Stories In Scars

At ten the next morning, Brendon, Spencer, and Jon were knocking at our door. Thank god Ryan and I had been up for fourty-five minutes, or they would have had their souls eaten for waking me up.

“Hey. How are you?” Spencer asked Ryan sympathetically.

“Better. Now,” Ryan said. “I’m so sorry. I overreacted. I knew it was just for show. I knew that it wasn’t real. I knew that you two didn’t have feelings for each other. Something, I don’t know what, just snapped. I’m sorry. I feel horrible about doing this.”

“It’s okay,” Jon said.

“Let me take a look at those cuts,” I tell Ryan.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Brendon said, walking out the door. We all knew that he couldn’t take the sight of blood, or the aftermath of wounds healing.

Ryan reluctantly took off what I had wrapped his arm in. The one that was still bleeding a bit.

“Good. They don’t look too bad at all. It’s good that you let me take care of them right away,” I tell him.

Ryan smiled weakly at me.

“How do you know so much about first aid and shit?” Jon asked.

“I had caused myself some pretty bad wounds. I wouldn’t go to the hospital, so I taught myself. Like, when I needed stitches, I figured out how to take care of it. Or when I broke my own fingers,” I tell them.

Spencer was wincing in imaginary pain.

“Sorry. Too graphic?”

“A bit.”

The guys went back to their room to get dressed, and I redid Ryan’s dressings. After that, we got ready.

“Are you really better than you were last night, Ry? Or are you just pretending?”

“No. I’m a lot better. For real. I don’t think I could have made it without you.”

We kissed, long and passionate.

After getting dressed in faded jeans and a kitsonLA hoodie (which was Brendon’s), we went out to eat.