“Ow! Ow!” I say in response to each of his whoops, but my nongloved hand clutches the back of his shirt and my cheek is nestling into his collarbone—a safe place to view the smear of school and fields and sky as he spins me around.
“Wimp. I guess I should’ve warned you it stings a bit,” he says, setting me back on my feet. “Your hand might be a little red. It’s an occupational hazard for pro catchers like yourself. Let’s check it out.”
He grips the tip of the glove, and I pull my hand out. It’s a lot red. Bloody red. The impact of the ball stressed my tortured palm beyond its endurance; two crescent-shaped cuts bleed down toward my wrist.
The celebration fades from his eyes, causing my smile to dim to artificial. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? You’re like a walking Band-Aid commercial, Bright … ton. A night with you should earn me a merit badge or something.”
“It’s not so bad.” This isn’t the first time I’ve created cuts on my palm, but it’s the first time I’ve done it in years.
“My mom makes me keep a first-aid kit in the car. Let’s clean you up.”
I pause to find the ball—it had flown from the glove mid-Jonah spin—then follow him down the hill. It’s hard to read the emotions in his posture. Is he hunched forward from the pitch of the hill, or because I ruined another part of his night? I want to see his face, and see it filled with the pride and triumph of a few minutes ago. More than that, I want to be in his arms again for another moment.
I arrive at the car blushing and wishing I could bury my tangle of embarrassment and infatuation within clenched fists.
“Hop up here.”
I clumsily climb on the hood; it’s not really possible to “hop up” without two hands.
Jonah holds a white plastic first-aid kit and pulls out an alcohol swab and some Band-Aids.
“You’re like my own personal medic. If I needed stitches or CPR, you could probably do that too.” I use flattery to deflect my own embarrassment. But also because I want to see that smile again.
I hold out my palm and study the contrast between the nails, skin, and blood. Nothing is its natural color in the thin glow provided by the parking lot lights. My nails look a reflective, rotten gray green, my skin seems translucent, inked with hieroglyphics by my blood. One puncture has stopped bleeding, the other still trickles. A single drop slips off the trail down to my wrist and falls in slow motion. I lose track of it midair when Jonah steps close—really close—and cups my hand in his.
“Admitting I know CPR seems like tempting the fates. Don’t get any ideas—I’ve no desire to prove it. And no to stitches; I nearly failed home econ, I wouldn’t trust me anywhere near a needle.” He erases the coded words on my palm, gently turning my hand to wipe the alcohol pad down along my wrist. My pulse drums beneath his fingers, tempo increasing as he slides his thumb across the fragile skin. He must feel it.
“How’d you get so good at this?” My voice is breathless, and I hope he knows I mean first aid, not making me flush, pant, and way too aware that his thighs are pressed against my knees as he plays doctor.
“I took a first-aid course. My dad had—well, has—a boat. Not that there was anywhere special to use it around here, but I bet he lives on it in Florida. He insisted I take first-aid training when I was younger. Bet he’s more worried about his new first mate’s ability to fill a bikini than handle a boat wreck.”
He settles my hand on my thigh and tears open a Band-Aid, ripping the actual bandage in half, scowling, and shoving it in his pocket.
A topic change is in order and a change in mental picture—I’m visualizing Jonah on a boat, shirt off … “Um, have you ever used the training? I mean, besides patching me up.”
“Yeah.” His voice quiets and his fingers still on the box of bandages. “Paul was holding Sophia a few weeks ago—and somehow she got a button off his shirt. I looked over and she was turning blue. He hadn’t noticed. I had to grab her and … Those seconds when I was holding her facedown and thumping her back … I think I stopped breathing till she started to cough.”
“You saved her life.” My whisper matches his and is twisted with awe for this boy I can’t begin to understand.
He makes a noise that’s reluctant agreement. “And I’ve been a dick to Paul—even though he’s practically destroying himself with guilt about it. Tonight was the first time Mom talked him into going out since it happened. Sophia’s fine, but he … he’s even been sleeping in her room.” His eyes twitch from the bandage box to my face, then back to my hand. He sighs so heavily that I feel it on my palm. “Sometimes I’m such an idiot.”
“Oh, Jonah.” If my hand weren’t otherwise occupied, I’d curl my fingers around his. I don’t have any wisdom to give him either, so after he applies the second bandage and closes the box I offer a distraction. “Now we’ll play some more?”