Chapter 5: Terms

Two days later I broke a wine glass in the kitchen and cut my palm open on it.

It was after midnight, and the house was dark, and I had come down to wash a glass my mother had left on the counter with Russell's lip print on it.

I did not intend to break it.

I was gripping it too hard.

The blood was bright and ran fast, and I stood at the sink and said a word my father would never say.

"Hold still."

Chet was in the doorway in a T-shirt and sleep pants with his hair flat on one side.

He crossed the kitchen in three steps, took my hand and turned it over under the tap.

"I'm a pharmacist," I said. "I know how to do this."

"Then you know to keep it above your heart."

He lifted my arm and held it there, and with his other hand he opened three drawers until he found the first aid kit.

"How did you know where it was?"

"I looked on the first day."

"Of course you did."

He cleaned the cut with a thumb on either side of it.

His hands were warm and careful.

A piece of glass came out, small and green at the edge, and he set it on a paper towel.

"That one's deep," he said. "It needs three stitches."

"It needs a bandage and a coffee."

"June."

"It needs you to stop being kind to me," I said.

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