Stir Me Up. Sabrina Elkins

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СКАЧАТЬ has its creaks and things but it’s fairly quiet. I’m trying to arrange the blanket in a way that’s comfortable and trying not to think of what drove me down here in the first place when I hear a noise from Julian’s room. A crash that sounds like breaking glass. I hesitate for a second, and then hurry over.

      “Julian?”

      There’s no answer.

      I poke my head in and try it louder. “Julian?”

      Still nothing. Crap. I flip on the light, and my eyes take in several things at once. First, my water carafe is now a mess of broken glass on the floor that’s not supposed to get wet. Second, the arm he’s currently using to shield his eyes is streaked with blood. And third, he’s having what seems to me to be the tail end of a panic attack: his breathing is short and fast. I’m thinking hyperventilation, paper bag. “Shut it.”

      “You’re bleeding,” I say, ignoring him.

      “I said shut the light. And get out.”

      “And I said you’re bleeding.”

      He glances at his hand. His face looks strained and is covered in sweat.

      “I’ll get you a towel.”

      “No, don’t. Just go.”

      I ignore him and go into the bathroom to get him a towel. There are a lot of pill bottles on the counter. I scan them all and bring him two that say they’re for pain, one to help him sleep and one for anxiety, just in case he needs it. Or are those for when he’s reliving being bombed? Or is that what just happened?

      “Here,” I say, handing them all to him. “I wasn’t sure which you wanted.”

      He opens one of the bottles with a shaking hand and swallows a pill dry while I go back for bandages and some water.

      “Fortunately for you, I have tons of supplies for this sort of thing,” I call out from the bathroom. “I’m always getting cut and burnt.”

      He stares at the glass of water blankly after I bring it to him and then shakes his head like he doesn’t want it.

      “Nightmare?”

      He looks warily at me—to see if I’m teasing him, which I’m not. At all. I sit on the edge of the bed near him with my bandage box. “What are you doing?” His tone is mildly panicked.

      “I thought I’d fix your hand.”

      “I don’t need your help.”

      “Come on, let me see it.”

      “No. Just leave me the stuff.”

      Sheesh, man. “Okay.” I give him the box of supplies and then get up off the bed and start picking up pieces of broken glass. Meanwhile, Julian is doing the world’s worst job of bandaging himself. Obviously he’s a leftie.

      He catches me looking at him. “Done gawking at me yet?”

      The color on my face heightens, but I force myself to meet his gaze. He’s in the same sweats and Semper Fi T-shirt he had on at dinner—he must have fallen asleep in them. “Nope. Not quite yet.”

      “Well, I’m not your personal sideshow.”

      Interesting comment. “You know, you could be,” I say. “It’s an idea. Your over-the-top rude thing works pretty well. What you really need is an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. That way you can roll around in your wheelchair hurling insults and shooting seltzer at me.”

      “Ha, ha,” he says. “Very funny.”

      I move in a bit closer to inspect the pathetic bandaging job on his hand.

      “What?” he asks.

      “That thing isn’t even on you,” I say. “It’s falling off.”

      “Did I ask for your opinion?”

      “Did you think I’d need to be asked?”

      “Don’t you have a hot date with the window about now?” he says.

      “Do you want me to help bandage your hand or no?” I ask.

      He doesn’t answer at first. “No. Now get out of...”

      He stops midsentence, probably because I’ve decided to ignore his stubborn pride and not let him bleed to death. Instead, I’ve sat down and taken his hurt hand into my lap. I’m studying the cut. “This is deep. How did you hurt yourself so badly?”

      “I have a knack for it.” His voice isn’t bitter, exactly. More like hollow. I glance at him, and he turns his head away.

      I look back at the cut. “I think you need stitches.”

      “I don’t need stitches.”

      “Maybe I should wake Estella.”

      “No, don’t,” he says. “Let her rest.”

      Hmm, he’s concerned about Estella getting her rest? This must be a remnant of the old, pre-injury Julian—the considerate one. I take the bandages and start wrapping his hand up, but as soon as the tape is down he yanks his arm away. “You’re done.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “Thank you,” he mutters. “Now get out.”

      I return to the couch, leaving Mister Personality to himself.

      Chapter Nine

      There’s this dish I’ve been playing with in my mind for the restaurant—a beet and goat cheese Napoleon, only instead of it being just red-white-red-white, I want to make it with golden beets as well. Actually my idea is to fan the thing in a spiral like you’d fan a twisted tower and use halves of both red and gold beets so the colors swirl around. I’m planning to plate it with micro greens, a muscat orange vinaigrette dressing and candied pecans. The ingredients are fairly easy to prepare. It’s the assembly that’s difficult.

      I’ve already roasted, peeled and cut the beets into little rectangles when Dad comes over to me. “The restaurant is closed. Perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

      “I’ve noticed. This is for you to try.”

      “Hmm.” He frowns and watches me stuff the herbed goat cheese into a pastry bag. I’ve added mascarpone to it to make it the right consistency.

      “You’re making me nervous,” I say.

      “Too bad.”

      “But this is the hard part.”

      “So?”

      I sigh and take a red beet rectangle and a golden beet rectangle and align them so they’re matched up.

      “We need to talk about college,” Dad says.

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