“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.Wasa 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.
