Suddenly, Nate steps out in front of me.
“Fuck!” he exclaims, and I jump back, startled.
“Oh, god, I thought you were a burglar.”
“Then you should have called 911,” he retorts brusquely, turning his back to me and walking to the island.
“Well, you should be glad I didn't.” Sheesh, does he have to find something wrong with everything I say? “What are you doing up so early anyway?”
“I was just working out.”
“Wow. This early?” I ask, moving around him. He's fiddling with something in front of him.
“Yeah, every morning. I need to stay in shape during the off-season.”
“I'd be exhausted if—” I break off, as I see blood dripping from his palms onto the granite countertop. “Oh my god, you're bleeding!” I gasp.
“Yeah, I just can't get this fucking tape to…” he struggles to wind a bandage around his palm.
“Let me,” I say, spying a first aid kit on the counter by the window. From the blood smeared on it, I can see Nate's already gone through it.
“You don't have to,” he protests.
“Come over here. The light's better,” I instruct him.
“Do you know what you're doing?” he asks, less than thrilled to accept my help.
“More than you,” I reply with a smile, nodding at the mess of tape around his palm. I wash my hands in the sink and then open up the kit. I take a pair of surgical scissors and cut off the tape that he's already applied. I glance up slightly, and for the first time it hits me that he's shirtless, wearing only a pair of gym shorts and sneakers. He's covered in sweat. “How'd this happen?”
“I over-trained a little. Got dizzy, tripped on a rock and held out my hands to break my fall,” he replies, eyes downcast as he watches me work.
“Over-training for what? Lacrosse or crew?” I ask as I pull out a piece of gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
“Both. Either,” he murmurs.
“This is going to sting,” I warn him, as I pat the gashes on his hands with the soaked gauze. He hisses slightly as the liquid stings him, but doesn't move. I slide my other hand under his, to stabilize it as I cleanse the wound of dirt. I've never touched him this long before. “Other hand.” He switches hands and I go to work cleaning the other one. “Maybe you should take a little time off from training,” I suggest quietly.
“Or I could just work out my leg muscles,” he says, and I look up to see a wry grin on his face.
“Mmm,” I murmur, smiling too. “You know,” I go on, a bit more bravely, “I heard that only one varsity athlete got a Lawn Room, because sports are such a time commitment, much less a two-sport athlete—”
“Don't do that,” he grunts. “I don't want your pity.”
“It's not pity, it's facts.”
“I was born with everything, I have no excuse for not achieving my all of goals.”
“Where did you hear that? It sounds like—” I break off, feeling him stiffen under my touch. I was going to say his father but I can tell he doesn't want me to go there. “You're just really hard on yourself, that's all,” I say instead. I gently dab some Neosporin onto the cuts.
“I know what everyone sees when they look at me,” he replies quietly. “Entitled…born with a silver spoon in my mouth…I work as hard as I do so that no one can say I succeed because of my family's wealth.”
I frown. That's half of the equation I think, but it seems like he doesn't see how hard his father pushes him.
“I got a little bit of that at work the other day,” I say, wondering if it's OK to broach the topic of the internship he wanted. I take a dry piece of gauze and cover his palm with it before picking up the tape and beginning to wrap it around his hand. “When they found out I was Pierce's stepdaughter, I mean. Feels weird.”
“Your first experience of nepotism?”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Actually, my mom once got me a part-time job as the receptionist at the salon where she used to work, so I guess that's not true.”
“Where does your dad work?”
“No idea. Probably a repair shop somewhere. He's a mechanic, or he was. Last time we heard from him was several years ago. He was in Florida then, but he never stays in one place very long.”
“So you're the first in your family to go to college,” he observes, as I finish taping one hand and move to the other.
“Yep.”
“Is that why you're so serious?”
“Am I?” I ask, my eyes moving up to his.
“Serious isn't the right word…distant, maybe.”
“Distant? That's worse,” I reply, feeling a little hurt.
“I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just trying to figure you out. We were really in class together? Which one?”
“There were three. The first was this American History survey class freshman year.”
“Professor Michaels?”
“Yeah. I always sat behind you, though. I'm not surprised you didn't see me,” I say, pressing down slightly as I finish wrapping his hands.
“I am,” he replies. I glance up sharply, but his eyes aren't focused on my face. They're looking at my body, which I now realize is quite exposed in my thin, white cotton nightie. I completely forgot I was wearing it. There's a moment of silence, and I suddenly become very aware of every inch of myself, and every inch of him. His smell of sweat, beads of it still dripping forward down his chest, through a smattering of hair between his nipples. Allison's face appears in my mind, and I'm reminded of what she said.
“I'm done.”
“What?” he says, his eyes pulling up to mine.
“With your hands. I'm done.”
“Right.”
I grab a glass from the cabinet and pour him some water from the faucet. “Here, you felt dizzy because you’re dehydrated.”
“Thanks,” he says. He reaches for the glass with his left hand, which is closer, and then pauses and takes it awkwardly with his right.
“What was that?” I ask, frowning.
“What?”
“Let me see your left arm,” I reply, reaching for him, but he pulls back.