Page 8 of Velvet Varnish
She’s staring at her hand, opening and closing it with a grimace on her face. She removed the napkins, and the cut has dried blood caked on it. I take the napkins from her and stick them in the first-aid kit to deal with later.
“If it hurts, don’t move it.” The couch dips as I sit beside her, my knee pressing against hers. I put the supplies on the side-table and brush her hand. “How does it feel?”
“Not amazing. Stings a little.”
Her hair’s in her face, and I tuck it behind her ear. It’s always in her way, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. I hate when it covers her eyes and hides them from me. I ignore the pulse of rage when I see a red mark near her temple. The skin isn’t broken and I don’t think she’s realised her head was knocked.
She watches me closely when I dab the blood with a damp cloth. Her nose scrunches when I have to rub a stubborn spot rougher than I want to. The water turns murky, but at least the blood’s off her. I analyse the cut. “It’s not deep. You shouldn’t need stitches.”
“I’d hope not since we’re here and not the hospital.” She grins, but it fades quickly.
I put antiseptic on the cut. “A plaster I can do. I don’t think I’m capable of stitches.”
“If you ever come near me with a needle, we’ll have problems.”
The gauze is arranged to cover the cut and I stick it down. I trail a finger along the perimeter of the gauze, hoping to soothe the stinging, reluctant to release her hand. Not yet.
“If you needed the hospital, we’d be there. I figured you’d be more comfortable here.”
Or I was hoping she would prefer to be here. It would be a nightmare in the emergency room on a Friday night waiting to be seen, watching her in pain with blood caked all over her. No, she doesn’t deserve that. It’s my fault for letting the bastard drink, so I’ll help her. Clean her up and make sure she’s safe. She glances around the room, taking in the plush rug and the bookshelves along the walls. Most of the walls have a shelf on them painted in a dark colour.
“I’m glad I’m here and not at the hospital. Thank you for helping me.” She smiles at me and takes her hand back.
My hand drops to my knee, cold without hers, and I fist it to replicate the feeling of holding hers. It doesn’t work.
“Whatever you need, I’ll be there.” My thigh presses closer to hers. All those monthly appointments and I’ve only ever sat across from her, never beside her, never had the pleasure of pressing against her and feeling her warmth. Smell the jasmine on her underneath the scent of nail polish. I hand her a glass with a couple of tablets for pain and wait for her to swallow them.
“So this is your place.” She shifts on the couch and I hold my breath. She doesn’t leave, but leans her shoulder on mine. I take the glass from her and place it on the side-table.
“Yep. Got it a few years ago. Close to the bar and the beach with room for my bookshelves. Not much more I could ask for.” I could ask for her to live here, but I don’t want to push my luck too soon.
“How close to the beach are you?” Isla looks out the dark window to the left.
“You can’t see it, unfortunately.” I name the street.
Isla whips her head to me, a surprised smile lighting up her face. “I’m down the road. Since opening my shop.”
“Really?” I tilt my head at her. We’ve lived on the same road for three years and never knew. Could have walked past her every day, or carpooled to work together. Walked on the beach, or done nails at night after dinner instead of early morning when my mind is still waking up.
On second thought, carpooling wouldn’t have worked, considering how late I finish at work. Although, I would have dragged myself out of bed to pick her up if she gave me the option.
“I can’t believe we’ve lived on the same street for so long without knowing.” She sounds disappointed. Or is that wishful thinking? “We could have done nails here instead of at the salon so early.”
I clear my throat. “We can from now on if you like.” I don’t want to sound too eager, but the idea of having her in my flat for the appointments does something to my chest.
“Okay,” she agrees softly. Her hazel eyes lock with mine.
“What’s your favourite design you’ve done on me?” I ask before I do something stupid like press her into the couch and kiss her.
She purses her lips, and her eyes dart around the room while she thinks. She laughs. “When I did the smiley-faces and put a frowny-face on your middle finger when you were having a bad month at the bar.”
I snort. “That’s your favourite design?”
“Yes, because it made you laugh when I did it.” She ducks her head to hide her smile and reaches for my hand with the flame design. She brushes her fingers along mine, her nailsdecorated with strawberries scratching softly. “That was the first time you had an opinion on the design. It was fun.”
Turning my hand, I tangle our fingers together, our different nail designs displayed against each other’s hand. Her nails are so much smaller than mine, the detail delicate next to my larger hand decorated with broader strokes. Impulsively, I pull her hand to my mouth and press a kiss on the back of it, and brush my mouth over her nails. Isla stills when my mouth touches her skin and regret seeps into me. Her wide eyes meet mine when my mouth is still touching her skin. She blinks at me and sighs, her hand going slack. I relax a little, but it’s premature.
She takes her hand from mine and stands. Swaying slightly, she asks, “Where’s your bathroom?”