Chapter 4 #2
“No, I had it right the first time,” she says with almost a grimace.
“Not close with your parents, I take it.” With her buddy-splint removed, I examine her fingers. “Can you move them yet?”
“Not really,” she says. “To both things.”
“The method I’m going to use may feel a little clunky, but it allows more airflow,” I say, cleaning her skin with an alcohol wipe.
She still shakes, but it’s considerably less.
“Your skin will be happier. And it’s easier to change when it gets dirty.
You shouldn’t have had the buddy-splint all this time. It’s not effective for breaks.”
“Does that mean they’ll take that much longer to heal?”
“They might. Hard to say.” I shrug. “I’m not a doctor and I don’t know how broken they are.”
“I was as careful with them as I could be. Hopefully, I didn’t set myself back too far,” she says. “I was hoping to start painting soon.”
“Painting? Like, on a canvas?”
“Oh, no. I’m not that talented,” she says with a small laugh. “In an effort to repay Juliet for loaning me a place to stay while also finding a sense of purpose, I’m going to try and update Irma’s place some.”
“That’s great. It’ll be nice to see some new life over there. It’s been too quiet since she passed.”
“Have you always lived here?”
“No. I left at eighteen. Moved to Portland thinking I’d leave small town life behind me forever,” I tell her. “I had ridiculous dreams of being a rock star.”
“You’re a musician?”
“Sure, if delusion is an instrument,” I say, and now, she laughs. It comes out unbidden, surprising even herself. “I’m the king of karaoke here in Stowaway. Somehow, I thought that was enough.”
“Charisma and confidence can go a long way.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever called me charismatic before.” I finish snugging the splint over her fingers. “Good as new. But if you need to move furniture over there, call me. Or these are never going to heal.”
“Thank you,” she says, holding her hand up and examining my work.
“Did you eat?”
“Only cookie dough.” Her nose wrinkles, like she’s afraid to admit it. “But I didn’t eat anything else all day.”
“You don’t have to justify it,” I say. “You’re an adult, eat pie for breakfast, if you want. Who cares?”
“Umm, I think most of the world,” she says, her face slipping back into the sadness she carries so well. “Or, at least nearly everyone I know. I’m a model. Was a model. I’m not sure anymore.”
“Bruises heal, Lou. This shouldn’t be what stops your career.”
“No. But your abusive ex being one of fashion’s most beloved photographers might.”
Well, damn. Her life is even more complicated than I thought.
“I had planned on leftover fried chicken, but I have a better idea,” I say as I pull a couple spoons from the drawer before turning to the freezer. I drop my retrievals on the counter in front of her. “Pick your poison Miss…what’s your last name?”
“I’d rather not,” she starts nervously.
“No worries,” I interrupt her before she feels the need to explain her desire for anonymity. “Which one is yours? Or do you want some of both?”
Tentatively, she spins each container.
“I can’t remember the last time I had ice cream,” she muses. “I think it was for a photo shoot. Even then, I only had a few licks. They mostly wanted it melting down my hand.”
“What a waste.” I pop the lids off both and hold a spoon out to her. “Nobody’s watching, Lou.”
“You are.” She takes a spoon.
“Yeah, but I’m encouraging. Not judging,” I say, dipping mine into the strawberry. “I’ll turn my back, if it helps.” I take the bite and moan with exaggerated delight.
“Not necessary,” she tells me, looking a little lighter, but still with worry around the corners of her mouth. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You dip the spoon in,” I say. “No pressure, though. I can make you a real meal. Something healthy.”
Lou runs the spoon over the top of the toffee nut, slowly filling the spoon with smooth cream.
“Healthy would be deciding to do something because I want it. Not because someone else doesn’t want me to have it.”
She takes the ice cream up to her mouth, her tongue darting out to drag along the side of stainless steel before she takes it all in.
It shouldn’t be sexy; she’s not trying to be.
Yet, it is. She is. Because even in the middle of battling through turmoil, she’s choosing to face this one personal demon.
I’m oddly proud of her, this stranger who shifts my point of view.
“Is it good?”
“It’s fucking delicious.” She grins. Genuinely.
I wonder when the last time was she did that.
“Want more?”
“Fuck yes.”
I push both pints toward her, letting her alternate between the two. Fresh baked cookies can be my dinner. They’re soft. The perfect combination of oatmeal and chocolate.
“These are delicious,” I tell her, grabbing a second one.
“Thanks,” she says around another spoonful.
“Want one?”
“No.” She shakes her head, that lingering fear she tends to carry creeping onto her features. “It’s something to keep me busy. I don’t eat them.”
Lou stills at her own words, sets her spoon down, and stares at the pints. Each one now misses about a quarter of its contents. A shiver runs up her spine, so intense that her shudder is visible.
“I need to go,” she says abruptly.
“Lou.”
“I’m sorry. Th-thank you.” She manages to get the words out before she’s out the front door in a rush.