Tate

Chapter | 4

                                                               Chapter | 4

        He was standing in the doorway, peering inside as if he wasn't completely sure he actually wanted to come in. I wasn't sure either. I don't know how I'd even been so bold to even invite him over. 

        His blue eyes flickered around the room as the rain continued to pour outside. They darted suddenly, meeting my own murky gaze. He offered the flash of a sheepish smile before slowly stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind him.

        "Come on." I said shakily, reaching over to grasp at his wrist. His skin was cold. 

        I guided him past the living room and up the stairs - to the bathroom. "I'll be right back." I breathed quietly, darting down the hall and into Oliver's bedroom. I dug through the bottom drawer of his dresser, and fished out a pair of black sweats and a white t-shirt. Things that Oliver wouldn't notice missing.

        I returned to the bathroom to find Tate leaning against the edge of the sink, staring blankly at the wall. His gaze flickered to mine when he heard the slight squeek of my sneakers on the floor. I set the clothes next to him. "Let me know when your done and I'll put your clothes in the dryer." I said.

        He caught my chin as I tried to turn away, making me meet his eyes. "Thank you, Poppy." He said honestly.

        "Yeah, " I blinked, noticing how the bandage on his nose was wet. I frowned as he dropped his hand before stumbling into the hallway. I closed the door behind me and sat down on the first stair of the case, leaning againt the railing. 

        Missing one shoe, a jacket, and his ride. What happened? I knew it wasn't my business and that I shouldn't expect him to tell me in return for a ride and some clothes, but I was genuinly curious to know if the rumors had any truth to them.

        Maybe he had crashed him motorcycle and someone had just mistakenly said car. It would explain his lack of - well, everything - and why he was battered up.

        My mind ran through scenarios about him in vegas and, on his ride back, wrecking his bike.

        Or maybe the old thing had died on him. It certainly wasn't new. Or sleek. He could have been missing because he was sick for the first two days, and when he tried to start his bike - it wouldn't work. 

        The last theory didn't explain the bruises and missing shoe, unless he got into a fight with the mechanic or something.

        I gently tapped my head against the railing, rolling my lip between my teeth.

        Maybe his brother went to some sort of school or facility far away and he went to visit for a few days? Got into a crash on his way back, maybe?

        The bathroom door open, and I sprung to my feet as he tried to move into the hallway. "Hold on." I said, pushing him back into the bathroom. I motioned for him to sit on the toilet seat as I opened the medicine cabinet in the mirror and took out the first aid kit and some peroxide. Tate's brows furrowed as he gently set his wet clothes on the edge of the bathtub.

        I dug around inside the kit until I found a clean bandage and a few q-tips. I moved to stand between his legs and gently took his jaw in one hand and went to peel off the wet bandage with the other. It came off easily and I flicked it into the trash as he stared up at me. 

        "I knew you were good." He said almost inaudibly. "From the moment I saw you in the library last year. I was just passing when I saw you, practically on the edge of your seat and grinning as you read."

        Last year? I'd always thought I'd been the one watching him.

        "And then I saw this girl getting bullied by the dance team and you were the only one that stood up for her." He continued as I dipped a q-tip in the peroxide.

        "Marissa." I said. "Her name was Marissa." I remembered her. Mousy brown hair, glasses. Thin and short. Over all, pretty. She'd commited suicide only a few months after that.

        "When the school put up a picture of her at that memorial thing and I saw you cry, I knew." He reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You're so good, Poppy Dawson.

        God, the way he said my full name.

        I'd never really liked 'Poppy' for a name. It was too happy for someone like me, but when he said it - I almost found myself growing fond of it.

        I dabbed at the stitched cut on his nose, and he never flinched, just stared. I replaced the bandage with a clean one and did the same to his knuckles when I realized they were rather bloody as well.

        "Do you believe them?" He asked when I finished.

        "What?"

        "What they say about me. The rumors." He clarified. "Do you believe them?"

        "No."

        He offered a lopsided smile. "Do you think I'm like what they say I am?"

        "No."

        "How am I?"

        "Complicated." I answered. "Too Complicated."