5. Nothing Easy About You #2
By the looks of it, yes. Her cheeks are flushed, a deep pink rising from the collar of her shirt as she takes a sip of water.
Josie is still scanning the room, and I have a sudden urge to tell her about my plans for this place.
How I hired an architect to draft two sets of plans.
One set expands the existing cottage, flipping the footprint so all the living areas have the water view and adding another bathroom and a few bedrooms. The other set is for a brand-new build, one that would take the place of the cottage.
But Josie wouldn’t want to hear about my plans. Or this place. I’m honestly surprised she’s still here.
Which reminds me: I need to get her out of here now. Before she realizes how bad things are. Or how bad I smell.
Actually, considering the way she helped prop me up just now, she probably knows about the latter.
“Don’t feel obligated to make small talk,” I tell her. “Now that you’ve completed your brother-ordered welfare check, will you be on your way?”
“About that.”
Uh-oh.
She picks up the empty water bottle and turns it over and over in her hands. No nail polish. When did she stop wearing it? I’ve long used the different colors she chose as a way of navigating my memories of her.
The unfortunate first time we met, Josie’s fingernails were bright purple. I remember fixating on them, both because something about the color intrigued me and because it kept me from staring too long at her big brown eyes.
When I made the mistake of going with Jacob to her graduation dinner, her nails were a deep navy. Chipped. I remember noticing the color when she covered her mouth, laughing at something Jacob said.
Over the years, there’s been a whole rainbow of nail colors: hunter green, pale blue, silver. Almost like a mood ring, though Josie is always smiling.
Except when it comes to me. I seem to have the effect of throwing a blanket over her fire.
The last time I saw Josie, her nails were a pale pink—the color of her lips if she wasn’t wearing makeup.
The color looked good on her, but it made me a little sad because I always liked the bright, fun colors.
They seemed like her, while the pink seemed almost like a giving up.
Or a growing up maybe. Like she was putting the bright side of herself on mute.
The last thing Josie needs is to be muted.
“Here’s the thing,” she says now, pulling my gaze away from her unpainted nails to her face. Her expression is guarded and carefully blank. Instantly, I’m on high alert. “Jacob wants me to stay.”
“I don’t want you to stay.” Only when this comes out of my mouth do I realize how rude it sounds. I couldn’t be a worse communicator with Josie if I tried.
“Of course you don’t,” she says, toying with the water bottle and looking suddenly exhausted. “And I don’t want to stay.”
I already knew as much, so I don’t let the words hurt.
“But Jacob made some compelling arguments.”
“Like?”
The arch of my foot gives a deep throb, a tiny punch of pain, and I lean more of my weight against the wall, hoping Josie’s sharp brown eyes don’t notice.
I should probably be sitting, but it’s hard to get up sometimes.
And I’m not about to have Josie witness me trying to heave myself off the couch.
I wait. She doesn’t say anything, twisting the bottle in her hands, strangling the plastic with a loud crunch , then tugging at a loose string on her shorts. When she pulls, the hem starts to unravel.
“He says he’s worried about your health.”
“It’s fine.”
“And your mental health.”
“It’s even better.”
“You’re not going to your appointments.”
I sigh. “I hate doctors.”
“I’ll choose not to be offended.”
“You’re not a doctor,” I snap, immediately wishing I could suck the words right back into my mouth.
This is the story of me around Josie. I say the wrong words in the wrong tone every single time. Things like You’re not a doctor , which managed to make it sound like I was belittling her career as a nurse. That’s not what I meant, but if I try to explain, I know I’ll somehow make it worse.
“I’m a nurse,” she says. Slowly. Patiently. But still with irritation bubbling under the surface.
“I know,” I say.
I know she’s been an elementary school nurse in Fredericksburg and loves her job. I know this because I keep up with her through Jacob. Culling information from him while trying not to look desperate for every scrap about her life is a skill I’ve honed.
But the way I say I know sounds like I’m doubling down on my not-a-doctor insult.
Josie ignores this and continues. “He wants me to stay for a few weeks. Or...a month.”
I blink.
Jacob wants her to— no .
No , I will not have Jacob send his sister as a replacement for the two people I already sent away. I don’t want to see anyone right now. I don’t want help of any kind. I don’t want to hear platitudes and false encouragement that sounds like it’s been pulled straight off a motivational poster.
I don’t want to appear broken.
Especially not in front of Josie.
