Titanium Promises

Thirty-two

I sit on the couch, my eyes glazing over the thousands of reference photos available on the Internet. This time, I'm determined to paint a portrait. Somehow. I've had nothing else to do for the last two weeks of recovery. I've gotten to stay home and get out of doing homework because teachers wouldn't dare tell me I had to do it when I had been stabbed. I've even got a gnarly scar to prove it.

I absentmindedly eat a bite of adobo rice, pleased by my dad's success at making it. He's asked my mom for a lot of recipes over the last week and has done a pretty good job recreating them.

Most of them. Homemade lumpia didn't go too well.

He and Silvia are out on one of their afternoon dates, and I'm happy having the house to myself on an overcast day like this. They're so rare in LA, and I like to savor every moment of it. When I'm not scrolling through Pinterest for reference photos, I've been reading murder mystery novels on my porch.

I save an image of a girl with a mess of golden curls on her head, only for a knock on the door to break the peace. I look towards the door, confused. A package, maybe? Probably something for my dad.

I attempt to stand up, only for a sharp pain to make me sit back down. Doctor Tori said the pain should have died down by now, and it's most likely my mind making the pain worse. Another reason to love my brain.

I lean over and grab the bottle of pain meds, popping one in my mouth and following it with a gulp of water. I wait for a moment before getting on my feet again, staying up right this time.

I walk up to the front door and slowly pull it open.

A pair of hazel eyes meets mine.

I slam the door, the sound of it startling me.

"Reid?"

"What are you doing here, Shawn?" I ask, keeping the door closed between us as a shield. My hand curls into a fist at my side, ready to break something.

I haven't seen him since...

"I'm not here to hurt you," he says, his voice muffled by the door.

"How the hell am I supposed to believe that?"

A pause.

"Please, Reid."

I get flashbacks of that night at the 7 Eleven when we had this exact conversation. Phantom pains haunt the stab wound in my side as I relive the memory of him driving the knife into me. My head throbs and I become unsteady on my feet. I lean against the door as I collect myself.

"I'll go back on the sidewalk," he says. "You can stay on your porch."

His voice sounds... different. Less robotic. More like the Shawn I used to know.

"Back up," I snap.

I give him a few moments before I crack open the door. Sure enough, he stands on the sidewalk, as far away from me as possible without stepping into the street. As much as I want to go back inside and shut the door, I find myself taking a step outside.

He looks at me for a moment.

"You seem... good," he says earnestly. "That makes me happy."

"I'm not going to do this, Shawn," I say, not trying to drag something on that I desperately want to end. "Say what you have to say and go."

He swallows, looking down at his feet.

"I spent the first week in a psych ward." I wasn't prepared for that explanation. "I've been spending most of my days there and only going home to sleep. It helps, I guess. I didn't realize how much shit I'd been blinded with.