I don’t know how to say I’m leaving.
He pushes the top of the futon forward and picks up the edge of the bench at the same time. My arms are shorter and my hand hurts, but I reach as far as I possibly can to make it work, because he asked me to. The frame unlatches and the futon flattens. I feel the stretch in my muscles even after I’ve let go.
Adam climbs on the futon and opens a cupboard under the bookshelves behind it, pulling out sheets and a blanket and three pillows. The blanket is fluffy and the sheets are crisp. Three pillows. But he wanted my help with the futon, so it’s probably not something he does every night.
I stare at my boots by the door, think through the motions it will take to slip my feet in and run.
“You know, you can take your gloves off,” Adam says, and I go so quickly from being worried about leaving to worrying that he’s noticed how gross my gloves are—that he might not want me in his bed, on his clean sheets.
I stare at the pillows and think about the dark outside. I don’t want to be anywhere. The blanket looks warm. “I cut my hand,” I say, like it’s some kind of apology. “At the campground. Firewood.”
Adam climbs off the futon. “Give it,” he says, curling his fingers at me.
I place my hand in his.
He peels my glove away. Winces when he sees dried blood on the bandage, but he unwraps it without hesitation. Leads me to the bathroom, runs water in the sink until it’s warm and guides my hand into the stream. “Just let it rinse for a sec,” he says, raising his eyebrows, eyes sad, like he’s sorry I’m hurt.
My cut is sort of puffy and the water stings, but when I flex my fingers, I feel like the ice I’ve been carrying in my bones starts to melt.
Adam opens the medicine cabinet, lines up iodine and bandages and medical tape along the side of the sink. He smells like soap and night air and a little bit like Matty, like they use the same shampoo, or maybe that’s just what men smell like when you get close enough.
He pats my hand dry with a cotton ball, squirts iodine over the cut, making yellow-brown splash marks in the sink. He has a small hoop in his left ear. I’m not sure how I missed it before. It’s silver, twisted like a rope, tarnished in a way that looks cool.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“It’s fine.” My voice sounds so small. I try to keep my hands steady, but my knees start shaking, like the movement has to go somewhere.
Adam pats my hand dry again with a new cotton ball, then wraps it with careful turns of the bandage roll and just the right amount of tape. “Good as new.”
All the blood in my body rushes to my cheeks. Our eyes meet and there’s this funny flash in my brain. He has very nice green eyes.
He turns away to rinse out the sink.
The floor is tiled with all these tiny tiles. Black and white octagons, and the grout between them is grey, but I don’t think it’s mold or dirt. I think it’s supposed to be that color, since everything else is so clean. Being here is better than another cold night. Maybe all of this is fine even if that closed door is a closet.
“Thank you,” I say.
Adam puts the iodine in the medicine cabinet. “You hungry?” he asks. Looks over at me. Our eyes meet again.
I touch his cheek with my good hand, press my lips to his and feel the heat of him all the way to my toes.
He opens his mouth. I open mine, inch my tongue toward his, but he’s pulling away.
“No. Don’t—” He takes a step back like he thinks I’ll kiss him again if he doesn’t make extra space between us. “That’s not—” He shakes his head.
My throat cramps so hard I can barely breathe. I push past him, out the bathroom door to the living room to grab my boots.
“Hey,” Adam calls, following. “Don’t go. You don’t have to—that’s not…” He stares at me, eyes wide. “Just wait. Wait, okay?”
He goes into the kitchen. I stand by the door, holding my boots. I don’t know what I’m waiting for and the curiosity keeps me from leaving even though I’m burning all over from how embarrassed I am.
Adam comes back with his calzone split onto two plates. “Will you stay?”
I shake my head. Step into a boot. I don’t know what I thought he’d get from the kitchen that would make this okay. I can’t even look at his face. I slip my other foot in its boot, don’t bother tying laces.
“Please?” he says. “I’m going to go in my room to eat and sleep and you can have this whole place to yourself.”