I wait.
He’s silent. Finally, he rocks back on his heels, and sinks to the ground, to his knees.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally tells me, his voice like wood.
“Nothing?” I find that hard to believe. “Then why are you breaking your hands?”
I kneel down in front of him, lifting his hands to examine them. The knuckles are beyond scraped, beyond cut. They’re mashed. A bloody pulp, actually. “I think you might’ve actually broken them.”
He yanks them away. “I didn’t.”
“Ok.”
I eye him warily. If there’s one thing I’ve gotten good at, it’s sorting through crazy situations. “Can I help you clean them up?”
I hold my breath until he climbs to his feet.
“I’ve got it.” His voice is curt and dismissive, and he turns to walk away. What the hell? Where is the guy who has been so engaging? So charming? He’s apparently been replaced by this cold stranger who has an affinity for hurting himself.
I grab his elbow. Out of my periphery, I notice Finn standing in the distance, watching. Waiting.
“It’s ok,” I call to my brother. “You don’t have to wait.”
Finn shakes his head, but so do I. “Go on,” I call out. “I’ll be up shortly.”
Reluctantly, he walks away with the crabs and Dare looks at me.
“You don’t need to stay. I don’t need help.”
“Yes, you do,” I argue. “You just don’t realize it.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
Dare stares down at me, his eyes chilly. “No, you don’t. Because as you so clearly pointed out, you don’t know me. You can let go of my elbow now.”
My fingers slip away, confused by his iciness, by his words, but he still follows me into the Carriage House and into his little kitchen.
As we go, I can’t help but notice how neat he keeps the little home. The bed is made, the counters are wiped off, there are no dirty clothes piled on the floor. Impressive for a young single guy.
I turn the water on and let it run, waiting until it gets warm before I hold his hands beneath it. He sucks in his breath but doesn’t say anything. I grab a clean dish-towel and wrap his hands in it, and he leans against the counter. As he does, the shirt at his waistband lifts a bit, exposing a flat ribbon of his belly.
The skin looks soft as velvet, although the muscle looks hard as steel. I itch to run my finger along it, to touch it and find out.
But of course, I don’t because it’s not exactly socially acceptable.
“Why are you upset?” I ask instead, as I open his freezer. I pull out some ice, and dump it into two baggies, one for each hand.
Dare doesn’t open his eyes.
“I’m not.”
“You lie.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
He sighs.