Winona #2
Then he picks up his sandwich and it drips on the plate—mayo, coleslaw, and the crispy chicken—arguably one of the messiest meals he could have chosen. Declan takes a big bite and moans.
“Man that hits,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Especially after my workout today.”
“Hard workout?” I ask, taking a bite of my own sandwich.
“They’re not going easy on me.” He smiles. “I’m glad. It’s a sign they’ve got hope I’ll need to be in shape for the end of this season.”
He’s thrilled. It shows in the crinkle around his eyes and the way his dimple pops.
His optimism is palpable. All I can think is that nights like these are not going to be a part of my life in a matter of months.
So, I push down all intrusive thoughts and dig into my chicken and sides, and I focus on Declan—his nearness, the ease between us, the way he’s so happy right now.
I clip all these moments and tuck them into an invisible album in my mind.
After dinner, Declan offers to throw the ball.
“You need practice if you plan on going pro,” he says while I’m clearing our plates.
I follow him out the back door of the laundry room, picking the ball up from the counter where I left it last time.
“Let’s see what you remember,” Declan says.
“My skills might be impeded by my full stomach,” I warn him.
“No excuses,” he teases. “Throw the ball.”
I love how his natural love for the sport comes out when we’re out here. He’s different around a football. It brings out a coaching side of his personality—a little bossy and very invested.
I place my fingers around the laces the way he taught me and pull the ball back. Then I fling it forward with the technique he walked me through. Only, my mind drifts to the way he stood behind me, and I release too late. The ball drops to the ground only yards away.
“That would work for a spike in the end zone after a touchdown,” he says with a huff of laughter. “Did you forget the moment of release?”
“Maybe,” I lie.
He propels over to me and steps right up behind me.
His head bends low so his cheek is next to my ear.
“Grab the ball, Winona.”
Oh, for the love of Dolly Parton’s rhinestones. I can’t even focus.
I place my fingers on the laces, trying to ignore the heat radiating off Declan, the feel of him behind me, the way he smells like dinner and man and someone’s happy future.
“Focus,” he says.
“Easy for you to say,” I breathe out.
He laughs, oblivious to my predicament. “Do your best.”
He lifts my hand, his over mine, guiding me. And we throw. The ball sails toward the net across the yard and hits the center circle on the net.
“Did you see that?!” I jump and turn.
He’s right there. His eyes roving over my face. And my brain is screaming, Kiss me! Kiss me, now!
Instead of mind reading, he propels backward, still smiling straight at me.
“Try again,” he says.
So, I do.
We throw for a while. Well, I throw and he coaches.
I notice him growing weary of standing. It’s the small things, a shift of his weight, the thinning of his lips for a brief moment.
“You’ve had a long day,” I tell him. “You need to elevate your foot so you don’t overdo it.”
His face warms. “You’re always watching out for me.”
I’m about to remind him it’s my job. But that’s not why. It started that way. But now, I just care about him. This isn’t my workday. And I’m not his home health aide. Not tonight.
“I told Cass we could have a sister night.”
“Oh? Were you supposed to have dinner with her?” His forehead draws up.
“No. We’re having ice cream on her bed in our PJs and talking until we can’t keep our eyes open.”
“That sounds fun.”
“It’s been too long. I’ve been running all over doing odd jobs, keeping up with school … We’re overdue.”
“I keep you from her.”
“I choose what I do with my time. And tonight, I wanted to spend dinner with you. Thanks for the chicken.”
“Thanks for staying.”
He turns and propels himself toward the house.
I walk behind him, watching him make light work of the stairs. I’ll never tire of watching him move. He’s artistry in motion.
Once he’s settled back on the couch, we say our goodbyes.
When I pass Geese Witherspoon, I look down.
We’re expecting rain tomorrow.
And she’s wearing her raincoat and matching yellow hat.
I smile all the way home at the picture of Declan dressing a goose.
She doesn’t fit in his world any more than I do. But he made room for her.
“It’s just a porch goose,” I say out loud as I pull into the driveway of the house I share with Cass.
Cass is curled up with a book on one of the couches in our front room when I open the door. Unlike Declan’s house, we don’t have a foyer and a grand hallway.
Our home is an old craftsman with beveled glass windows and tons of wood details everywhere you look. The chunky frames around the windows and the old, original wood floor are my favorite.
Our “front room” is just the place you walk into when you open the door—cozy, lived in, and the place I’d always choose to be on a rainy day.
