“Logan, I told you, you don’t need to do all of this for me.” I followed him into the kitchen, where he unpacked some of my pots and pans. “Hey!”
“I’ll put them back when I'm done.” He flashed me a smile before looking for more utensils.
“Seriously, Logan—”
“Gwen, please let me do this,” he muttered over the stove. “You have no idea how guilty I feel. My best friend ran away with my brother’s girl while leaving his fiancée alone to pick up the pieces. I introduced them to each other, Gwen. I feel guilty toward you, too. So please, let me do this much… I know we aren’t that close, but still.”
I stared at him for a moment. It was true, I really didn’t know Logan. He and Bash were fraternity brothers. He came over for game nights and dinners we threw, but other than that, Logan and I had never been close. Logan had only just turned twenty-two, five years younger than Bash and two years younger than me; maybe that’s why I always saw him as Bash’s little brother…and in a way, my younger brother, as well. He and Bash even looked alike. They both had hazel eyes and brown hair, though Bash’s was sandier in color. Seeing Logan so serious now was odd.
“Can you even cook?” I grinned, looking through the bag he'd brought.
“Can I cook?” He mocked me as if he was horrified I'd asked the question. “I will have you know I make the best damn omelets in all of New York.”
“All of New York?” I crossed my arms.
“You heard me.” He winked. “Now, where is the rest of your stuff?”
“It’s in those boxes.” I pointed to the ones labeled 'KITCHEN' behind him. “Oh how is your music coming along? You’re pretty popular, right?”
“Define popular. Besides, I need to focus on school… Jeez, all of these are yours? Did Bash buy anything when you guys lived together?” he muttered, already opening the box. I was not blind to how he tried to change the subject, but I let it go.
“Not really. You know he basically lived at the office…or at least I thought he did. I’m not sure anymore what he did with his time…” My voice drifted off, causing him to pause and look at me. Raising my hands, I shook my head, as if that would stop him from pitying me. “How is your brother?” I tried to change the subject.
“Just like you.”
Subject change, failed.
He said nothing else, angrily digging through the box. “Urgh, God, I want to kill him!” he yelled suddenly, punching his hand into the box.
“Logan!” I screamed and Taigi barked, but it was too late. He'd punched right into where the knives were packed.
“Agh, shit!” he shouted, clenching his now-bleeding hand.
Grabbing his hand, I turned on the water and tried to clean it.
“Damn, it’s too deep. I’m going to need stitches.” He flinched as I grabbed a clean towel and quickly wrapped it around the wound.
“Where are your keys? We have to go the hospital.” I looked around the countertop.
“It’s okay, I have a med kit in my car. I’m a doctor—”
“Being in medical school does not make you a doctor, Logan…at least, not one good enough to stitch up your own hand in my kitchen.” I waited for him to hand me the keys.
Frowning, he grabbed them from his pocket with his good hand and passed them to me before holding his hurt hand, which started to bleed. It was pretty bad, already soaking through the towel.
“Gwen, you’re honestly making too much of this—”
“Yep, we're going,” I said, seeing the blood run down his arm. I pulled him out of the apartment.
Eli
I had just finished my rounds and was handing a chart to the on-call nurse when she stopped me.
“Dr. Davenport, your brother was just brought in the ER—”
I didn’t even let her finish before running down the hall.
“Is everything all right, Dr. Daven—”
I ignored them, following the blue line on the ground toward the double doors leading into the ER. Scanning the beds, I stopped when I saw his black All-Stars shoes.
He sat on the bed, laughing as one of my residents stitched up his right hand.
“What happened?” I asked, already in front of them.
“Eli. I thought you were off—”
“What happened to your hand?”
“He punched my knives.”
I turned toward the voice. It took a second to recognize her, and the moment I did, more memories flooded my mind than I could handle.
She stood in the corner, holding Logan’s jacket.
“He….punched. Your knives?” I turned to my younger brother.
“It’s a long story,” he muttered.
“Logan…”
“Honestly, it was an accident. I got him all hyped up, and—”
“Do you still need to be here?” I asked without looking at her.
“Eli.” Logan glared.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her stiffen.
“Sorry again, Logan. And thank you,” she said to him.
Logan grinned and nodded. “No, thank you. Please, use my car to go back home.”
“It’s fine, I'll call a taxi—”
“How else can I come back and make you my famous omelets?”