Winona
You can kid the world, but not your sister.
~ Charlotte Gray
“I sent you a payment,” I tell Cass as I pull into the Thunder parking lot.
I spent the afternoon handing out celebratory ice cream at elementary school track and field day. The money I earned today came just in time to give Cass my share of our utility bills.
“Thanks, Win. What are you up to today?”
“I’m about to pick Declan up from his day at the practice facility.”
“I hope he’s paying you extra to be his unofficial chauffeur.”
I don’t answer her.
“Win. Are you running him back and forth for free?”
“It’s not like that, Cass. Declan’s not taking advantage of me. If I’m free, I take him. I’m not going to ask him for more money. He’s not my employer. Riverview is.”
“Isn’t this your day off?”
“Technically?” I hedge.
She’s quiet.
“Yes.”
It is my day off. But I don’t care. I offered to drive him. He fought me on it. I told him it’s no big deal. He relented.
I pull into a space and kill the engine.
Cass doesn’t say anything else, but she’s sitting on the other end of the phone, stewing in unnecessary concern for me.
“Cass, I know this is going to be hard for you to wrap your brain around. And I know you’re just looking out for me. But Declan and I are … friends.”
Her silence stretches for a beat.
“He liked the goose, by the way,” I add.
“You’re kidding.”
“Would I kid about a goose?”
“You absolutely would not.”
“You don’t know Declan like I do,” I tell her.
“I’m starting to think no one knows him like you do.”
She has no idea what that thought does to me. Warmth fills me like I just drank a sip of hot apple cider on a chilly fall evening. The thing is, she might be right. Daisy doesn’t seem to know how fun and kind Declan can be. His parents for sure don’t. Maybe his teammates do.
I know him.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say.
“I just want you to know your worth,” Cass says.
“Minimum wage, baby,” I say with a laugh.
“Priceless,” she says. And then she says, “We need some sister time.”
“We do,” I agree. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m for sure free after dinner,” I tell her, purposely leaving that open on the off chance that Declan invites me to stay to eat with him.
“Because you have dinner plans?” she asks.
“I might,” I tell her. “Declan sometimes asks me to stay. That house is like a museum. I think he gets lonely.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“Thanks,” I say.
And for a moment, I believe her. Images of Declan leaning on me, looking up at me from the couch, calling my name when he needed my help all flood me.
He needed me. And I was there for him when no one else was.
Not Winona for Hire, who feels like her life is behind schedule while the rest of her friends are settled in careers and marriages. Me. Winona.
“He is lucky to have me,” I repeat, as if saying the words out loud will galvanize this growing sense of competence.
“Darn straight,” Cass says.
“Okay. I’m going. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Let’s get our PJs on and dish up ice cream and sit on my bed chatting until we can barely keep our eyes open,” she says, the giddiness in her voice carrying through the phone.
“That sounds so good. Let’s do it!”
We say our goodbyes and I hop out of the car, walking toward the front doors like I’m walking into my own house. When did the Thunder practice facility start to feel like a second home?
I tug the glass door and wave to James, one of the janitors. I met him when I was searching for a restroom one day while Declan was in treatment.
“Hey, James! Did your granddaughter make the cheer team?” I shout over to him.
“She sure did,” he answers, beaming with pride.
“Awesome!”
I turn down the wide hall, walking toward the door that leads into the rooms where the players meet with coaches. Declan’s got a meeting with the offensive coordinator. I stand off to the side, leaning against the wall to wait for him to come out.
Guys start filing out past me.
Some of them call my name.
“Hey, Winona!” Marcus Delaney shouts.
“Hey, Delaney!” I shout back.
“What’s a guy gotta do to get you to show up and drive him home?” Keller teases.
“Break a bone!” I shout back.
He runs his hand along his jaw like he’s weighing his options.
Declan comes swinging out the door. His face lights up with a smile when he sees me. He glances over at Keller.
“Is he giving you trouble?” he asks.
“Nope. Just trying to get me to start a personal driver service for players.”
“She’s not for hire,” Declan says.
He’s smiling, but something in the way he says it feels possessive, and I’m afraid I like belonging to Declan O’Connell way too much—even if it is in my overactive imagination.
Declan propels himself forward and I fall in step with him.
“See you guys later,” I say, waving to Delaney and Keller.
“Come for lunch again sometime,” Delaney says.
“I will!”
Declan’s smiling down at me. I smile back. It’s good to see him.
It’s like this loose piece rattles around all day—seeing him clicks it into place.
