Chapter 6: The Cut Hand

Ian knocked on the back door at nine that night.

Neil had gone to watch the game at a friend's house. The boys were in bed upstairs.

I was in the pantry, putting away jars, and the knock made me jump.

A jar of tomato sauce slipped out of my hand and broke on the tile.

I stooped to pick up the pieces, and a shard opened my palm.

"Don't touch it," Ian said.

He had come in through the kitchen without waiting.

He looked at the floor, at my hand, and at the blood running down my wrist.

"Sit," he said.

I sat on a stool.

He hung his jacket on the chair and took a first aid kit out of the pocket.

"Do you always carry that?" I asked.

"Occupational habit."

He knelt in front of me and took my hand in both of his.

His palms were warm and rough.

He turned my hand over and pressed a pad of gauze into the cut.

"Hold that."

I held it.

"It's not deep," he said. "You won't need stitches."

"Good."

His thumb rested against my wrist while he worked, and I could feel my pulse under it.

I looked at the top of his head instead.

There was a little gray at his temples. I hadn't noticed that before.

He taped the bandage down and let go.

My hand felt cold where he had held it.

"Thank you," I said.

"Anytime," he said.

He got up and washed the blood off his own hands at the sink.

"Show me the album."

I showed him on my phone.

He didn't speak while he scrolled, and when he reached the end he handed the phone back.

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