THIRTY-TWO
My eyes fly open.
It’s pitch-black. Quiet. I sit up too fast.
I must’ve fallen asleep. I have no idea what time it is, but a quick glance around the room tells me Warner isn’t here.
I slip out of bed. I’m still wearing socks and I’m suddenly grateful; I have to wrap my arms around myself, shivering as the cold winter air creeps through the thin material of my T-shirt. My hair is still slightly damp from the bath.
Warner’s office door is cracked open.
There’s a sliver of light peeking through the opening, and it makes me wonder if he really forgot to close it, or if maybe he’s only just walked in. Maybe he’s not in there at all. But my curiosity beats out my conscience this time.
I want to know where he works and what his desk looks like; I want to know if he’s messy or organized or if he keeps personal items around. I wonder if he has any pictures of himself as a kid.
Or of his mother.
I tiptoe forward, butterflies stirring awake in my stomach. I shouldn’t be nervous, I tell myself. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m just going to see if he’s in there, and if he’s not, I’ll leave. I’m only going to walk in for a second. I’m not going to search through any of his things.
I’m not.
I hesitate outside his door. It’s so quiet that I’m almost certain my heart is beating loud and hard enough for him to hear. I don’t know why I’m so scared.
I knock twice against the door as I nudge it open.
“Aaron, are you—”
Something crashes to the floor.
I push the door open and rush inside, jerking to a stop just as I cross the threshold. Stunned.
His office is enormous.
It’s the size of his entire bedroom and closet combined. Bigger. There’s so much space in here—room enough to house the huge boardroom table and the six chairs stationed on either side of it. There’s a couch and a few side tables set off in the corner, and one wall is made up of nothing but bookshelves. Loaded with books. Bursting with books. Old books and new books and books with spines falling off.
Everything in here is made of dark wood.
Wood so brown it looks black. Clean, straight lines, simple cuts. Nothing is ornate or bulky. No leather. No high-backed chairs or overly detailed woodwork. Minimal.
The boardroom table is stacked with file folders and papers and binders and notebooks. The floor is covered in a thick, plush Oriental rug, similar to the one in his closet. And at the far end of the room is his desk.
Warner is staring at me in shock.
He’s wearing nothing but his slacks and a pair of socks, his shirt and belt discarded. He’s standing in front of his desk, clinging to something in his hands—something I can’t quite see.
“What are you doing here?” he says.
“The door was open.” What a stupid answer.
He stares at me.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“One thirty in the morning,” he says automatically.
“Oh.”
“You should go back to bed.” I don’t know why he looks so nervous. Why his eyes keep darting from me to the door.
“I’m not tired anymore.”
“Oh.” He fumbles with what I now realize is a small jar in his hands. Sets it on the desk behind him without turning around.
He’s been so off today, I think. Unlike himself. He’s usually so composed, so self-assured. But recently he’s been so shaky around me. The inconsistency is unnerving.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
There’s about ten feet between us, and neither one of us is making any effort to bridge the gap. We’re talking like we don’t know each other, like we’re strangers who’ve just found themselves in a compromising situation. Which is ridiculous.
I begin to cross the room, to make my way over to him.
He freezes.
I stop.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” he says too quickly.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the little plastic jar.
“You should go back to sleep, love. You’re probably more tired than you think—”
I walk right up to him, reach around and grab the jar before he can do much to stop me.
“That is a violation of privacy,” he says sharply, sounding more like himself. “Give that back to me—”
“Medicine?” I ask, surprised. I turn the little jar around in my hands, reading the label. I look up at him. Finally understanding. “This is for scars.”
He runs a hand through his hair. Looks toward the wall. “Yes,” he says. “Now please give it back to me.”
“Do you need help?” I ask.
He stills. “What?”
“This is for your back, isn’t it?”
He runs a hand across his mouth, down his chin. “You won’t allow me to walk away from this with even an ounce of self-respect, will you?”
“I didn’t know you cared about your scars,” I say to him.
I take a step forward.
He takes a step back.
“I don’t.”
“Then why this?” I hold up the jar. “Where did you even get this from?”
“It’s nothing—it’s just—” He shakes his head. “Delalieu found it for me. It’s ridiculous,” he says. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Because you can’t reach your own back?”
He stares at me then. Sighs.
“Turn around,” I tell him.
“No.”
“You’re being weird about nothing. I’ve already seen your scars.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to see them again.”
I can’t help but smile a little.
“What?” he demands. “What’s so funny?”
“You just don’t seem like the kind of person who would be self-conscious about something like this.”
“I’m not.”
“Obviously.”
“Please,” he says, “just go back to bed.”
“I’m wide-awake.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Turn around,” I tell him again.
He narrows his eyes at me.
“Why are you even using this stuff?” I ask him for the second time. “You don’t need it. Don’t use it if it makes you uncomfortable.”
He’s quiet a moment. “You don’t think I need it?”
“Of course not. Why . . . ? Are you in pain? Do your scars hurt?”
“Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Not as much as they used to. I actually can’t feel much of anything on my back anymore.”
Something cold and sharp hits me in the stomach. “Really?”