Declan #2
“Six? Seven? It’s getting a little worse. There’s a burning now.”
“You overdid it,” she says, almost to herself. She looks in my eyes, her brows drawn in. “And it’s no one’s fault. You’re with amazing trainers. You know your body. This just happens. I was reading about recovery the other night …”
I cut her off. “You were reading about recovery? On your night off?”
“About sports injuries, yeah.”
“So you could help me?”
She smiles over at me, “Yes, Declan. So I could help you.”
There’s a beat of silence where we just stare at one another. Then she looks away, unbuckling and adding, “You are my patient, after all.”
I can’t tell if she feels something for me and is pushing it down, or if she’s just being kind and I’m reading into moments like the one I think we just had. My leg throbs, taking my attention off Winona and what we are to one another.
She hands me my crutches and pulls her cell phone out of her pocket.
“Let me just call Cass to let her know I won’t be home for dinner.”
“You can go ahead,” I offer. “I’ll be fine.”
She stares at me, popping a hand on her hip. “I didn’t ask you, Declan. I’m staying. Cass and I have varying schedules depending on our plans. She’s not sitting around waiting for me.”
“Okay, boss,” I say. Then, despite myself, I wince when I pivot to get out of the car.
I propel forward, hoping she didn’t notice my wincing.
“I saw that,” she says, reading my mind. “And I’m not leaving until I know your pain is managed and you’re stable.”
I smile through the pain.
“Your leg was dependent—below heart level—all the ride home. That’s not going to help the inflammation.” She’s walking past me to the door, all business.
She doesn’t call Cass. Instead, she moves like a bee in a hive, getting me situated on the couch, asking if I need to use the restroom before she sets me up, refilling my flask and bringing ibuprofen. It’s not lost on me that she’s setting her life aside again—for me.
“Take that,” she says. “And if it doesn’t do the trick in an hour or so, we’re going to call your doctor and get you something a little stronger to get you through this setback.”
“Setback?”
“Calm down,” she says with a smile. “Not a setback to your recovery. It’s not ideal that you had swelling, but your body is a fine-tuned machine. You bounce back faster than average.”
I swallow the pill and she gets busy propping my leg up on the memory foam pillows.
“Pain scale?” she asks.
“Seven. Solid seven.” I stare up into her eyes. “A fine-tuned machine, huh?”
She shakes her head, an amused smile curving her lips and bringing out the creases around her eyes.
I hear her mutter, “The finest …” as she walks into the hallway to call Cass now that I’m settled.
I’m pretty sure she didn’t intend for me to hear her.
Her voice carries through from the hallway and then she’s back. “Cass is fine. She told me to stay as long as you need me.”
“So you’re moving in?” I tease.
My eyes are shut, so I don’t see her reaction. Exhaustion is winning.
“You won’t need me that long,” she says.
I pop open one eye. I’m so very tempted to tell her I think I might, but pain and exhaustion have me sidelined. I shut my eyes again and practice the breathing techniques trainers have reiterated to me for years to push through pain.
I sense her near the end of the couch, checking my feet for swelling.
A few minutes later a cold cloth gently settles on my forehead and eyes. Her fingers trail across my cheek. I hum softly.
She settles into the chair next to me.
I mumble. “I was going to massage your shoulders.”
Her breath catches. I hear the pause. Then she says, “Why?”
Why? Because you do so much for me—never expecting anything in return.
Because I want to be the man who relieves your stress at the end of a long day.
Because I want to touch you.
“I saw you stretching your neck. All that bending over to do the invitations …”
She doesn’t answer me. The throbbing still thrums through my leg, but the burning is starting to subside. I sigh, sinking into the couch. I can hear Winona’s steady breath to my side. My mind drifts into thoughts of her. Blurry and sweet.
I must have fallen asleep. I wake to the quiet of the room, the ticking of the hall grandfather clock, and the glow of Winona’s iPad in her hand. She’s curled up on the chair next to me, her feet tucked under her, a soft smile on her face.
I wonder what’s making her smile.
She looks up, noticing that I’m awake. “How are you feeling?”
My throat is raspy when I answer her. “Better. Probably a four.”
“Four’s good. Zero’s better.”
“Task master,” I tease her.
“I just want you to be comfortable.” She stands. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah. Starving, actually.”
She lists the options and I pick Alice Springs chicken and green beans with mashed potatoes.
“Coming right up,” she says. “I was secretly hoping you’d pick that one.”
“You could still have it—even if I picked something else.”
“I like matching,” she says, sashaying into the kitchen with a familiarity that makes my heart ache. She’s almost to the kitchen when she shouts, “Did you notice Claudette is making two of everything these days? I think she’s trying to feed me! That’s so sweet!”
I could tell her my pain is back to eight. I never would. I’ll be fine by morning—when I wake to a whole day without her here.
Winona returns with two plates full of food. I sit up, my back resting against the couch arm, my feet still extended out in front of me.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Winona says.
“I probably should have expected that to happen at some point,” I say.