The Heartbroken - S01 E169

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E169

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 169

“It’s fine,” I told the man. “Really.

I’m fine.”

When the man left, still apologizing

profusely, I looked down to

examine the damage. The thin

material of my black leggings was

torn, as well as the skin on my

bleeding knee.

I heard Cedric hiss out a curse

when he saw it, and when he

dragged his eyes back to mine, he

said, “Let’s get that cleaned up.”

“It’s just a scratch.” I took a step

towards my car, suppressing the

urge to grimace when I had to

straighten my leg.

“It won’t take long,” he insisted,

and before I could protest, he

placed one arm around my waist

and held the crook of my elbow

with his other hand.

He led me back to my car and had

me sit sideways on the driver’s seat

before leaving to get the first aid kit

from his car.

“It’s really nothing,” I told him

when he came back, examining the

scrape and the bright red blood

that surrounded it.

“It won’t take long,” he repeated,

lowering himself on the ground to

get a better look of the wound.

I was reminded of the time Seth

stepped on that piece of glass, and

for some reason, this whole scene

with Cedric almost seemed ironic to

me; like life had a twisted sense of

humor for leading me to a situation

that reminded me of both Cedric

and our past and Seth and the

present.

He kept his eyes lowered, never

daring to look at me, as he began

to pour alcohol on a cotton ball.

I braced myself as his hands moved

closer to my knee, but just when he

was about to touch me, he

stopped.

For a moment, I wondered why,

but then I realized with a start that

his hands were trembling.

Something about the sight made

me feel as if somebody had

transported me back to the first

time he held my hand.

It had only been a few weeks after

Dad died, and a friend of Mom got

married. We were invited to the

wedding and I remember tripping

on my dress during the reception.

That was when he appeared right

before me, asking me if I was okay

as he held his hand out to me.

He helped me get back on my feet

in more ways than one.

Here, now, his hands were

trembling so much it was like he

was afraid of touching me, and I

was surprised to see that mine

were too, so I clenched them into

fists and held them to my lap.

Slowly, he placed one hand on the

side of knee, careful not to touch

the wounded area and tingles

spread from my leg to the rest of

my body, responding to the

familiarity of his skin on mine.

“This might sting a bit,” he said

before pressing the cotton against

the bleeding wound.

I flinched a little at the sharp sting

of alcohol and he quickly removed

the cotton. “Sorry.”

“No,” I said. “It was just a reflex.”

He looked back at the wound and

gently resumed wiping the blood

away. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“It was just the alcohol.”

His eyes flickered to mine. “I wasn’t

talking about that.”

“Oh.”

Neither of us said anything as he

finished cleaning the wound, using

three more cotton balls until the

blood started to clot. I expected

him to stand up and leave, then, but

he didn’t, and I wasn’t sure what to

say, so I just sat there and waited.