Kiss Off

Chapter 15

"Hi."

His voice is warm, smooth. Nothing like the gravelly quality I'd grown used to while down in that dilapidated basement. He looks so normal now, standing before me with hands shoved in his front pockets and eyes scanning my face with hesitancy. He's supposed to hate me, but he looks relieved.

"Hi," I barely manage to whisper in return.

"You look good," he tells me, letting his gaze swing down the length of my body and then back up to my face.

"Thanks," I nod, shifting and crossing my arms. "I feel good. What about you? I mean, you're back... already."

"Yeah." He laughs. "I couldn't stay cooped up in my room anymore. The doctor finally cleared me to return to school this week with the promise that I'd take it easy and wouldn't carry more than fifteen pounds."

"Sounds like a challenge." I try to smile, teasing, but I know the expression stretching its way across my face looks forced.

"Yep," he nods, a soft chuckle passing through his lips. "I'd usually love a good challenge, but not sure it's worth it this time. I suppose that if I ever want to run again, I've got to let the healing process do its thing."

"Sounds wise." I flash him a quick grin before dropping my eyes to the ground and shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. I hate talking about his injuries. I hate knowing that life isn't the same for him. That he's suffering.

Silence tickles the air for several beats but I've lost my ability to communicate. There's so much that I could say—that I need to say—but I can't. Words aren't coming because my brain refuses to form a single thought.

"Do you—" Bryson stops and glances around the almost empty hallway for a moment before taking a small step forward and lowering his voice. "Do you think we could meet up later?... To talk?"

No. No no no! It's a simple request. Just talking. But I can't do it. I'm not ready yet. The very thought of discussing all that went down that day makes it feel as though I've got a clamp around my chest and it's squeezing mercilessly against my lungs. I inhale a large breath, scratching the rim of my ear before turning my attention back to the patient boy in front of me.

"I think that's a good idea," I tell him. "But, I'm not sure I'm ready to relive everything just yet."

"Oh, no." He shakes his head. "That's not what I wanted to talk about. I was hoping..." He pauses to lick his lips, his hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Shoot!" he hisses, eyes closed as he shakes his head again in annoyance. "Dang-it!"

"What's wrong?" I question, moving closer and sliding my hand around his elbow. I'm not sure what I was assuming the problem was, but my first instinct is to make certain he's stable. With a back injury, I'm not sure what to expect and it'd be unfortunate if he lost his balance and fell.

He pulls his arms away from me and then shoots a hand out like some kind of silent apology, as if realizing he'd just refused my help.

"Sorry," he says, reaching to squeeze my shoulder gently, his other hand still rubbing at his closed eyes. "It's just—my head is so freaking foggy. I keep losing my thoughts."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He groans, running both hands down his face before settling his green gaze on me again. "It's gotten better," he assures me. "I couldn't remember anything about that day for a while, but I've at least figured that part of my memory out. Now it's just headaches and confusion."

"Will it keep getting better?" I ask, words tentative.

"The doctors think so," he shrugs. "But at this point, there's no guerilla."