Look at You

Chapter 48

48

I oversleep on Monday morning and don't have time to go to Buzz before work. As I slam the door to my truck, I think of Simon, probably already at his desk waiting for me (my coffee delivery). I take a deep breath in, then roll my shoulders back. Even the air that streams out my nose sounds dejected.

I've gone over our conversation at least 15 times in the last day. I should apologize. I said some things that were uncalled for. But it was him who left me. Right?

I work all day in the office. I don't go up to the eighth floor. He doesn't come down to me either.

__

The sixth floor is playing host to the project management team's bonding event on Tuesday right as we're wrapping up for the day. One of the PM's—a tall, curly-haired woman in a pink pantsuit—is talking loudly enough that I can't hear my own thoughts. I try to, trust me, but her voice is the only thing I can physically tune to.

After a while, I stand up. I make a move to pack up my belongings because it's 4:45 and I just want to think and brood about Simon and what the fuck I'm supposed to do about us now, but all that's happening in my head is did you see Tanya's latest email about team culture? Do you think she's being a little toooooo friendly with Jack, though? Like, that's probably borderline inappropriate. You don't think so? Oh no, me neither, yeah. Totally fine.

And then the door to the back staircase bursts open. The guy who's thrown it open (dangerously, might I add), is visibly sweating through his light blue t-shirt. He's holding a stack of printed bingo boards, but that's not what catches my eye.

He immediately latches onto the arm of pink pantsuit. I don't hear what he whispers to her, but she gasps and repeats everything that has left his lips.

"You just assaulted YouTube star Simon Love with the door and made him bleed, Jason?"

I drop my bag. "Where was this?" I'm suddenly at their side; my hand is touching Jason's shoulder.

He's white as a sheet. "Just-just upstairs. Seventh floor."

I take the stairs two at a time. I don't immediately see him when I open the door, but the floor plans here are all the same so I know exactly where the bathroom is. I bolt for it. As soon as I pull on the handle, I can hear someone rummaging in the open bathroom stall. I lock the door as soon as I see his probably-200-dollar backpack tossed haphazardly in the middle of the floor.

He pops his head out toward me. Blood is streaming out of his nose and down his neck. It's already hitting the collar of his white t-shirt.

And I freeze. Because I haven't seen so much blood since Vic.

It's coming out of his nose, like Vic's was. He hasn't washed any of it off his face so it's on his lips, his chin, and gushing out of a deep cut on top of his nose. And then my eyes see Vic, not Simon. His bashed in face. His swollen eyes. Split lip. Bruises already forming under his eyes. I see my knuckles, all the skin gone. My fingers, coated in rust red. Sounds of the ambulance. Alice.

In a second, it's gone. He's Simon again, hands held aimlessly out in front of him, eyes wide, searching me for answers. I take the three steps to reach him.

I push him back toward the sink. "Wait here. Tilt your head back."

I rush to the open stall door and finish the job he started, grabbing two handfuls of the thinnest toilet paper ever made.

But it will have to do. I shove one wad of it into his hand. "Apply pressure. Use this." He's still staring at me—head very much not tilted back—but at least he's pressed the paper to his nose. "I said tilt your head back, not stare blankly at me."

He laughs as I turn on the sink. My hands are practically shaking (so, so much blood), but I manage to wet a few of the paper towels enough for them to be effective in cleaning the damage off his face.

It's everywhere. I want to close my eyes; instead, I bite hard on the inside of my cheek and think only of him. It's just Simon, I tell myself as I clear his cheeks, his chin. It's just Simon.

"Jesus Christ." I'm onto his hands now. They're both covered.

"No actually," he croaks out. "It's Simon." I narrow my eyes at him. Underneath that, though, my heart skips a beat. Because he's Simon, not Vic, and somewhere inside I think he knew I needed that.

I take another, cleaner round of wet paper to his face to get the remainder. I ease breaths in and out of my nose. By the time I'm finished, I notice he's bled through the first round of tissues held at his nose. I hand him a fresh set and toss the rest out.

"What the hell happened?" I ask him, running my still-shaking hands under the sink.

"I got hit with a door," he says. He cranes his next to look at me. "Didn't you see?"

"I—" I swallow. "No, I didn't see."

I grab the tissue off his nose for something to do other than explain myself and the Cameron-to-the-rescue-act I'm trying on.

"You've stopped bleeding," I say. I use the last of the clean paper to wipe under his nose, the cut on it, and his lips.

I find a band-aid in my tool belt and fasten it to the spot on his nose. "God, the guy clocked you." I take a few steps back. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two," he says, but he's squinting. "I'm fine."

I flash five. "And now?"

"Five. I'm fine."

"Headache? Nausea?" He shakes his head. "Blurry vision?"

"It's okay now." I raise my eyebrows at him. Now? He could be concussed. "Seriously. It's fine."

I cross my arms over my chest. It's not fine, I want to say. None of this is fine. We're hurting each other. We love each other. What the fuck are we doing? What the fuck am I doing? And why on earth can't you just look at me and tell me how you feel, for once? Because actions don't always speak louder than words, I want to yell. And these Simon smirks, these long looks, the blushing, the comments, none of it is enough.

But then again—am I enough? Is my half-truth of a personality enough?

We've been locked in unblinking eye contact. It's him who averts his stare first.

I try not to make my sigh audible. I toss out the rest of the used paper towels and then take a step back from where he's leaning on the counter.

"Go home and ask Alice if you need stitches on that gash. I think it's fine, but—" I pause. Whether it's the blood or the emotion or the sheer weight of the memories and the hurt of Saturday night pressing against my chest—I almost throw up. "Well, uh, feel better."

I head for the door before he answers. I make it down to the truck in record time. Only then, can I take a fresh breath of air. I close my eyes, my hands white on the steering wheel. Simon. Vic. Simon. Vic. Vic. Vic. Vic.

__

Later that night I think about calling him. Texting, maybe. Is this my job now too? I sigh. I put the phone down.

I scroll through my contacts list instead. Because it's probably time I talk to someone about this. In fact, as soon as I hit Craig's name and hear his "Great timing, I just closed up," this tragic chapter of my little life story, all of its almost kisses and door slams and late nights on the phone and fingers coated in blood, is flooding out of me like I'm a firehose.

"Oh man," Craig says finally. "Stay where you are. I'll bring Ben & Jerry."