Will you let me do that?
Again, there’s a long pause before she responds. I expect a no. I’d even understand a no.
Lou:
I don’t know if I can.
For some reason, her honesty surprises me. She doesn’t come across as a woman who wants to share her vulnerabilities.
Me:
They’re very easy to switch out. I could coach you through it. If you’re coordinated enough, I may not have to touch you at all.
It would take only a few minutes for me to redress her with clean splints—ones meant to be worn outside of a hospital. It’ll be awkward and take longer for her to do it, especially if her left hand is her dominant. We’re strangers, though. I can’t fault her apprehension.
Lou:
Can I think about it?
There’s no smile for this answer. Her question reminds me of why I’m such an overbearing asshole when it comes to new people in Paige’s life.
Me:
You only do what you want, Lou. You don’t need anyone’s permission.
Lou:
I don’t know how good I am at that anymore.
Me:
All habits can be broken. Especially the bad ones.
She turns quiet, and I leave her to it. It’s more interaction than I’ve gotten from her yet. I don’t want to push it or her. We all have demons to exorcise. She’s going through it now, but I’ve been there.
It’s late in the afternoon the next day when I get home. Mr. Felton fell in his yard while doing spring cleanup. I was only on call today, but Jerry, who is on duty, was across town dealing with a small fire started by a faulty portable heater at the Hall residence. They can’t afford to repair their furnace. It’s a problem we’ll have to find a solution for before they end up burning their whole house down.
Surprisingly, I’m following Lou’s car down the road. As far as I know, this is the first time she’s left the house since arriving in Stowaway. She pulls into the driveway, waiting for the garage door to open so she can pull in. Then, she lets the garage door shut before she even gets out of the car.
It’s a security measure. One I’ve taught to women before. It’s also a stark reminder that I’m still considered a threat. Me knowing that I’m not one doesn’t change things for her. Effectively, the whole thing ruins my mood.
Whoever this motherfucker is that did this to her should be strung up by his toenails and tortured slowly and thoroughly.
A couple hours later, she texts me, and it feels like the smallest win, but still a win.
Lou:
I went to the grocery store today. I’m not much of a cook, but I bake a mean cookie. Can I bring some over and you can help me with my splint?
Me:
Of course, I’m home for the night.
Lou:
On my way.
She isn’t, though. It’s another hour before I hear the knock and open the front door to her. The bruising on her face and neck are faded enough that if you weren’t paying careful attention, you’d almost miss it. Her eyes, though, they’re as wild as they were the day I first saw her. Wide and hyperaware.
