The Good Girl. Christy Barritt

out of my comfort zone, to try new things. Maybe I should hang out with Candy and Mark and go to parties and “let down my hair a little,” as Lana had said. I didn’t have to go crazy, but I could be a casual observer. A lukewarm heathen.

      I reached farther, the corner above the window barely out of reach. The stool beneath me wobbled. I shifted my weight, trying to keep my balance. I wondered if ghosts could knock stools out from underneath people’s feet. They could apparently play guitars.

      I shivered at the memory. Being in this house wasn’t exactly working out the way I’d envisioned, which seemed to fit in with the rest of my life. But unlike the rest of my life, this house would not defeat me. It would be the ultimate showdown, “Tara’s Last Stand” I’d call it. This would be the place where I proved I was strong.

      The stool wobbled again. I’d move it closer to the window, but an overstuffed chair and iron plant stand blocked the floor. All I needed was to balance myself....

      Too late. Gravity pulled me downward until I sprawled on the floor. I grabbed my arm as a burning sensation whizzed across it. When I pulled my hand back, blood stained my fingers. The plant holder. I must have scraped the edge of it on my way down.

      So much for Tara’s Last Stand…

      I grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on the table and pressed it against my cut. I will not freak out. I will not freak out. Blood always had that affect on me.

      First-aid kit. I needed a first-aid kit.

      I kept my arm raised, trying to remember something about the dangers of bleeding out, while I ran to my sister’s bathroom. I searched the cabinets, under the sink, beside the toilet. Nothing. Not even a Band-Aid. Where else would Lana keep a first-aid kit?

      Arm still in the air, I searched her closet and the kitchen. Still nothing.

      My wound began to ache. I sucked in a deep breath and pulled the tissues back. What I saw made my head feel light enough to float away. Blood. Lots of blood. A three-inch cut that looked deep enough that I could see things I’d never seen before.

      I couldn’t let this go untreated. No, I was going to have to drive to the store and get something to clean this with.

      Except I felt like I could pass out.

      Think, Tara. Think. There has to be another option.

      Call 9-1-1? Nah, they’d just laugh at me.

      Call Candy? Did I even have her number? I didn’t think I did.

      That’s when the answer smacked me in the face. Ben Cooper. He seemed like just the type to have a first-aid kit. A really good first-aid kit, at that.

      I grabbed some paper towels, covered my cut again, and then exited the house to walk toward Cooper’s. My hands trembled and my knees suddenly felt weak as I pounded on his door. I thought about Jesus dying on the cross. It might seem weird, but it was my coping mechanism. Whenever I was dealt some kind of physical pain, I thought of what Jesus endured and it made me realize that things could be worse. Despite my wavering faith, thoughts of Calvary still comforted me.

      A moment later, Cooper answered the door, and I forced a smile. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” I held up my arm, and my head swam when I saw blood dripping down my elbow.

      He leaned in closer, moving the paper towels again and touching the skin around my scrape like he knew what he’s doing. “We need to get that cleaned up.”

      “That’s what I thought, too.”

      My knees suddenly felt weak. I sagged against the railing of the porch, trying to keep my balance. Pain screamed from my elbow, and wooziness circled my head.

      “You okay?” Cooper cupped my other elbow as if he knew I might pass out.

      I pushed myself away from the porch railing. On top of putting things in perspective with thoughts of Calvary, I also tried to avoid drama at all costs, even if it meant pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. Call it a character flaw, but having a drama queen for a sister had made me like this. “I’ll be fine.”

      I followed Cooper into a neat-as-a-pin house. I could have stepped onto the pages of Better Homes and Gardens the way the place was decorated. This man definitely wasn’t a bachelor. Maroon walls, a lush animal print rug, and a sleek dark brown leather couch and loveseat were welcoming and homey. A little boy, probably four or five years old, played on the rug at the center of the room. He must be Austin.

      I didn’t have time to introduce myself now, especially not since I could pass out at any minute. Cooper waited at a hallway on my right, past a walnut, mission-style table. The room smelled of citrus-tinged linen. Any minute now, I expected Mrs. Suzy Homemaker to step from the kitchen with perfectly coiffed hair and a dishtowel draped over her shoulder.

      I stepped across the hallway toward a small bathroom. Cooper waited at the sink. He turned glorious blue eyes on me and pointed to my arm.

      “Let’s run some water over it for a minute.” He turned on the faucet, and I took a deep breath before stepping into the small space.

      The scrape was deeper than I thought, and the spray from the bathroom sink burned. I wanted to squirm, but I had to keep steady, to hide the fact that blood caused me to tremble. Weaknesses were a personal no-no for me.

      “You okay?” Cooper held my arm as if he knew I might jerk it away.

      I nodded, as I always did. I was always okay, no matter what headed my direction.

      Whatever. Even I couldn’t fool myself with that way of thinking anymore.

      “Squeeze my arm if you need to. I know this can’t feel good.”

      I had no intentions of touching Cooper and definitely not squeezing his arm. My mom called it having scruples. While my arm was under the water, he rummaged around the medicine cabinet and pulled out some hydrogen peroxide.

      I soaked in his features again, now that he was closer, and confirmed my earlier assessment that this was one handsome man. Where was his wife? At work? Out of town?

      Before the man caught me, I looked away. Good Girls Rule #2: Never stare because it makes you look freaky.

      “This might sting.” He unscrewed the cap and began pouring solution down my arm. Pain burnt from my hand to my elbow. I squeezed his arm. His very muscular arm. I scolded myself for noticing—and for squeezing.

      “So who’s older—you or Lana? You guys could almost pass for twins.”

      Except that Lana liked her clothes short and tight, had a mouth like a sailor, and was rarely seen without alcohol in her hand. “We’re eleven months apart. I’m older.”

      He smiled, the action nice and calming, as he continued to examine my wound. “So how’d you get this cut?”

      “The windows. They needed shades. You know. I tried sheets instead.” I wasn’t sure what was wrong, but I’d lost my ability to speak in complete sentences. Maybe it had something to do with the pain screaming at me from my scraped appendage.

      “Sheets?”

      “Sister. Has Hummer. Not ready. To drive.”

      He smiled again, but it faded when he pulled out tweezers. “There’s a paint chip—”

      I closed my eyes, unable to watch, and squeezed his arm again. “Don’t tell me. Just do it. Whatever. I don’t need to know.”

      “There’s a Target not far from here. You could probably pick up something pretty cheap there. You know, since the sheets didn’t seem to work out.”

      I didn’t open my eyes, but I was quite certain from the lilt of his voice that he was smiling. “I’ll have to try that.” Although, if I’d injured myself with sheets and thumbtacks, what would I do with screws and actual tools?

      Note to self: Pick up first-aid kit at Target while buying shades.

      “Probably