I wonder what Declan would make of this place.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Declan dressed the goose for the storm.”
“What?” She sets her book down, splayed on the coffee table.
“Get a bookmark, you heathen,” I tease her. “Daisy would have you tarred and feathered for book-spine abuse.”
“You’re right,” she says, hunting around for anything she can use to mark the book. She pulls a receipt out of her purse. “What’s this about dressing the goose for the storm?”
“When I left, I glanced at Geese, you know, to tell her goodbye. And she’s wearing her raincoat and rain hat.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“Who else would dress the goose?”
“Good point,” she says. “He definitely did not strike me as a porch goose man. Color me surprised.”
“Little did you know. He is one.”
“What’s that look in your eye?”
“What look?”
“And that blush. Winona Carter. I do declare.”
I plop down in one of the chairs, the accumulation of the day’s events hitting me all at once.
“You don’t declare,” I say.
“Oh, but I do.” She smiles. “You’ve got a crush.”
Crush sounds so youthful and temporary. What I’ve got is so much worse. I’m not a schoolgirl, pining for the captain of the football team. And my feelings for Declan aren’t a momentary inconvenience. I’m afraid they’re not going anywhere.
“Can we just get ready for bed?” I ask. “And pick this up once I’m in PJs with ice cream?”
“Oh, yes. This conversation needs ice cream,” Cass says.
“You’re telling me.”
Once we’re upstairs, in PJs with bowls in hand, we pile onto Cass’s bed.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says.
“And you,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I’ve been MIA.”
“You’ve been bringing home the bacon.”
I laugh and take a big bite of caramel praline.
“I’ve been bringing home bacon bits. But every bit helps.”
She giggles. “I love your brain.” She tucks a pillow behind her back and stares pointedly at me. “So … about this crush.”
I take another bite, prolonging my confession. I want to tell Cass. She’s not just my sister. She’s my twin. And my best friend.
“I’ve never had feelings like this for a man before,” I say, briefly glancing up at her and then focusing hard on scraping the melted ice cream off the sides of my bowl.
“For Declan?”
“I knoooow.” I groan. “Why couldn’t it have been one of the many farm hands Carli has set me up with over the years? Or a guy who works at the bank. Someone normal.”
“Do these feelings go both ways?” Cass asks.
“I don’t know. Probably not. I mean, how preposterous would it be to have him feel anything for me besides a bit of gratitude and some friendship?”
Cass sets her bowl aside. “What makes you say that?” She reaches out and places her hand over mine. “You're amazing. Declan’s been spending all this time with you. He has to see you for who you are—beautiful, funny, one of a kind. You're the whole package.”
I fall back onto her mattress. “Why him? Besides the fact that he’s incredible. And I don’t just mean his muscles. Though … those are spectacular …”
Cass giggles. “You do have it bad, don’t you?”
“Yes!” I pop up, taking a bite of ice cream. “He’s so sweet, Cass. Thoughtful, humble, funny.”
“And so are you.” She stares into my eyes in an attempt to make me receive her words.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You are. He’d be lucky to be with someone as amazing as you.”
I don’t answer her. It’s not that I dislike myself.
I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin. Confidence isn’t my weak spot.
Believing I’m at the same level as a pro football player when I’m a nurse’s aide with an odd-job side hustle feels delusional.
He’s achieved so much in his life. I’m not even close to being in his league.
I shift the conversation. “What have you been up to lately? How’s work?”
“It’s good. You know that historic Victorian on Hillcrest and Chapel?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re putting it up for sale. I got to go through with Bryce today while he took the photos for the listing. Do you know it has a hidden room?”
“I love hidden rooms!”
She sighs. “Me too.”
Then she looks at me with this expression that goes past words and hits me straight in my heart. Only she can do that.
“Winona?”
“Yeah?” I set my empty bowl to the side and the spoon makes a pinging sound.
“I hope you know Declan’s not better than you.”
I just nod.
“It would be a stretch …” I don’t even finish that sentence. I can’t. Saying any of this out loud makes it all too real—my feelings for Declan, the way he sees me, the fact that it will all come to a screeching halt once he’s back on the roster.
I lean over and draw Cass into an awkward hug since we’re both sitting cross-legged.
“A football player,” I say, standing up and laughing to myself. “Of all the things.”
“You don’t even like football,” Cass says, even though she knows that’s no longer true.