19. No one has to know. [Part 1]
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Summer Cooper's message vault to Dominic Pauls:
Dear Nic,
Today Rhodes and I broke up. Apparently, I’m not enough for him. Do you think someone will ever choose me?
I wish you were here. I wish I could hug yo —even if you’d only let me reluctantly.
With love,
A shattered Summer.
---
19. No one has to know.
Summer.
I’ve never seen a look so lost as the one on Nic’s face right now. He looks scared, confused… but he also seems to be in pain. The intensity in his expression is so overwhelming, it feels like he’s the one who’s hurt, not me.
It’s as if the world is crumbling right before his eyes.
“Are you okay?”
But he doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring at me. And we share a look filled with… something. Something hidden between the foundations of both of us, something neither of us seems to dare to finish building.
“Are you okay, Nic?” I ask again, because I need to know.
“You’re the one in a hospital bed, with your hand freshly stitched.”
I glance down at my hand and smile.
“It’s nothing. But blood can be so dramatic. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
A nurse comes in, and Nic steps aside to give her space. She starts explaining the aftercare, when to remove the stitches, and the dosage for the antibiotics. I listen, but I also keep glancing at Nic, who’s still standing there, looking completely lost.
“With everything cleared up, we can discharge you now. You can sign here.”
I do as she says.
Luckily, it was my left hand and not my right, so I hope it won’t cause too much trouble. I don’t even know how it happened. One moment I was slicing fruit to decorate the cake I was making, and the next I saw blood pouring from my hand. I must’ve fainted, because the next thing I remember was waking up here, getting stitches.
Once the nurse leaves, I look back at Nic. He hasn’t moved, and his expression is exactly the same.
I frown.
“Hey,” I say, trying to catch his eyes.
“What?” he blinks, finally looking at me.
“Come here,” I whisper, patting the edge of the hospital bed beside me. “Keep me company while the nurse brings the meds so we can leave.”
He does as I ask. Nic sits gently beside me, his eyes flicking from my hand to my face, and a slightly nervous laugh escapes me, because this is so unlike him.
“Nic, what’s going on?”
“There was so much blood,” he finally says, “so much.”
“Oh…”
“For a second, I thought—” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“But I’m fine.”
“How many stitches?”
“Seven,” I say. “It’s a lucky number, right?”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“So should I cry instead? I can do that for you.”
Finally, a hint of a smile appears on his face, which makes me smile too. Some of the tension leaves his expression, and he reaches out to brush my cheek—but it’s so quick that by the time I lean into the touch, it’s already gone.
The nurse returns with my medicine and a wheelchair, which I immediately refuse—even under Nic’s death stare. When I get up, he tries to wrap an arm around my waist, but I shake my head and grumble, “It was my hand, not my foot. I can walk.”
“Summer, don’t be difficult. They gave you anesthesia.”
“Local anesthesia. Don’t be dramatic.”
He ignores me and slips his arm around my waist anyway, which makes me laugh at how ridiculous we must look. He even crouches down a little, so when I glance at him, my nose nearly touches his cheek. He flinches at the closeness and stares at the floor instead of me.
“Hold onto my shoulders,” he says.
I sigh, but I do as he asks. I wrap my arm around his shoulders, and like that, we leave the hospital together—where both our families are waiting for us.
“Dad, I’m fine…” I reassure him when I see the worry in his eyes.
“How many stitches?”
“Seven.”
“Jesus, Summer, do I need to hide all the knives?”
“Why would you hide them?” Nic chimes in, still holding onto me. “She lives with me, not with you.”
My father glares at him, and I’m sure he’s about to say something truly terrible, but my mom steps in first and hugs him, diffusing the tension.
Holy hell, is there some weird tension going on here?
“What do you want to do?” my dad asks.
“I want to rest,” I admit honestly.
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Suddenly, my feet leave the ground, and Dominic is carrying me toward his car. I yelp, clinging to his neck as I glance back at everyone staring at us, jaws dropped.
“What are you doing, Nic?”
“I’m taking you home so you can rest.”
He quickly settles me into the passenger seat, gets behind the wheel, and just as everyone starts to approach, Nic hits the gas and we speed off.
“Are you mad at them?” I ask, thrown off by his behavior.
He shakes his head—but I don’t believe him for a second.
I wince a little when my injured hand accidentally brushes against the lavender corduroy pants I’m wearing. Nic notices, frowns deeply, but I roll my eyes and motion for him to focus on the road. Thankfully, he listens.
He’s acting kind of insane. And when I glance at the back seat and see the bloodstained fabric, it clicks.
I really scared him, didn’t I?
He’s so overprotective. I can’t even imagine what he must’ve felt seeing me like that. According to my mom, he rushed in and took charge before anyone else did. He even made a bit of a scene in the ER to be let in with me. It’s hard to picture Nic doing something like that—he’s usually so calm. But seeing how tense he still is, how his expression is filled with… so much… it’s easy to believe what my mom told me.
Tentatively, I reach out for one of his hands on the steering wheel—he’s gripping it so tightly it must hurt—and I run my fingers over his knuckles until his grip loosens. Nic glances at me out of the corner of his eye, sighs, then laces our fingers together and rests our joined hands on his thigh.
He doesn’t say another word for the rest of the drive home.
[1/3]
- Autor
