Karli gives Trent a stern look.
“It was an accident,” he mutters.
“Where’s your first aid kit?” Karli asks, rummaging through drawers. “Never mind, I found it.” She pops it open and then shoots me a quizzical look. “All that’s in here is a couple of Band-Aids, super glue, and duct tape?”
I nod. “First aid.”
She grabs it all and shakes her head.
“I don’t think superglue is going to cut it. You should go to the doctor, you might need stitches,” Trent says.
“I could stitch you up,” Karli says. The last time she offered to poke through someone’s skin, she was using four-inch sewing needles under the guise of being a tattoo artist to sell a charade our sister Lennox had come up with.
“No thank you. Just cinch me up good with the duct tape.”
“Sean, really?” Trent asks.
I’m used to that pleading tone. It usually accompanies a request for me to just grow up for once. I’m beginning to agree. A knock over the head will do that to a person.
“I’m good, just tape it,” I grunt out.
“Fine. Your back,” Trent says. He’s a good brother like that. Unlike me. I irritate and annoy everyone. Even those who aren’t related to me.
“Do I even want to know what you did this time?” Trent asks.
“I ran into an old friend.” I purposely leave London’s name out of it. She became a no-talking topic between us after that dance.
“An old friend did this to you?” Karli’s eyes widen. “Did you call the cops?”
“He means an old girlfriend,” Trent says.
Technically, London was never that, though I always wanted her to be.
“Who was it?” Trent asks.
I grit my teeth, fighting off the pain spreading up my back. “You wouldn’t remember her.”
“The list is long; I’d be surprised ifyouremembered her. Before she stabbed you in the back.”
“Funny.” I grimace with whatever torture he’s doing back there. “No. She hit me over the head with a rolling pin.”
He snorts.
I get it. I can appreciate a strong woman.
“What did you do to her this time?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? “Too much.”
Trent pulls the duct tape across my back, cinching the wound closed, and I clench the edge of the countertop until I’m afraid the cheap Formica will crack under the pressure.
“I think it’s time to grow up, Sean. You’re not in high school anymore.”
Don’t I know it? Life was so much easier back then. I wasn’t cool and I wanted to be. But nobody thinks the kid who can barely read is cool. So I made up for my dyslexia by distracting everyone from my insecurities. And to my surprise, it worked. Everyone liked the wild Sean who did things no one dared to. The Sean who made dumb bets and ended up embarrassing himself in front of the whole school over and over again but laughed it off every time.
Well,almosteveryone liked him.
But I’m older now, and my attention-seeking tactics are no longer desirable. I’m still playing the same old games.
