make you miss me • q. hughes

42

My focus was entirely on the TV. I was trying to get some extra work done on my laptop but that plan has been destroyed by how great Quinn was playing. Not that that's rare. There was something about him tonight though that was making him magnetic every time he stepped on the ice.

Then it happened. A bad case of wrong place, wrong time in the dying minutes of the game. A puck flying a bit weirdly off a stick. That puck hurtling right up into Quinn's face. Really bad case of wrong place, wrong time. He went right down to the ice. Bleeding. Dropped like a goddamn fly.

Meanwhile, I was up on my feet in an instant. I don't think I've ever felt so freaked out since Atter broke his arm in high school. Which made me freak out even more because I'm not a freak outer. So that means it has to be bad because why else would my body be freaking out and worrying so badly.

I was so relieved when that last buzzer went off to signal Quinn wouldn't even get the chance to be back in the game. They won. I don't feel like I won seeing him drop down on the ice, with the blood following so fucking fast after. All I felt was that panic and fear and I could barely type as I texted him to call me as soon as he could.

It's been a while. Game's long over. No call yet. Not even a text. I feel like I'm going insane. I should have gone to the game. He suggested it and I said no, that I wanted to get some extra work done. I should have gone, right? Or would that have felt worse? That might have been worse.

"I know. I know he's probably in a shit ton of pain," I say into the phone, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Just wish he would call me. At least text me like he texted Jack. It's his face that was busted open, not his hand."

Val laughs half-heartedly. "Babes, he'll call or text. I do think you should tell him that face not hand thing though. I'm sure he'd get a laugh."

"I don't want him laughing, I want him to give me a sign of life. Is that selfish? He got a puck up the visor and I'm frustrated he hasn't contacted me?"

"If something, god forbid, happened to you and this situation was going on for him I think he'd be a bit frustrated too," she says.

Something builds in my throat. Something dances on the tip of my tongue. "Do I... Am I any good at this? This girlfriend thing? I haven't done it in a while. I don't know if I'm doing it right."

"This is like asking a fucking chef if you're a good astronaut," she says. As she goes on to ramble about her "slut career", my mind snaps to another noise. The door? Oh, god. That was totally the front door opening and closing.

"Valentine," I whisper. "I think my front door just opened."

Her voice drops down too. "From being locked?"

"No? No. I think I— Fuck, I think I forgot to lock it."

"Do you have a weapon or something?"

"Do I have a weapon? In my bedroom?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"Fuck."

I can't answer. Part of me is glad I leave my bedroom door open. This way I can see the shadow stretching from toward the living room. Hear the muted footsteps come closer. Wait, muted? Like, this person entered my apartment unannounced and took off their shoes. I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I feel like the destined-to-die victim at the beginning of a horror movie.

"Scout?" Val says at the same time as Quinn.

I take the harshest exhale of my life. "Oh my god!"

"Is it that bad?" Quinn asks.

"What?" Val says in my ear. "Should I call the cops?"

"It's Quinn," I mumble. "It's fine."

"Oh thank god. Thought you were gonna end up the horror movie character whose only purpose is to die." She sighs. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Love you, bye."

"Love ya." She hangs up.

I stand up and nod over to the spot I was just in since Quinn hasn't moved from the doorway. It's like that nod broke some kind of barrier for him. It's all he needs to sit right where I was sitting. He has his legs spread a bit and I take that as an invitation to stand right there between them. His hands do that thing. That thing they touch me and it's like that's where they're meant to be. Like his hands were designed to rest on the back of my thighs.

He tilts his head back to look up at me. "I'm sorry I didn't text or call."

"Think you had a pretty good excuse," I mumble back. He smiles lopsidedly, only the side of his face without the injury pulling upward. That's the side of his face I let my hand touch. "Did it hurt?"

"It was more the shock of it at first. It's really not that bad. Could have been worse."

I'll give him that. As far as puck hits like that go. It definitely could have been worse. A bit of bruising by and under the eye with two cuts making a bit of an L shape on his cheekbone and upward to his forehead. The larger one goes up his temple. Only able to tell by how much more white bandage is covering it. Not that it's huge or will have much of an effect but it's still there and—

"It's not that bad," he repeats.

That panic is building. That freak-out turning into water trying to break through a dam after a giant storm. I don't get how he can be this calm. I'm not a freak outer. It might be the only reason I think it's impossible to be relaxed because if I freaked out then it has to be bad. I think. I don't know.

"Are you okay?" I ask, desperately trying to keep that dam together.

One of his thumbs taps me three times on my leg. He shrugs slightly. "It's going to suck tomorrow morning. It's not that bad."

"Saying it over and over isn't going to make me believe it."

"I know."

"You're sure you're okay?"

He does the three little taps again. "I'm okay."

"Absolutely okay?" I wait for him to nod before using my free hand to gently punch his shoulder. "I told you to cut that shit out."

"Funny enough, when they told me I was going to have to get stitched I told them I wasn't supposed to be doing that," he says with that lopsided smile.

Another light punch to the shoulder. "If you ever drop to the ice that fast again, I might die. Y'know next time—not that you should let there be a next time—stumble around a bit. Don't go right down."

"I'll get right on that for you," he says.

"Good."

The panic in me finally settles. Leaving something else to run rampant. That stupid thing I can't even place right now. My mouth and mind can't form the words to describe it. All it is is a pull. A longing, I guess. For what? I'm not sure. All I want is right in front of me. He doesn't seem to be leaving anytime soon. So whatever is on the tip of my tongue can stay hidden. It doesn't do anything one way or another.

Three taps on my leg bring me back. Quinn sighs contentedly when I zone back in as if he knows he has my attention again. "Thanks for freaking out for me. Not like it was a broken arm or something."

"What?" I ask.

"Hm?" He looks as confused as I feel. It fades in an instant, a shrug wiping it away. "You told that story forever ago. Must've been summer."

I think I might know what the feeling is.