36

EMBER

The drive is calm. We're serenaded to mellow alternative music from the radio. Michael told me he calls his car Loch Nes, which made me smile. "The colour," he explained. "She's sea green." I'd never heard someone call a vehicle something so bizarre. I guess I've never met someone like Michael.

We pull up to a tall apartment building lined with glass balconies and some orange pumpkin lights for the upcoming Halloween. I blurt out a stupid question: How can you afford this? Michael laughs and says he can't—he's buying it off his adoptive father. Michael then went on to tell me that Otto White, the old German man from Columbus, Ohio, adopted him. Once Otto moved into a retirement home, Michael began buying his apartment, month by month, year by year. It's the only way he could have attended Toronto University.

We enter the front doors and I tuck the front of Michael's sweater into the band of my shorts so I don't get any more weird looks. I am in fact wearing shorts. My fingers scream at the small action and I'm suddenly nervous for whatever Michael has planned.

With the number of times I've landed myself in the hospital recently, I'm surprised at the nervous flutter in my heart. Granted, Michael always seems capable of doing that to me. I don't know if it's him that makes me nervous, or just the prospect of having a friend.

Michael walks into the elevator first, wrapping an arm around the door. I step in and head to the opposite side. If he realizes this is a deliberate action, he doesn't say.

"You do that often," he says. I flinch, meeting his eyes.

"What?"

"That band." He points to my left wrist where I'm currently snapping the elastic against my skin.

"Yeah," I laugh shakily, eyeing the pink welts on my skin. "It's a nice distraction."

"You're hurting yourself."

I roll my eyes, annoyed. "Really, Blondie? Okay, no I'm not, and why would you care?" Michael turns to face me and crosses his arms. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Sorry. I'm just..."

"Incredibly defensive?"

"Among other things." I stick my hands into the pocket of Michael's sweater.

"It's okay, you know." He uncrosses his arms, no longer on the defensive. "I'm not trying to pry information out of you. I'm just trying to be a good guy."

I snort. "You are a good guy. You don't have to try." Michael looks to the floor of the elevator with a sad smile. Does he not believe me? "What?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

"My floor," he says as the elevator chimes. Level twenty-four out of twenty-seven. We both step out into an empty hall wide enough to fit a car. The carpet is blood red, the walls light grey. I could eat off any surface in this place.

We head into Michael's apartment. It's simple—a modern kitchen to the left, a living room to the right, and a balcony just ahead. There are a few doors here and there, but other than that, it's neat, spacious, and empty.

"Nice place," I say, walking in. "Great...layout."

"I'll give Otto your compliments next time I see him," says Michael, heading into the kitchen. Once a few lights are on, I can see the place clearer. He opens the fridge and takes out a carton of orange juice, then two tall glasses from a cabinet. He fills both and returns the juice to the fridge.

I would have just drank from the carton. Is he a psychopath? Am I the psychopath?

I stand still on the shoe mat. My shoulders rise to my chin in tension. What do I do now? Do I give his sweater back? That would leave me in next to no clothing. But that's not weird, right? I mean, we're friends. Right?

I haven't been this bad with overthinking in a long time.

"For you," says Michael, gesturing to the untouched juice. I nod my creaky neck and slip off my running shoes. Ugh, I can smell my feet from here. I'm a disgusting human.

I pad over and shove the sleeves up to my elbows. The cold glass feels like heaven on my raw palms and an actual sigh leaves my lips. Michael smiles as I hold the thing like it's a mug of hot chocolate.

"I'll go grab my first-aid kit. You can just hop up on the counter."

"The counter?" I repeat. "Shouldn't we go to the bathroom?"

As Michael walks away, he says, "The bulb's dead. Just hop up and I'll fix your hands." He leaves through one of the doors, so I obey and hop up onto the counter like it's a bed in a doctor's office. I sip on the orange juice, the sweet nectar it is. Michael buys pulped-juice, so I think it's him who's the psychopath, not me.

Michael appears wearing an entirely different outfit now. He's in a black hoodie and grey sweats. I envy all the clothing—I'm still cold. Permanently cold, probably. He drops an oversized ziplock bag of items next to me.

"I can't find my medical scissors," he huffs, sounding more frustrated than the situation calls for. "I'll be back."

Well, okay. I set the juice down and pick up the bag. Ointment, gauze, peroxide, rubbing alcohol, bandaids. I laugh, shaking my head. As soon as Michael reappears without his scissors, I hold up the bag.

"Blondie, this is Polysporin." He nods, heading for the kitchen cabinets, searching for something. I just stare at him, twisting my neck. My lips twitch as he ransacks his own home. "Polysporin," I repeat. "This isn't special. I have this. Everyone has this." He shrugs, leaving the room again with determination in his brow.

What is happening.

He finds the scissors, and by the time he's back, I've read each ingredient list on the medical supplies and laid everything out onto the counter beside me. And my orange juice is gone.

"Sorry!" Michael says, rushing back into the room. "I had to use a flashlight in the bathroom. They were under the sink."

I take a look back at my hands. "I'm fairly sure we don't need medical scissors." Michael sets them down and stands right in front of me where my legs hang off the counter.

"Trust me, I've done this before."

I cock a brow. "You also called Polysporin special stuff."

"It is," he defends, grabbing a square of sterile gauze. "It's like magic." He pours peroxide onto the gauze and then proceeds to grab my left hand. He—

I jerk my hand back. "Ow."

He steals my hand again. "Don't be a baby." He dabs the soaked gauze along my fingers, his work illuminated by the soft yellow lights in the ceiling of the kitchen. The solution fizzes with my blood. Again, he's way too rough. I pull my hand back.

"Ow."

"I'm helping you," he states, clearing not understanding.

"Can you be a little more gentle? My skin is literally cut open."

Michael blinks at me. "I've done this to myself a hundred times," he says. My cheeks light up. I'm not tough, at least not as tough as him.

"You're hurting me," I say quietly, holding my hands close in my lap. His eyes soften and he grabs either side of the counter, leaning his head down.

"I'm sorry," he groans. His warm breath hits my bare legs and I shiver.

"Let me do it," I offer.

"One more chance," he counters, adding peroxide to new piece of gauze. He sets the bloody one on a sheet of plastic on the counter. "I'll do better." I sigh and nod.

"Okay." I offer my raw hands again. He sets the gauze lightly to my palm and then looks up for confirmation. I nod. He continues, and it's much better. At some points, I wince, but I let him finish. After that, he smoothes ointment over my raw skin and the cuts around my fingers, and then rests a fresh gauze pad to each of my palms. He wraps my hands, then cuts medical tape with his fancy scissors and tapes it in place. When all is said and done, the pain has receded some and I look like an underground fighter.

"Better?" Michael asks, eyes hopeful. I hold my fists up by my jaw and then slowly throw a mock punch to Michael's cheek, whooshing out a breath for dramatic effect. He lets me, lips tilted up in a grin.

"Thanks," I say, dropping my bandaged hands.

As Michael cleans up, he gives me instructions. "Leave it for at least a day, then redo the whole thing for another day. Don't climb until then."

"Okay," I say, trusting him.

Michael makes us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which I happily eat while sitting on the counter. He hops up to join me. It feels like we're kids again, hanging out where we're not supposed to, when we're not supposed to.

We continue to talk and I find myself eager for every word, hanging onto every topic, and never wanting to leave this small, surreal moment away from the real world.

Love Laurel