Carter sees the blood and freezes. His mouth opens but no words come out right away, and then he squints down at me with this mild sort of horror in his eyes. “Your um...your...”

“I know.”

“Shit. It’s a lot. Do you need help?” His voice is soft and compassionate, and I can’t stand it.

“No.” I grit my teeth, swallow my emotions and push myself off the bed, pulling the sheet with me as if he hasn’t already seen everything there is to see. More blood. There’s so much blood. A small trickle spills down the front of my neck, an ant crawling on my skin. I violently smear it away.

“Sure you don’t need—”

“Can you leave?” I snap, but it’s more of a command than a question.

“Leave?” He looks shocked. Offended. “Are you serious?”

I look away to give him privacy, because somehow it feels like the right thing to do in this moment, and also because it’s hard to look at him like this all of a sudden, so visible in his vulnerability—skin damp with sweat, body still aroused. It feels wrong, obscene. He doesn’t say anything else, just climbs off the bed and starts to tug on his jeans. I run into my bathroom and grab a hand towel. When I glance in the mirror, the blood is bright and ugly, still pouring out. I wet the towel with warm water and clean my face as fast as I can. But the blood won’t stop. It clings to my skin, staining every place it touches. I can’t look at it; I feel weak, light-headed. I reach over and grab a wad of toilet paper and stuff it in my nose to keep it from dripping.

When I step back into my room, Carter’s almost finished getting dressed. His eyes come to me for the briefest second, then he bends over for his shoes, slips them on, and walks away without another word. I follow him down to the lower level.

He stops and looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are gentle, almost frail. “My kid sister died from an overdose. Last year.” He takes a breath. Swallows. “She was only sixteen. Sixteen.”

I frown. “Why are you telling me this?”

He stares at me for the longest moment, as if he’s trying to figure something out. Then he takes a hard breath like he doesn’t want to have to speak his next words. “I saw it in your eyes the other night at your party. I wasn’t sure, but—I know those kinds of nosebleeds.”

He levels a gaze with me and the pity in his eyes is almost worse than the humiliation.

I hate that he saw right through me.