Bitter Affectionate

Chapter 25

On the way to the hospital, the physical symptoms of my anxiety died down. My chest opened up and my tremor went away and I was able to lay my head back and be still. Sure, the bottom of my foot was throbbing, and myself and Brent were in our boxers, dripping pond water all over Marks backseat. But at least my throat was capable of taking in air.

Mark lectured us the entire drive. Brent didn't say a word, phantom tail between his legs. I couldn't find the energy to feel guilty for our choices, beyond the argument we had.

I was still pressing Brent's t-shirt to my foot to try and stop the bleeding. Who would've thought a foot would bleed this much?

"This is a new level of stupid for you boys, and I didn't think that was possible," Mark was going on, driving like a race car driver with a vein sticking out of his neck. "That pond is full of garbage! Why would you think swimming in there is a good idea? And can't you look where you walk? You have a game coming up! What are you going to do?"

I lifted the shirt just enough to get a peak. The shirt was entirely ruined, 75% of it soaked in blood. The gash on my foot was hard to see. It looked like a massacre took place under there. All I could see was that it was about an inch long, maybe more. I couldn't tell quite how deep it was.

"Drew! Are you even listening to me?"

I glanced up and caught his eyes in the mirror. I nodded, causing him to huff and turn his attention back to the road.

"I should keep both of you on a leash," He grumbled. Brent stifled a laugh and looked over at me to see if I did, too. I didn't meet his eyes, instead turning my attention out the car window. The world was passing by so quickly. "I'd put a tracker in your necks if I thought it'd keep you in check. But lord knows you'd find a way around that."

"It's not like I cut it on purpose," I mumbled.

"What did you say, young man?"

"Nothing."

Upon arriving at the hospital, Mark made more of a fuss than was necessary. That was probably why I didn't have to wait around to be seen. He made enough noise for them to want me in and out as quickly as possible.

The doctor cleaned the area around the wound, and then did the excrutiating process of washing the wound out and disinfecting it. That was probably the worst of it. Afterwards, all it took was some stitches, a bandage and a tetanus shot for me to be sent home with orders to stay off of my foot as much as I could for the next two weeks or so.

I met Brent and Mark in the waiting area on crutches. I could see Marks heart sink. He stood immediately to meet me halfway.

"What did he say?" He asked. "How long until it's healed?"

"Two weeks," I answered solemnly. "Maybe more."

I could see him trying hard not to get too worked up about the news. He took a breath and rubbed an antsy hand on his stubble. He didn't say another word, even though this seemed like the perfect time for some profanity. He just put an arm around me, nodded for Brent to follow and we left the hospital together. Quietly.

He didn't ask Brent if he wanted to come over, nor did he offer him a ride home. He assumed - due to past experience - that he'd be coming home with us. Brent gave me more help than I needed. He helped me out of the car, held the door to the house, and helped me all the way to my room. He shut the door behind us, neither of us bothering to get a towel. By now, we had mostly dried off.

I sat down on my bed, my whole body sagging over like a bag of flour. The meds did help. Without them, I would be in a ball on the floor right now. But I still felt the weight of everything.

Two weeks. I'm benched for our next game.

Brent opened his mouth to speak, his hands knotted in front of him and the guiltiest look on his face.

Before he could say a word, I held a finger up.

"Don't say you're sorry," I told him. I was impressed by the steadiness of my own voice. Still, I felt defeated. "I don't want to hear it."

"But, really I-"

"Can't you just let me be mad?" I asked. "I have plenty of good reasons to be. Let me fester for a day at least."

He let his hands fall to his side's. He wasn't angry anymore. I could tell. Now, he just looked sad. That was much harder for me to handle.

"I have good reasons to be mad too," He said, and though he was right, he sounded unsure. "What about me?"

"Be mad," I said. "I'm a dick. Hate me for a little while. You'll feel better."

His eyes focused on the floor. "I don't want to hate you. Can't we just make up?"

"Sometimes a bandaid doesn't heal a wound," I told him. "Sometimes all it does is suffocate it. You have to... air it out."

A silence followed. I could hear him breathing. He rocked back and forth on his feet, expelling awkward energy. I'd never been mad at him like this before. I didn't want to be. Everything in me wanted to act like nothing happened so we could be normal again. But it was harder to suffocate a flame when the embers were this hot. Thanks to the medication, I was level headed enough to know that ending this fight early would only make us boil up again soon after. The question was: did we say everything we needed to say?

"I guess I should leave," He muttered. He began to turn around, ready to catch the doorknob and walk out. Something in me lurched.

"Wait," I said. He paused in his tracks. I felt pathetic for it, but, "Just because we're mad doesn't mean you have to leave."

"It doesn't?"

"I don't want to be by myself," I said. His shoulders dropped. I didn't need to feel ashamed of saying it, because I knew he understood. "Stay? Just for a while?"

He hesitated for only a moment before agreeing, and coming to sit beside me. The bed dipped slightly under our collective weight, and we both sat there. Silently. Still mad, and upset, and betrayed. But, together. That had to count for something.

I couldn't help but notice that - for a tiny, split millisecond - he looked proud that I needed him.