Chapter Four
Four
The best part of ren faire season has always been Monday morning.
After two straight days on my feet and in the sun, wearing multiple layers in the summer heat, Monday morning was a blissful nothing.
No plans, no work. For those of us who worked the Willow Creek Renaissance Faire, those four Mondays in the summer were like holidays.
We certainly needed them to regroup and rest up after a busy weekend.
I’d never been one for sleeping in, though. The first Monday after Faire I was up early, having a cup of coffee with Mom before she headed off on her commute to work.
“I’ll be back at lunchtime. We have an appointment this afternoon to have his ankle looked at.” Mom took another sip of coffee before glancing toward the living room, concern etched on her face.
“You think it’s bad?”
She shrugged. “What am I, an orthopedic surgeon?” Mom quirked a smile as I snorted; hadn’t I thought the same thing yesterday?
I didn’t know bad jokes were genetic. “I don’t think it’s broken,” she continued.
“It would look a lot worse if it was. He can’t put much weight on it, though, and I don’t like that. ”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promised.
“Thanks. I’ve got him settled on the couch.”
“Ooh.” I sucked in a breath. “Is Murray okay with sharing?”
“They’re very good friends,” Mom assured me.
I took an uncertain sip of coffee, cocking my head in a question. “Wasn’t Murray old when you adopted him? Like five years ago?”
“Seven,” she reminded me. “Right after you left for college, remember? And yeah, somebody pulled a scam on me at the shelter. Adopt this dog, they said. He’s old and nobody wants him, they said.
” She shook her head. “They knew a sucker when they saw one.” But her smile said she didn’t regret her decision for one second.
I didn’t blame her. A black-and-white terrier mix whose hobbies included naps and eating baby carrots, Murray was a great dog and we were lucky to have him, no matter his age.
After Mom left for work, I jumped into my own day.
It had been a rough weekend, both physically and emotionally, and I deserved a little self-care.
First a long, steamy, everything shower.
(Sure, I’d showered off the Faire dirt when I’d gotten home the night before, but this was different.
This was pampering.) Once I was squeaky clean and smooth, it was time for skin care, lotions of all kinds, followed by my curly hair routine.
I plopped my hair in an old T-shirt, tying it up on my head to let it dry and let the products work their magic.
There were more important things I could be doing today.
Looking for a job, for one. But even the thought of it made my stomach swirl and sent prickles across my skin in the worst possible way.
Job postings that were up today would be up tomorrow, I told myself.
There was nothing wrong with taking a break. Letting my brain rest. I deserved it.
I didn’t bother with makeup, since I wasn’t leaving the house today.
I pulled on a stretched-out T-shirt, not even bothering with a bra—the girls deserved a day off too—and some cutoff sweats.
I looked like a gremlin, but who cared? No one was going to see me except Mitch, and he didn’t count.
I shuffled down the hall in my fuzzy socks, indulging occasionally in little slides on the hardwood floor.
Time for a third cup of coffee, and maybe reading on the back deck before it got too warm.
Should check on Mitch too, see if he needed anything.
He was a stubborn man; he needed to stay off his feet if he wanted to be better by the weekend.
I pushed off on my front foot, sliding into the living room, and didn’t register the voices until I was in mid-slide.
“Yikes. That doesn’t look good at all.”
“Doesn’t feel great, either.”
Both men stopped talking when I made my grand entrance, with my fuzzy sock slide and a T-shirt on my head. Mitch was on the couch, of course, sipping from a newly filled cup of coffee. And there, perched on the edge of the coffee table with his own cup of coffee: Alexander Freaking Wright.
I froze as my feeble slide came to an end while I fully took in this nightmare.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Mitch’s eyes widened as the words belly-flopped out of my mouth.
I wasn’t usually one for dropping an f-bomb this early in the morning, but this was my self-care day, dammit.
Alex Wright in my house was the opposite of self-care.
To his credit, Alex looked as rattled as I felt, and I could practically see wheels turning in his head.
“Mitch invited me over.” He pointed, as though anyone would be able to miss a guy Mitch’s size, manspreading all over the couch in his gym shorts, foot propped on the coffee table while an elderly black and white dog nestled at his side, fast asleep. “You know. Because of his ankle.”
