Chapter 18 #2
I brush my thumb softly across her cheek, and it makes her eyes close.
“You’re always trying to please everyone, to make everyone happy at your own expense.
When you ordered a burger instead of the …
I don’t know, tunafish surprise, I figured you realized you were allowed to want something for yourself around me.
I wanted you to care more about making yourself happy with me than making yourself miserable to appease me.
Dumb, huh?” Tears spill down her cheeks again. “Great, and I’m making you cry.”
She sniffs, but she can’t smile, no matter how hard her lips try to quirk up. “You are different,” she says over the crackling of the fireplace.
“Not different enough.”
“Poor Oliver,” she teases with a sad voice. “Mad that you couldn’t undo a lifetime worth of hardwiring in two days.”
“You’re doing it right now,” I say, wishing I could temper my frustration.
“You’re trying to make me feel better, but I don’t deserve it.
I made you feel like you had to hide your own pain to get me home for family events I don’t even want to go to.
” I run my finger over her foot, sliding it up and down her calf to her knee.
“I should have said yes when you wanted to go see that train.”
“What?”
“The train. In the diner in Colorado. Mistletoe Mountain, or whatever it was. You wanted to see it. I wish I’d said yes. And the ball of twine. And whatever other quirky curio shop that caught your attention along the way.”
“We had to get home.”
“How’s that working out for us? We’ve done everything we can to get to Rochester. But every time we make a plan, the universe laughs and sets us on a different course. I should never have fought it.”
I don’t know when I started leaning closer to Poppy. I don’t know if I tipped her face up or if she angled it herself. But I know what her lips feel like against mine.
And I want to feel them again.
Our faces are inches apart, and her tired eyes are laser focused on my mouth. She wants this kiss as badly as I do … a fact I’m not too proud to take advantage of.
“Why don’t you ever take what you want?” I ask, my lips almost touching hers.
“Why don’t you tell your family how you feel?” she says. Her breath teases my lips, sending a wave of goosebumps over me that has nothing to do with my wet socks or hoodie.
“They know how I feel,” I say, my lips puffing out around hers.
“Then why don’t you take a stand?”
“Why don’t you let people take care of you?”
“Maybe I don’t know how,” she says. I can taste her breath, and the grazing of her lip against mine with every word is thrilling.
“Maybe you don’t think you deserve it,” I say, my nose rubbing against hers.
“Projecting much?”
Her eyes close, and mine follow. “I’ll stop if you do,” I say. Our lips are fully brushing against one another’s now—touching without kissing as we share space, share oxygen. I have a feeling she’s getting heady from breathing the same air.
Like me.
“Mmm,” she says.
“Mmm,” I agree, completely forgetting what we’re talking about.
I can’t take the teasing anymore, can’t handle another instant without my mouth on hers. I tilt my head—
And a knock at the door makes our heads whip apart.
Poppy’s head falls against my shoulder. “Come in,” I say, cursing the timing.
Clara enters with a pot of soup and a small basket.
She smiles but looks away from us, putting the pot on the table.
“Let me see your ankle,” she says, bringing the basket over.
She sits on the small wooden table in front of the couch, stretching Poppy’s foot toward her.
“That’s quite a bruise,” she says. “But Samuel and our kids are always getting banged up. I have just the things to help.”
In only a few minutes, Poppy’s drunk a willow bark tea for the pain and has her foot soaking in an Epsom salt bath. Clara leaves me with instructions for a salve to put on Poppy’s ankle as soon as her foot is done soaking, as well as a medical wrap and extra tea.
“I know how to tape an ankle,” I assure her.
“He’s a former player and a baseball manager,” Poppy adds excitedly. “He took his team to the national championship this year—his first year as manager—and they won!”
My eyes sting, and I have to look away. How does Poppy know about all of this? Has she … has she looked me up?
I’ve never had someone be proud of me for coaching before. Happy for me, sure—my team, owner, and friends in Mullet Ridge were all happy enough for me.
But proud?
Never.
“That sounds impressive,” Clara says kindly. “And like a lot of work.”
“It was nothing,” I say.
“It was, too,” Poppy says, heat in her voice. “He’s an incredible manager. His town loves him and his team loves him. You should see all the press coverage he got after the win.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” I say.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that, but I’m happy for you,” Clara says. She hands us both bowls of soup with bread. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength after such a difficult night. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
We thank her and say good night. The air between us feels charged after our interrupted kiss. Every time Poppy leans forward to eat her soup, I catch myself watching the movement of her throat when she swallows.
“I’m gonna go change,” I tell her after I finish eating. “Will you be okay?”
“Soaking my foot and eating soup?” she says with a tired smile. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
I change out of my wet clothes while Poppy’s foot finishes soaking, hyperaware that she’s just on the other side of a thin wall. When I return in dry clothes, she’s fast asleep on the couch.
I head into the bedroom and return with several quilts.
After I drape one over her, I remove her foot from the Epsom salt bath, rest it on my lap, and pat it dry, all without waking her.
I rub Clara’s arnica salve around her ankle, wait for it to dry, and then wrap it the way I’ve done on myself dozens of times.
Her skin is impossibly soft, and when she shifts in her sleep, something low in my stomach tightens.
I stretch both of her feet over my lap and tuck the quilts around her.
Once I’m done, I lean back against the couch and watch Poppy. Yes, she’s beautiful, but I’ve known beautiful women before. None of them have had a hold on me like Poppy does, especially after such a short time.
In some ways, she’s a mystery, yet she feels familiar, too. The way she argues, not to win, but to understand. The way she’s proud of me for coaching when my own family sees it as a failure, yet can still mourn the loss of my ideal with me.
Yes.
That’s it, that’s what feels so familiar: she can hold two opposing ideas at once and find value in both without making me feel like there’s something wrong with my opinion.
I’ve only ever known one other person who could do that.
The fact that Poppy can …
It’s like a dream made flesh.
Between the crackling of the fire, the sound of Poppy breathing, and the light pressure of her legs across my lap, I don’t remember the last time my mind felt so quiet. Soon, my eyes close and I fall fast asleep.