Beneath

16 TAKE A SWING

C A M I L A

My whole body tenses when a blanket is draped over my shoulders. Then two bodies settle down before me.

Fox on the left with his knees up and a red box beside him, and Noah to the right. He sets a plate of food on the grass between my legs. When I dare to meet his gaze, there's an entire universe there, lit by the moon's glow.

Noah gestures to the red toolbox between them. "Fox is going to help with your hands while you eat."

My eyes well up. "I'm really, really sorry," I whisper, my voice barely there as I look between both of them. "It's your birthday, Freckles. I thought Adam was insulting you, Noah. I don't—" My voice cracks.

So many things are swimming around in my chest, clawing up my throat.

"When I was a kid," I say, "there was a culinary day at school. My dad made three huge foil containers of tamales and brought them in for me. All the kids were gagging and pretending to throw up in front of everyone, and all the other parents. I hated all those fucking kids, but my dad—" My voice breaks again and I roughly swallow. "My dad was right there."

Noah listens, nodding. "Adam was insulting me, Cam. Not the first time. He's wealthy, conservative, and ignorant."

"Understatement," Fox growls.

A few boys in high school called me a spic once. Dad was gone, so I asked my mother what it meant. She just snickered and told me to forget about it. I found out eventually, and then I cried. They were attacking the side of me that I love—my dad's side.

I close my eyes, setting my forehead on my pulled-up knees. My curls tumble all around me, the ends brushing the grass. "I want to go in there and fucking kill him."

"I'll join you," says Fox.

"I'm not angry," Noah promises. "Adam is inconsequential to me. I'd like to keep it that way."

I lift my head. "What if he'd said something like that to me?"

Noah's jaw tightens a fraction.

"See?" Fox says, a sharp question that's more of an accusation than anything else.

Noah takes a deep breath, sending a glare to Fox before turning to me again. "Eat," he says, nudging my plate closer toward me. "I want to know what you think."

I comply. My legs fold beneath me, the plate resting on my lap like a makeshift table. "Everyone already said how good it was."

"I want to know what you think," he repeats.

Fox opens the red kit and pulls on a pair of blue nitrile gloves with a snap that makes me flinch. He reveals an array of supplies: antiseptic wipes, gauze, bandages, and more stuff I've only seen on TV shows. "I'll only amputate one hand," he says.

"Make it the left," Noah says, winking at me.

My lips pop open at the insinuation, and in return, his eyes sparkle.

Fox extends a gloved hand. "I'll be careful, Sport."

I hesitate, then set my left hand on his. Palm up, there it is, the raw and surprisingly bloody. With the moon's glow and the light from the cottage at my back, he starts working. The sting of the antiseptic is sharp but fleeting. He's gentle, actually.

"Multitask," Noah says, nodding to the plate on my lap.

I gather a bit of everything on my fork with my available hand. The first bite is a burst of flavours that makes my mouth water—perfectly seasoned chicken, vibrant rice, and plantains. The memories are so close I could reach out and touch them. I look up at Noah. All I can do is shake my head.