Well, that didn’t make any sense. “Oh, are you a doctor now? Did I miss when you got your medical degree?” I put my hands on my hips, trying to summon a little dignity despite my gremlin-like appearance.
His lips twitched, and he had better not be laughing at the T-shirt tied on my head. “For the fight.” Amusement crept into his tone, and I didn’t like that one bit.
“Yeah,” Mitch chimed in. “We’re gonna have to redo some stuff in the chess match. You know, since I fucked up my ankle.”
I blinked at him. “But you’ll be better by the weekend, right?
You just need to rest it.” I hadn’t gotten a good look at his injury after we’d gotten home last night.
Mom had helped him take his boots off and get into the shower while I’d taken care of ordering Chinese takeout.
I looked at it now, cushioned on a throw pillow, and I winced.
The right ankle was swollen significantly, mottled with purple bruising.
Mitch had been right yesterday. He wasn’t fine.
“Oh,” I said. “Never mind.”
“Yeah.” Mitch sighed. “Hopefully the doctor will just make me stay off it for a few days, but…” He trailed off as we all focused on his ankle.
None of us said the true thing: he was going to be off it for more than a few days.
“Anyway,” he said. “I was telling Simon that we’re probably going to have to modify the chess match, and I figured who better to help us with that than an actual Sword Bro. ”
“That’s me.” Alex did some weak jazz hands and I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. I didn’t want to laugh.
“He’s on his way over,” Mitch continued.
“Simon is?” My voice went a little high-pitched there at the end, because, dammit, this house was filling up with people fast. And I was still here with a T-shirt tied around my head.
So much for a quiet day at home. By the time I’d de-gremlined myself, doing my hair and putting on a little makeup (not to mention a bra), Simon had arrived, and the living room had become a rehearsal space.
He and Alex had pushed the coffee table to one end of the room, and they were miming a sword fight at half speed with no weapons.
Mitch leaned forward as best he could from his spot on the couch. Murray snored through it all.
“Do you want to keep in the flip?” Mitch asked.
Alex looked eager. “I can do the flip.”
But Simon shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His brow was knit in thought, and he missed the way Alex’s face fell at the denial. “The whole point of that move is how much bigger you are than I am, right? That’s what makes it look so good.”
Mitch grinned and leaned back against the couch cushions. “I know, I make anything look good.” Simon rolled his eyes and Alex laughed. Even I had to smile at that. Mitch Malone had the healthiest ego of anyone I knew, and his injury was doing nothing to dim it.
“The contrast.” Simon spoke with exaggerated patience, even though there was a smile in his words. “The contrast is what makes it look good.”
Now I had to chime in. “Plus the kilt.” Three heads turned in my direction; no one had seen me come in. I shrugged as casually as I could. “The kilt’s been a legend since before I started doing the Faire.”
“Okay, no.” Mitch groaned and let his head fall back with a thunk. “I don’t want to think about that.”
“About what?”
“You were, what, twelve when you started at the Faire?”
“Fourteen,” Simon corrected. “She was a freshman. That’s why Emily had to volunteer with her.
” Small spots of color appeared in his cheeks, right above his close-trimmed beard, and I knew what he was remembering.
They’d fallen in love that summer, when they weren’t too busy bantering in character as pirate and tavern wench.
I nodded in confirmation. “Ten years ago this summer.”
“Noooo.” Mitch groaned again. “Stop,” he said. “You’re making me feel ancient. I’m thirty-seven! I’m not old.”
I snorted, and Alex echoed the sound. I raised my eyebrows in his direction, but he was too busy smothering a laugh as he looked at Mitch. “Did you seriously just make a Monty Python joke?” Alex shook his head in wonder. “I’m seeing you in a whole new light now.”
Mitch scoffed. “Oh, come on. I’ve been doing a renaissance faire every summer for almost twenty years. Of course I’ve got a little bit of nerd in me.”
“A very little bit.” Simon shook his head, amused.
“Can we please get back to it?” His years of experience running the Willow Creek Renaissance Faire couldn’t be more evident; he was great at keeping the high school kids in line and applied the same now to Mitch.
“We can cut the flip for now. Besides, I’m thirty-seven myself.
I don’t know how much longer my back can take it. ”