“What’s your medical experience level?” I ask. This time I intend to sound rude. I need to be rude if I want her to get offended and leave. “Are you equipped to handle postsurgical care?”
She holds my gaze, though the pink in her cheeks burns a brighter red. “I deal mostly in skinned knees, upset tummies, and hurt feelings. Oh, and lice.”
“I don’t have lice.”
She holds up a finger. “Yet. I’ve learned that with lice, it’s best to say you don’t have lice yet .”
A bead of sweat rolls down my temple, getting lost in the scruff on my jaw.
The other people Jacob sent were easier to scare off. They actually seemed afraid of me, whereas Josie is used to my abruptness. My sharp words, which pain me to say on purpose to her, are not having any effect that I can see.
Guess I need to push harder.
“Do you give sponge baths?” I ask.
It’s hard for me to voice a question like this, even in a sardonic tone that’s not in any way flirtatious. I obviously don’t mean it. Nor do I need sponge baths. I’m capable of showering. I’ve just chosen not to for the last few days. Week. Whatever.
But I hope the mere suggestion will send her running.
Josie rarely touches me. Which is maybe why I responded so strongly to her hand on my arm moments ago.
If anything will get her back in the car, heading home, joking about giving me a sponge bath should do it.
But her expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t blink. We are at the poker table, and she’s tossing her chips to the center, calling my bluff.
“A sponge bath? No. But a garden hose would work. Really gets a good deep clean. You do have a hose outside somewhere, yeah?”
She leans back on the couch, spreading her arms like she’s getting comfortable, and I realize she’s going to be harder to dislodge than a tick.
Which seems incongruous for her. Usually I’m saying something accidental to send her running away from me. Why is it that now, when I’m trying to send her away, she’s settling in?
“But I don’t think you need the hose,” she says. “I bet you can shower fine with the boot. You’re just choosing not to do it, so far as I can tell.”
When she looks me up and down, I want to shrivel under her gaze. I know how I must look.
Abruptly, she asks, “What’s the injury?”
“It’s a Lisfranc,” I mutter.
“Liz Frank? Never heard of her.”
“It’s not a woman.”
“A band?”
“Not a band.”
She waits. “Are you going to make me google it?”
“That’s up to you. But you don’t need to know.” I pause. “Because you’re not staying.”
“Jacob hired me.”
This makes more sense. She’s being stubborn about staying because Jacob is paying her. She’s determined to stay not for me but for the money.
There’s no reason this should hurt my feelings. None at all. Still—it does.
“Then you’re fired.”
She smiles. “The thing is, you’re not paying me.
Jacob is. Which means you can’t fire me,” she says, then stands, brushing her hands off on her shorts with their now-loose hem.
“And you’re not going to scare me off with threats of sponge baths or your surly attitude. I’ll go get my bags from the car.”
“I’ll pay you double what he’s paying,” I tell her, and she pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “To leave.”
“You don’t even know what we agreed on,” she says, glancing at me.
“Don’t care. I’ll pay more.”
Josie goes quiet, and a riot of emotions passes over her face. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “You really hate me that much—enough so you’d pay me to leave?”
The question is a sledgehammer. One edged with tiny blades. It hits me with force, but also cutting precision. Deeply.
“I don’t hate you,” I tell her, but my tone is off. Probably because my feelings are somewhere in the opposite realm from hate, and I don’t want her to hear it in my voice.
I doubt she’d believe me anyway.
She definitely doesn’t believe me now.
“I haven’t decided if I’m staying long term,” she says. “But I will stay tonight. Be right back with my suitcase.” With that, she storms outside, slamming the door behind her.
Panic squeezes around my ribs. Along with a confusing swell of relief.
I don’t want Josie to stay. I also don’t want her to go.
While she’s outside, I hobble to the thermostat. It says the temperature is seventy-four, but it feels like ninety-four. I nudge the lever down to seventy, hoping it might help.
Josie reappears a minute or two later with a backpack and a rolling suitcase that’s bright purple with stickers all over it.
She waits for a moment, then says, “Well—are you going to give me a grand tour?”
“There’s not much to see.”
“You’d never make it as a real estate agent,” she says. “You know, if the hockey thing doesn’t work out.”
Her words strike too close to home, and I find myself tightening up. She must notice.
“Not that you’re thinking about changing careers,” she adds quickly. “I have no idea what your plans are after your recovery.”