleaning away the blood. I scrunch my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it. My teeth are gritted, and my knuckles are turning white from clawing the edge of the counter. My head feels too heavy to hold up and I rest it against his shoulder without thinking. His breath hitches in his throat but he doesn't stop me.