I froze for a long time, going over that again and again in my head. And then I sat up quickly, dashed into my kitchen for my tablet, which was covered in poorly chopped onions. I slid the onions off of the screen and used my shirt to clean it off, because obviously I’m a savage. I held it up as if it were the newborn Christ. “Treating Stockholm syndrome,” I said to it. The few seconds it took to search felt like hours.
“Recovering from Stockholm syndrome ordinarily involves ‘psychiatric or psychological counseling,’ with an end goal of making patients realize that their actions and feelings stemmed from inherent human survival techniques. Counseling aims to reinstate normalcy into the lives of recovering victims and to make sure that they can function in a way that is not out of fear or in the sole interest of survival.” It read back to me. “Would you like to see more from this article?”
“Interesting,” I muttered, grabbing the bag of croutons off the counter and moving back to the living room.
“Not really. You don’t have Stockholm syndrome.”
My head snapped up at his voice, and even though I saw him, I couldn’t help but throw the table at him and scream, “MOTHERFUCK! Jesus fuck ah! WYATT!!”
“Sorry!” He couldn’t help but laugh at me before raising his arms up. In one of them he had a Chi-burger bag. He was wearing a black jacket over his dark grey suit. “Can I come in?”
“You’re already in!” My heart still racing, I had to hold the arm of my couch to yell at him. “How the hell did you even get in?!”
He took his cell phone out of his back pocket and showed me. “You put the app on my phone. I turned off the alarm because I wasn’t sure if you were sleeping and didn’t want to scare you.”
“Well you fucking failed!” I snapped, taking a deep breath. “What is wrong with you! Just because I put the damn app on your phone doesn’t mean come over whenever you damn well want. At least call first!”
“I’ve been calling you for days.”
And I paused, remembering why I was even in my apartment to begin with. Reaching up and rubbing my nose, I couldn’t find the words, and so I went with the first thing that went through my mind. “Wyatt, I’m not answering my phone because I don’t want to talk to you. I’m here because I don’t want to see you. If you can’t be ashamed of what you did, can’t you at least respect that?”
“You’re right…but do you mind getting me a first aid kit first?” He asked, and it was only then that I noticed the grimace on his face. He was smiling through pain. Before I could ask what happened, he moved around my couch, putting the burgers on the coffee table. Then he proceeded to take off his coat and suit jacket. Only then could I see the dampness on his shirt. The blood had soaked through his shirt.
It took a second for my brain to process what I was seeing. When it did, panic set in.
“WYATT!” I hollered, rushing toward him. “What the hell happened? You’re bleeding, fucking shot? Someone shot you!”
“The one day I don’t wear one of those damn bulletproof suits. I swear I have the worst fucking luck!” He laughed and then whined as he took off his shirt.
“This isn’t fucking funny! You’ve been shot!”
“I know.”
“You’re bleeding!”
“I know that—”
“Then why the fuck are you here and not with a goddamn doctor!”
“BECAUSE I CAN’T AFFORD IT!” he hollered back at me, as if I were the problem. I wanted to smack him, and it must have been clear on my face because he sighed. “Everyone is watching me, Helen. Waiting for me to screw up. Waiting for me to prove that I am the idiot brother. I cannot call for a doctor or anyone else. I can’t afford to look weak right now. I made a mistake, no one else can know that.”
“I’m still waiting for you to apologize.” I crossed my arms.
His mouth dropped open slightly. “Helen, I’m bleeding. There is still a bullet in me. Can we deal with that first—”
“You somehow managed to get a burger with a bullet in you, and you’re still bleeding. I’m sure you can muster up an apology.”
He glared down at me. “I’m sorry for yelling at you, Helen. May I please have the first aid kit before I bleed out and die in your living room?”
That wasn’t the apology I wanted, and I’m sure he knew that. Saying nothing else, I moved around him toward the closet, opening the door and taking out the big first aid kit he’d given me as a house-warming present when I moved in here. His excuse was that I would need it because I often cut my damn hands on the parts I was working on or…attempting to cook. “How symbolic of you to buy a present for me that only you end up using.”
“I’m hurt, Helen, be nice.” He pouted when I came back to him. Kneeling in front of him, I unzipped everything carefully, and as I did, a thought popped into my head.
“You didn’t shoot yourself on purpose to make me sympathetic to you? Did you?”
He huffed as if he was hurt I even asked. Tilting his face to the side, he gave me a look I was quite familiar with. “Yes, Helen, I was so upset you weren’t answering my calls that I shot myself in the shoulder in the middle of the night, bought your favorite burger, and came over to get you to help take the bullet out. Seriously? Do I look like Ethan to you? Like hell, I’d shoot myself.”
“Stranger things have happened,” I muttered, putting on the gloves before taking out the forceps and the alcohol. “Lie back.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” He questioned, surprised.
“I’ve watched enough episodes of ER and Grey’s Anatomy—”
“Give me
