unREASONable by Arya Matthews

Track 25

Alexandra

The garage is open, and CJ is unloading the remaining bags out of the minivan when I approach the Nest.

“Morning,” he greets me.

“Morning.” I jog up to him. At the entrance to the garage, right where the sliding door meets the ground, there’s a bit of ice, which I don’t realize until my foot hits it and I slip.

“Careful!” CJ leaps to steady me, and in my attempt to regain balance, I grab his arm and end up yanking a little too hard. CJ slips as well, and his forehead collides with the edge of the workbench next to the minivan.

“Are you all right?” My stomach ties itself into sharp knots while I wait for him to look up. Or pass out.

Hand on his forehead, CJ straightens. “I’m fine. Are you?” He lowers his hand and reveals a large smear of blood on his forehead and a slash across his eyebrow.

“You’re bleeding!”

“So it seems.” CJ dabs at the slash with his white sweatshirt sleeve, marring it with deep red.

The blood starts dripping in earnest. I pull off my new merino wool scarf, fold it, and press it to his forehead.

Marshall enters the garage from the house. “What’s happening?”

“I… He’s…” Overrun with guilt, I wring my hands and struggle to explain.

Marshall comes over and examines CJ’s injury. “Better get you to Urgent Care.” He takes CJ by the shoulder and leads him to his car.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Stay home,” Marshall says in a calm tone. “We’ll be back soon.”

How can I stay? I need to make sure CJ’s injury isn’t serious. “You drive, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t pass out?”

Marshall takes a long look at me. “Okay.”

CJ checks his face in the side mirror. “Just a scratch. Don’t feel so guilty, Matryoshka.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say again anyway.

“Alexandra, please stop. It was an accident.” CJ sounds a bit irritated as he climbs onto the back seat.

Marshall joins in. “If he says he’s not mad at you, he’s not mad at you. Stop apologizing.”

I keep quiet during the drive. Mostly because I was told to stop apologizing and apologies are all I’ve got.

Two other people sit in the small lobby of the clinic. A young receptionist mutters, “Yikes,” when she sees CJ and summons a nurse immediately. CJ is taken behind the door that leads to examination rooms, and I try to follow him, but Marshall holds me by the sleeve.

“Let’s wait here. They’ll take good care of him, especially if we don’t get in the way.”

The receptionist asks Marshall whether he knows anything about CJ’s insurance, and he deals with the billing stuff. I wallow in guilt. How can I not?

Marshall asks me something, but it doesn’t register.

“What?”

I expect him to be annoyed, but his facial expression is one of gentle concern instead. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

“I feel like such a klutz.” I hide my face behind my hands.

“Well, it happens to all of us now and then.”

I sigh, and it’s stunning how much tension and embarrassment it releases. “CJ’s gonna hate me now.”

Marshall offers me a comforting smile. “He’s not gonna hate you over something so minor.”

“It’s not minor. Did you see that gash? It’s definitely gonna leave a scar, smack in the middle of his eyebrow too. If you won’t kick me out, then he will for sure.”

“He’ll be fine. If it’s really ugly, he can get plastic surgery to fix it. But he won’t stop liking you, and he will never kick you out.” Marshall pulls me in for a hug.

Offended to the tips of my hair with his lighthearted tone, I push him away and walk outside the clinic to pace on the sidewalk.

The air is chilly and crisp, full of subtle winter scents—resting dirt and rain. Right here, right now, the world smells like home. I fill my lungs with air to capacity. Amidst my guilt and worries, the feeling of belonging hits me like a hammer, and I hold on to it. Home. I’m home. Visas, green card applications, fighting for my place with Project Viper, the endless torture of my soul that is Marshall, struggling to acclimate now and then, and yet, I feel at home.

Marshall joins me, hands in his jacket pockets, collar raised, his whole posture tense. “What does it matter if CJ likes you or not?”

I glare at him. “What do you mean? He’s been so nice to me. Always helpful, always encouraging. I don’t want him to hate me. I like him a lot, okay? I don’t want to give him a reason to send me away. I don’t—”

“Got it,” Marshall cuts me off. “Don’t worry. He won’t send you away.”

“But you will?” The words rush off my tongue before I fully think about them.

