Facade by Nyrae Dawn

tiny house in a run-down neighborhood. Not that mine’s all that, but his is definitely worse.
    I can hardly hear anything over the pulse in my ears.
Please let me be doing the right thing. Please let me be doing the right thing.
    I watch Adrian as he unlocks the door. His eyes are puffy, little dark rings beneath them that look as though he hasn’t really slept in a while. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him, but when I think about our situation, I stop myself. I’m not sure if I should intertwine my life any more with his. If it turns out as bad as Maddox thinks it will, I’ll only be making things worse.
    But then I’m there too. Already pulling that invisible thread tighter. Thinking about his poem and the hurt that showed through his words.
    He opens the door. Without saying a word, Adrian nods for me to go inside. I step into the lonely house. It somehow feels darker than it should. He hits the first light.
    A few beer bottles litter a table. An old couch, love seat, and chair sit around a TV. No pictures are on the walls and I suddenly feel a little sadder than I did before I came inside.
    Adrian walks down the hall, turning on more lights as he goes, and I wonder if I’m supposed to follow him. If I should turn around and walk back out, but I do neither. My feet are lead, welded to the floor until he peeks his head out of a room and asks, “Aren’t we playing doctor now?” He raises one of his eyebrows.
    I try and shake off the nerves setting my bones in concrete and head his way. He has the first-aid kit in his hand, which he sets on the counter of the small bathroom.
    My eyes search the room for something personal, anything, but the only thing I see is a single toothbrush in a cup. It’s blue and looks lonely.
    “There should be gloves in there,” he says, before leaning against the counter. I’m surprised he’s letting me do this so easily, but at the look of concentration in his eyes, I wonder if it’s calculated. If there is some motive behind it that I don’t know. Or maybe I do know and don’t want to acknowledge it.
    After opening the first-aid kit and putting on the rubber gloves, I reach for Adrian’s hand and start to unwind the cloth. There’s always been something sexy to me about a guy’s hands. I remember my first crush, a boy named Patrick. He was so cute and all the girls liked him. We had to hold hands in gym class, but his were all sweaty and warm. They stuck to mine, and somehow those sticky hands wiped away any crush I had.
    Adrian’s hands aren’t like that. Not that I should be paying attention, but they’re strong, with veins traveling across them. He has a little callus on his middle finger, where a pen or pencil would sit, and I wonder if he writes a lot. I have a feeling he does and a brief wish to read more of it flashes through my head.
    Little open wounds spring to life again as I free his hand. Blood drips down a couple of his fingers. I’ve never done real well with blood, so I look at Adrian to see if he notices. His eyes aren’t on his hand, though. They’re on me. On my face, almost like he can’t take them away. Like he’s locked there and I wonder what he’s seeing. If the truth is in my eyes or if maybe it makes him feel close to someone in a way he won’t let himself otherwise.
    “What?” I finally pry my mouth open to ask.
    “Nothing.”
    But he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t open his mouth to speak and I know that’s all I’m going to get from him—this X-ray vision that I’m not sure what to do with.
    “There might be glass in it.” I look down at his hand, setting the cloth aside. I don’t let him go as I use the other hand to turn on the water. Adrian’s fingers begin to tremble and I’m about to ask him why he’s shaking when I realize it’s because of me. That I’m shaking and vibrating through him and I wonder if he’ll call me on it, but he doesn’t.
    “Maybe,” he replies, and without looking, I know he’s still