If We Survive The Night

Hush

Jaden

"Do we have any pizza left?" Casey says.

"No." Food is so not on my mind right now.

Casey's wide-eyed gaze seeks reassurance I can't provide. I feel pretty lost after the conversation with Jen. She sure managed to add confusion to an already complicated situation.

"Anything else to eat?" he says after a pause.

"Hungry all of a sudden?"

"Not really. Could use some comfort food, I guess."

"Want cereal?"

"Will do."

I get up, putting my phone aside, still trying to figure out what to do. Before the conversation with Jen, the plan had been simple—get Casey to the police station, fix the misunderstanding that led to him being a suspect. With three people dead and one wounded, and the teenage son missing, of course they'd think he'd had something to do with it. It was a mistake, bringing him here. But conspiracy? Cops trying to frame him? It sounds like something out of a movie. On the other hand, this whole night feels like a movie.

"Why did you record her?" Casey says.

I blink. I've already managed to forget hitting that 'record' button. I try to recall what made me do that.

"It sounded weird, her conspiracy theory," I say. "If nothing else, it'll help us explain later why we aren't heading to the station right now."

"I see." He gets up, putting his weight on his bandaged foot, and winces in pain. I frown. I disinfected his cut, but I did that in a hurry, and the bandaging... well, I'm not a doctor. It could have been done better.

"Go wash the cut again," I tell him, nodding at the bathroom. "I'll bring new bandages."

He wrinkles his nose. "No disinfectant this time, I hope?"

"I'll get you a Band-Aid antiseptic. It hurts less."

"What did you use the first time?"

"Alcohol."

"Gosh."

I shrug. "My mother thought it most effective."

"Most painful, maybe."

"Don't be a baby." I reach out and ruffle his hair. He blinks, and I remove my hand quickly. I really should stop touching him. Those urges are plain weird.

"Sorry," I say.

"It's okay. I just thought for a second you were going to hit me."

I stare at him. "Why would I do that?"

"It kind of feels like you want to." He chews on his lower lip. "Like you're mad at me for dragging you into this."

"I sure am. Wouldn't hit you for it, though. Not your fault. Anyway!" I clap my hands, eager to end this awkward exchange. "Go clean your wound. I'll get you cereal. You probably still have time to eat before that lawyer shows up." With that, I turn away and head into the kitchen.

I take a ceramic bowl out of a cupboard, pour some milk, and add the cereal. I can hear him turn the water on in the bathroom. I go to the cleaning supplies closet, find the Band-Aid antiseptic at the back of the shelf, and carry it into the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit from the kitchen table as I go.

Casey is sitting on the side of the bathtub, the water already turned off. He's drying his foot on the towel spread on the floor. He looks up as I enter.

"There," I say, showing him the items in my hand. He gets up to take them, but, as he steps on his hurt foot, he sways forward, losing his balance. I catch him with my free hand, and he grabs my forearms to steady himself. We freeze for a moment. I can feel him shivering.

"What is it?" I smooth his hair out of his face. I kind of expect to see him cry again, like back in the car, but his eyes are dry. "Why're you shaking?"

"I don't know." His hands squeeze my forearms. "I was just thinking of what she said. That some people want to frame me. That Dad and Clarissa and Hazel are dead. That... they'd shoot me if I show up. I don't know. I just can't make sense of it all. I don't know what's happening."

Without moving away from him, I reach out and drop the items I'm holding into the sink. I pause, even though a part of me knows exactly what I need to do, and then I sigh and put my arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

"Come here," I say. "It'll be okay."

His face pressed to my chest, he stands there, still shaking. I can sense the tremors with my whole body now, like I'm absorbing them, together with the emotions that are causing them. I run my hand up and down his back, rubbing gently. It's weird how he makes me feel. I mean, he's a bit younger and smaller than me, but overall, he's more or less like me, a young man, an adult. Still, he feels younger to me now, a lost kid, in need of help and protection.

I couldn't imagine hugging another dude like this. If one of my friends had a hard time, a pat on the shoulder would be the most contact I'd allow myself, and the most they'd accept. Hugging is just not something we do. Girls hug, yeah, but guys? Still, I don't mind hugging him. If anything, I don't think a pat on the shoulder would make a dent in what he's dealing with right now.

"Hush," I whisper. "It's okay. You'll be okay. They won't get you." I rock him a bit, like Mom did when I cried in her arms as a child. He lets out a ragged breath, and turns his face slightly, his cheek pressing to my chest, the top of his head forcing my chin up a bit. I can smell a trace of shampoo on his hair—citrus and vanilla? I pat him on the back some more, and then I just wait, feeling the tightness in him lessening, his body gradually relaxing in my arms. His breathing gets steadier, and his shaking subsides. It can't be comfortable for him, standing like this, his hurt foot on the wet towel, yet he makes no attempt to break the hug.

A part of me is okay with that.