I’ve been watching football movies lately, hoping they’ll help me catch on to the sport more.
I cried my way through a Jerry McGuire scene where the guy confesses his love in three words: “You complete me.”
Declan might not complete me … but he definitely does something.
More than he should.
More than I should let him.
He smiles down at me again. “What’s the big plan? Driving the long way home?”
He’s joking, but my brain runs on random thoughts—they’re my fuel.
“Actually … yes.”
We get into the car and I tell him. “You need a drive. To clear the cobwebs. Your life doesn't have enough scenery.”
“You might be right,” he agrees. “I’ve got two settings these days—home and the practice facility.”
“Boring!”
He chuckles low and soft. I turn on the radio.
I glance over at him as I push the ignition.
Declan O’Connell, I was not expecting you.
I drive the opposite way of home, heading out two-lane roads, rolling down the window, turning up the volume.
Declan’s expression morphs from curious to entertained to all-in.
By the time I’m heading back into town, we’re both belting out I Want It That Way by the Backstreet Boys.
I want to stop singing so I can listen to Declan’s deep voice, pitch perfect, lilting in all the right places, rolling over me like butter on a warm roll.
But I know if I stop, he will too, so I put my heart into it and sing.
“What’s for dinner, football player?” I ask him as we pull through the first gate.
“Claudette’s something or other.”
“But what do you want for dinner?” I ask him.
“There’s this place in New Orleans …”
I glance over at him. “I don’t think you know me well enough.”
He smiles, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I want to know you better.”
I don’t know what to make of his seemingly innocent comment. It’s sweet. And I’m buzzing from head to toe with the way he’s looking at me after saying it. We’re friends. Friends get to know one another.
“What I was going to say … is that I would drive to New Orleans on a whim.”
“Yet you’ve only been to Tennessee and North Carolina?”
“No one ever mentioned that their favorite dinner was in New Orleans before.”
He laughs and then he glances out the side window muttering, “One of a kind.”
“So, within a fifty-mile radius, what’s for dinner?”
“How about hot chicken?” he asks.
“Oh. You don’t have to ask me twice.”
“You’re staying?” He sounds surprised.
I assumed we were eating together and for a moment I start to backpedal.
“I’d like you to stay,” he adds.
“I had planned on it. Maybe I shouldn’t presume. You might have other dinner companions …”
Maybe on my off days a string of women who look like the cast of the Barbie movie parade through Declan’s home. I don’t think that’s true, but I know it could be.
“I like eating dinner with you,” he says.
Plain and simple.
And my heart—the runaway train—blows an emergency whistle while sparks fly. I’m on board regardless of how this ride ends.
“I like eating dinner with you, too,” I say softly.
Declan pulls out his phone. He pulls up a meal delivery app and then he laughs. “They don’t do this in Waterford.”
“Nope. I’m pretty sure you need Winona for Hire if you want a meal delivered. Unless it’s pizza. They deliver.”
“I do need Winona for Hire,” he says, glancing over at me.
“Well, lucky for you, you have me tonight. Call it in. I’ll go get it.”
“We’ll go get it. You don’t need to wait on me hand and foot.”
He calls in our order.
After, we drive into town—together. Back at his place, I grab plates in the kitchen, dishing up our food while Declan rests on the couch per my orders.
His voice comes through the intercom. “I hate that you’re the one doing everything.”
I smile, walk over to the wall and press the button. When I say, “It’s in my job description,” my voice echoes through the house.
“You’re not on the clock,” he reminds me.
The words resound through the hallway and I pause as the truth settles beneath my skin.
I’m not on the clock.
But we both want me here. Whether it’s loneliness or familiarity or force of habit, Declan wants me to eat dinner with him. A small, timid voice says it’s so much more than all of that. I lick a dollop of sauce off my fingertip, wash my hands and carry our two plates into the living room.
“When I can walk again—without crutches,” Declan stares across the front room at me. “I’m making you dinner. And you’re going to sit still while I wait on you.”
I stop in my tracks. My breath stills. I gather myself and carry his plate to the coffee table next to him. “Promises, promises, football player.”
“If I make a promise, I keep it.”
“No one’s ever made me dinner—unless you count Cass or my friends.”
What I’m saying is, a man has never cooked for me.
“Well, I’m going to. I can cook. It’s just easier and more convenient to have Claudette.”
“You’re not kidding. Everyone needs a Claudette. Only certain people get her. But we all need her. I hope I get to meet her sometime.”
“You will,” Declan says.