28
“The man can’t hold his tramadol,” Clara observed early the next morning. Jesse was passed out on the couch where Beck had been five days before. His arm rested in the sling across his chest and his mouth was open. He had fallen asleep immediately after dinner with a new dose of painkillers in his system, and after staying there all night should have looked haggard and terrible, but he looked ready to grace the cover of some sleep-related periodical. Men were always lucky in that way.
“He shouldn’t have gone to work yesterday,” Dr. Wilder replied from the kitchen table.
“He said he’s going today, too.”
Clara had not woken up looking like a model, but she had already applied her makeup in the style that men considered “natural,” her hair was blown out and gleaming, and she was wearing adorable pajamas: matching shorts and a short-sleeved, collared shirt adorned with tiny cherries and Ms. Pac-Mans. Her toes peeped out of furry slippers.
“Jesse, it’s time to wake up.”
He groaned and shifted.
“Wake up. It’s morning. It’s Wednesday.”
He sat up wearily, rubbed his face with his hand, and his eyes traveled, as she had intended, from her feet, up her long, bare legs, past the stone fruit on her clothes to her subtly accentuated lips and eyes.
“Clara,” he sighed, his voice gravelly.
“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “Are you going to work today?”
“Yeah.”
“Looks like we’re carpooling again. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.”
He blinked up at her a few times. “Uh, okay.”
She offered the mug she held. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” he said, a good deal more decisively.
She handed it to him.
He took a drink, and then his eyes began the journey again from her feet to her face. This time they snagged partway up. “What happened to your knee?”
She glanced down at the polka-dotted Band-Aid. “Funny story. I was crawling on the ground, looking for a tooth, and didn’t see a little chunk of broken glass.”
He looked up quickly. “Really?”
“It’s just a small cut.”
“Did you put something on it?”
“You mean like a Band-Aid?”
“No, like rubbing alcohol,” he said irritably, and then he reached out and yanked the Band-Aid off.
“Excuse you!” She had just put it on that morning, and it stung coming off.
“How else can I see if it’s inflamed?”
“ You’re not my doctor ,” she reminded him.
“Did you put something on it?” he repeated stubbornly.
“Yes. Good grief .”
“Well, it looks kind of red. Keep an eye on it.”
“I’m planning to keep a Band-Aid on it,” she retorted. “I hope I won’t have too much of a problem with people ripping it off without asking.”
“Probably just me,” he said carelessly, setting his coffee on the end table and stretching his good arm up over his head. Then he stood up, and because Clara had not moved they were toe to toe. He perused her face in a leisurely way, and then said, “Nice paint job.”
It was a poor choice of words, perhaps, but spoken without mockery, so she merely said, “Thank you.”
“Cute jammies,” he added, with a touch of irony.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She didn’t quite think that one deserved thanks.
He touched his ribcage gingerly. “You wouldn’t happen to know where your mom keeps her drogas , would you?”
“She left more tramadol and some lidocaine patches on your bathroom counter.”
“No kidding? She climbs the stairs now?”
“Well, she asked me to do it,” she amended.
“Coffee, meds, chauffeuring.” His tone was thoughtful, almost suspicious. “Pretty good service.”
She summoned a friendly smile. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Mm,” he said noncommittally, still studying her face.
“I’m having oatmeal. Would you like any?”
He didn’t quite contain his grimace. “No, thanks.”
“You only have twenty-eight minutes now. Chop chop.”
“I’ll be ready.” He turned to grab his coffee, and noticed her mother in the next room. “Oh, hey, Doc. Got any Orajel?”
“No, but I know an excellent dentist,” Dr. Wilder offered.
“I don’t need a dentist,” he muttered, and went stiffly up the stairs.