Reliving Yesterday ✔

Chapter 22.

"Are you ever going to tell me why you were so late and why you're hurt?" I ventured.

He stared straight ahead, but his voice was quippy, not curt. "I thought I had to shut up."

I rolled my eyes.

"Eyes on the road at all times," he warned, "My father wouldn't take well to you driving me to my death."

"Don't critique my driving," I retorted.

He looked over at me. "Don't drive like a blonde, then."

I gasped, audibly. "How dare you, sir. I'll have you know that hair color, in no way, correlates to ones driving skills," I stated.

He raised an eyebrow. "You'll have me know?"

"Yes, I'll have you know. And don't try to change the subject. I asked you a question," I said, snappily.

He exhaled long and hard, like he was bored and a little fed up. "You tried Alex," he said, his voice low, "And that got you nowhere."

"I've learnt not to give up," I remarked.

"And who taught you that?" he threw back at me.

"You did," I answered, before I could help it.

His half open mouth closed again and he retracted into his seat, returning his deep, green eyes to looking straight at the open and quite deserted roads. There it was, just floating in the air, words that recalled our daze of a childhood and I couldn't do anything about it. The car fell silent, the only sounds coming from the radio that was blaring a rock music number that I was not acquainted with.

"It's nothing really," he said, after a while.

I risked a glance at him. His jaw was set and I could see him reliving the events of the day in his head. His face had darkened. I knew him enough to know what every movement of his meant. 

He was sad and disappointed; shocked about something, but he wasn't necessarily angry. At least, not at me for asking questions. I knew that deep down he wanted to talk to someone about what had happened, but too much had changed between us for him to want to tell me. He was also way too proud to tell Michael and talk it over. Until he found someone to confide in, he was going to be alone. My stomach tightened at the thought.

I pulled up I my driveway and we both got off. As I opened the back door and picked up my bag, I could see that Parker picked up his bag, absently from his left hand, grimaced in pain and then picked it up with his right and slung it on the his shoulder.

"Are you going to come and check the tank now?" I asked.

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding.

I led him to the door and went in and he shut it behind us. He dropped his bag near the door and started to move upstairs. I followed him, deviating only to put my bag in my room. I went up on to the rooftop to see him discard his suit coat and climb the stairs to the tank. I ran my fingers up and down myself to warm my arms that were prickled with goosebumps till he returned.

When he did, he picked up his coat and slung it over his shoulder. I looked up at him. On the way to his face, my eyes caught an unusual patch on his clean, white shirt. Deep red and smattered across his left shoulder.

"Is that blood?" I asked slowly.

The way his eyes crinkled and lips pursed, like he'd been caught only gave away that his surprised glance towards his left shoulder was a pretense.

"Just scratched it," he said, finally.

I shook my head at him. "Scratches don't bleed hours after they are made," I said, "Just come down into the bathroom and I'll patch it up."

"No, Alex."

"Yes," I said, firmly, "I won't ask how you got them. I don't want to know, but let me patch it up. That's a difficult place to fix up on your own."

I turned and started to move down. He wasn't following me. "Come, Parker," I said, "I don't faint at the sight of blood."

I could here the soft sound his dress shoes made against the wood as he slowly followed me down the stairs, into the bathroom on the landing. I got out the first aid kit, while he stood at the door staring at me.

"Will you come in or do you prefer to do this on the landing?" I asked, sounding a lot more confident that I felt.

He moved inside and leaned against the sink counter. I stood in front of his and waited, not wanting to rush him. He looked at me for a long while, the wheels in his brain turning, before his slowly loosened his midnight blue tie, that matched my dress, and pulled it over his head. He then proceeded to take his buttons off, one by one, all the while, just scanning my face, like he was registering it for the first time. I watched his eyes; his deep, bright green eyes.

Halfway down the buttons, he stopped and pushed his shirt over his left shoulder, for me to patch him up. I dropped my gaze to his shoulder and a gasp escaped me. There was a deep scratch that led from the end of his prominent collarbone, down his bicep for a few inches. It looked fresh, and the blood still shone red. Around the scratch, there were scrapes and black-and-blue bruises and little cuts. I ached to ask him what he'd gotten himself into, but I'd said I wouldn't.

I could see him watching me, trying to gauge my reaction. I tried not to give him one, instead, clinically cleaning his wounds and putting ointment on them. As my fingers moved up and down the shoulder and arm, his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath my touch. I kneaded my thumb into his bicep, trying to smoothen out whatever it was he seemed to have pulled.

He let me work in silence, never interrupting me; never asking me what I was putting on him; only occasionally handing me a few supplies when I needed them. I was still in my dress and he was still in his wedding attire. We were standing in my bathroom, way too overly clad to be there. He was leaning easily against the sink, his right hand falling close to my hip, me standing almost between his legs. There was something almost intimate about, but I didn't let myself think of that.

"You're good," I said, when I was done.

He assessed the bandages for a moment and then slid his shirt back on and buttoned it up. The fingers on his right hand lightly grazed my arm before he stood up.

"Thank you," he said, softly, sincerely. He stood there for a few moments, during which I didn't even look up at him and then he slowly left and after a while, I heard the front door close. I leaned forward and rested my palms against the cool granite of the sink, supporting myself by my arms. I looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were tinged with pink and I didn't know if it was the makeup or not. I was alone, in all my bridesmaid glory.

And Parker's midnight blue tie was still on the counter.