Marshall lifts his face to the sky before turning on his heel and going back inside. I follow him. He sits on a green, vinyl-padded chair and pulls out his phone and earbuds. His every movement is languid and easy, but a hard edge to his mouth betrays that it’s all a show.

I sit next to him. “You can’t just walk away without answering.” When he doesn’t respond, I yank out his earbuds.

Marshall bristles up. “What?”

I know exactly what I want to hear, but my motivation deflates. I won’t be able to deal with vague answers this time, and I can’t afford to lose hope if he says I can’t stay with them. I still have time to change his mind. I changed Shane’s mind, so it’s not impossible. I’ll cling to that.

“Nothing.”

I relocate to a different set of chairs and turn my back on him. I let my guard down too much. Everything that’s happened between us made me believe I’m winning him over. I’ve been celebrating too soon.

Eventually, CJ re-enters the waiting area, cleaned up and sporting a square bandage over his eyebrow. “I’ll live,” he announces with a smile.

I return it, however weak.

“Matryoshka, you look like you need ice cream,” CJ says as he opens the door that leads outside. “I want ice cream, preferably chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Chocolate ice cream, chocolate chips in it, chocolate fudge on top. All the chocolate.”

Marshall puts his phone away. “Are you five years old?”

“You sound like you need ice cream. It’s decided then.”

“Don’t drag me along with the two of you,” Marshall grumbles as we approach his car.

“I’m gonna walk,” I say, dying to get away from him. Why is it that every time the three of us are together things go sauerkraut?

“What? No,” CJ protests. “I can tell the two of you argued again, and I’m happily pain-free from a shot of lidocaine. We’re all getting ice cream.”

“Come on, Alexandra. He won’t let us be until he gets his chocolate fix.” Marshall gets behind the wheel.

“Atta boy.” CJ climbs onto the passenger seat with a laugh.

I give in. Going with CJ is the least I can do to make up for his bashed forehead.

Marshall drives us to an ice cream shop. I watch the proceedings from the car, refusing to come in. The clerk immediately recognizes them and smiles the whole time, bouncing in her spot now and then. Phones are brandished, pictures taken. Marshall even deigns to smile at the teen girl who scoops his ice cream. The jerk. Always smiles for the fans and hardly ever for me.

What a stupid thing to be jealous of.

I watch my guys exit the ice cream shop. Both are smiling about something as they talk or maybe share a joke. Everything’s great between them without me around.

They get in the car, and CJ climbs onto the back seat with me this time. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you a version of spumoni. Nothing beats cherry, chocolate, and pistachio together.”

He hands me a cup with three neat scoops and a dainty plastic spoon. The green, dark brown, and pink stripes look mouth-watering, but I won’t eat it. CJ’s happy expression cracks, his eyebrows coming together for a concerned frown, but he doesn’t let it linger. He simply puts the ice cream cup onto my lap and leans on my arm.

“Come on, have a bit of mine.” He scoops a generous spoonful and brings it to my lips. “Who doesn’t feel better after some chocolate?”

My eyes are glued to the bandage on his eyebrow. How can he be so nice with me after what I’ve done to him? “I’m a vanilla girl.”

“You’re anything but vanilla.” He leans closer and whispers, “Smile and eat to spite him.”

I stare at him in shock. CJ winks, and I allow him to feed me a bit of his ice cream.

“Are you still feeling bad about this?” He points at the bandage on his forehead.

“No.” I do, a lot, but my guilt is thoroughly overpowered by the clinging unease from Marshall’s refusal to talk about my future with the band.

“Then what is it? Why are you so wound up?” CJ doesn’t smile anymore, doesn’t try to cheer me up. It seems he only wants to know what upsets me.

“I’m sorry I cause you so much trouble. I promised I’d do my best, and I bug you all the time instead. Now I broke your face. Everyone says you love me so much, but you totally won’t love me anymore after this.”

CJ gives me the most serious look. “I’ll never stop loving you. If the cut scars, I’ll keep it as proof of just how much I love you.” He seals his words with a kiss on my forehead.

A choking sound comes from the driver’s seat. Marshall shoves his ice cream into the cup holder, starts the car, then pulls out of the parking lot with the tires squealing.

“Careful! Invalid and Matryoshka in the back,” CJ chides his friend and finally buckles up.

Marshall rewards him with a hard break on the first red light for that.