Declan #3
“Why keep an eye out for bad things?” she says.
“I’d rather just face them when they come.
I try to keep my eye out for the sweet surprises.
Like this. Having dinner with you. I didn’t expect to be here.
And here I am eating a dinner I didn’t have to cook, sitting in a palace with a professional athlete. ”
She says the last part with a taunt to her voice—like she and I both know she couldn’t care less if I’m a professional athlete. It’s one of the things I like most about her. She doesn’t care about the things that everyone else seems to think matter so much.
We finish eating and Winona clears our plates. When she comes back she doesn’t ask my pain level. Instead, she grabs one of the french square pillows Mom tucked on a shelf under the TV console and pulls it onto the floor.
She stretches out, turning onto her side, placing the pillow under her bent elbow as a cushion and supporting her head with her hand. I watch her movements, acutely aware of her.
“I’ll get going in a minute. I just need a moment after that delicious meal.”
“No rush,” I tell her. “Stay as long as you want.”
The lamp on the side table is the only light in the room, casting her in a soft yellow-white glow.
She’s just in jeans and T-shirt. It’s not fancy.
Nothing about her should make me feel as intimidated and awkward as I do right now.
She yawns, rolling over and laying on her back, stretching her arms overhead.
“So, what got you into nursing?” I ask.
“You really want to know?” She turns her head to look at me.
“I can’t believe I didn’t ask you sooner. Yeah. I want to know.”
She laughs to herself and then she says, “I read a book about a nurse and I thought, I wonder what that's like.”
“Just like that? You read about a nurse and decided to enroll in nursing school?”
“Yes. Just like that.” She props herself back up on her elbow, staring at me with a note of defiance in her eyes, daring me to challenge her for making a massive life decision so lightly.
“Wow,” I say.
She raises a brow and tips her head slightly. “Well, how did you decide to get into football then?”
I lean back, staring up at the coffered ceiling. “I don't remember. It's just always been a thing. My dad loves the game. I’ve played since I can remember. I was always good at it.”
“I bet you were,” she says almost under her breath. “Do you love it?”
“Yeah. I do.” I stare over at her, our eyes connecting through the darkness. I don’t think anyone has ever asked me if I love football. They’ve just assumed. “I love it most of the time.”
“Not when you're being tackled.”
“No. That's a part that comes with the job.” I don’t want to talk about me and football. I have this urge to find out everything about her. There aren’t enough hours in the day even though we’ve been trapped here together for weeks. Why haven’t I been asking her about herself all along?
I’m asking now. “So, what do you love about nursing now that you’re officially seeing patients? Is it what you expected?”
She sits up, crossing her legs. “It is. And it's not.
I like this kind of nursing—helping people when they've hurt themselves. Like when Greyson hurt his leg on the job. I could be the one making sure he had what he needed. It's nice to feel indispensable—not that I am. But I feel like I have a purpose that matters to someone else at their lowest point. There’s no feeling in the world like helping someone get stronger because of something you did for them.”
“You’ve helped me,” I tell her.
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she simply says, “I’m glad.”
We stare at one another again. If I had the use of both my legs … if she weren’t my nurse’s aid … if my life weren’t on display for the world while hers is safely tucked away in this sweet small town … I’d stand up, go to her, lift her up and kiss her.
She clears her throat, breaking eye contact with me. “I’d better get going. How’s your pain?”
“It’s better. Maybe even a three.”
“You’ll need to take more ibuprofen in a few hours.”
“I’ll set an alarm on my phone,” I promise her.
She’s leaving. It’s what she’s supposed to do. I can’t keep her here.
She yawns again.
“Are you safe to drive?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine. I just roll down the windows and chew ice if I get tired. I’m not far from here.”
“You might want to bring some things over to keep here in case I need you overnight down the road. Or if something like this happens and you’re too tired to drive.” When she doesn’t say anything, I add, “For your convenience.”
“Like an overnight bag?” she wags her brows playfully.
“Chantal,” I groan. “You heard that, huh?”
“You have to respect a woman who knows what she wants and goes for it.”
“Do you, though?” I ask.
Winona laughs. “What’s not to like, Declan? She’s beautiful. She seems articulate. She knows football.”
“She’s not my type,” I say firmly.
I stare at Winona. She’s slightly disheveled at the end of the day, her hair wilder than normal. She looks tired in a way that makes me want to tug her into my arms and hold her until she falls asleep on my chest.
Her gentle eyes meet mine. They’re softer at this hour, especially after a long day.
I’m a half-second away from saying, “You’re my type,” but I hold my tongue.