“Jesus, Taz, your hands are full of glass.”
That would be from the bottles she’d smashed while
proving her childishness with a full-out tantrum. “I’m sorry,
Up,” she whispered, and could feel tears pricking at her
eyes. She’d never cried in front of him, never.
That was it - she was never going to drink again.
His face softened slightly. “Just – don’t touch anything,”
he said, dampening a washcloth. “Let me do this.”
She sat on the toilet cover and managed to hold the tears
in while he washed the blood from her face and arms with
the washcloth and rummaged in the medicine cabinet until
he found a pair of tweezers. It was a long and painful
process as he carefully slid each tiny shard of glass from
her palms. Without meaning to, every now and then she’d
let out a small gasp, and he would look up in concern. He
held her hand gently with his own as he worked, and she
watched him, her liquor-addled brain thinking about how
he’d changed in the years she’d known him, new scars he’d
added, fresh worry in his face. She watched his brows
crease, and her gaze dropped to his lips, and she wanted to
do the same thing she’d wanted since Europa – to kiss him
again, to see happiness there on his face once more. He’s
your commanding officer, he’s out of bounds, he’s your
partner, he’s your best friend, he’s Up, she repeated to
herself, over and over again. It had become her mantra
these last few months.
Her mama would have been pleased to see her finally
losing it over a man. Taz closed her eyes against the images
that threatened to come back, the ones she held at bay with
fighting, tequila shots, too many reps at the gym. They
wouldn’t stay away this time.
Up worked as cautiously as he could, but there was a lot
of glass. He could feel Taz watching him, her eyes a little