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“Definitely.” I wait.
Victoria reminds me of a flipped turtle. Sexy turtle, obviously, but still. Injured. Can’t right itself. Her valiant efforts seem to be hindered by the impressively bruised collarbone, one ankle that is pink and much bigger than the other, and the fact that one arm seems to work and the other doesn’t. That, and when she uses her good arm to move, the sheet across her slender torso slides down.
“Can I help?” I offer.
“Um. Yes. Just be careful.”
“Right. Careful.”
She didn’t sleep naked. Just topless. There’s no room for me to stand where she is without stepping on her or the bed, so the bed wins. I lay across it and slide my arms under her knees and back, mumbling apologies when she bites back a pained noise.
My skin connects with hers. Bare. Slips as I roll and pull her, and I can feel the edge of something soft on my skin. Underwear.
“If the bullets don’t get you, the embarrassment will,” she groans as we briefly press together on the mattress. I’m off in a flash, standing back in the doorway like she’s a bomb that might go off.
“No-nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say gruffly. “People fall.”
“People usually can get into their pajamas. Do you know what it’s like having a miscarriage and a broken ankle at the same time? When you can’t get up and walk for the first few days?”
“I’m made of spare parts, but not those particular ones,” I mutter. I don’t tell her I can imagine it.
“My mom helped then. We lost touch again after that. It’s good. I tell myself it’s good. I don’t want her to have a target on her back, too.”
“But that must be so hard. Not having your mother or father around?” I look for her duffel bag in the room, anxious to do something, to help now that I’m here.
“Want cereal?” I blurt.
“I would love some actual clothes. I’m freezing.”
“Right. Clothes. Motrin.” I finally spot the duffel bag wedged under the bed, now that I’ve moved it. “Can you get dressed? Do you want Rhea?”
“I got dressed yesterday. I’ll do it again. It just hurts worse today.”
“So why torture yourself when I’m standing here?” I demand, yanking the bag up and out.
“Because I don’t let gorgeous guys who can break me in half take my panties off anymore,” Victoria snaps, and her words feel like a slap.
“Oh. Right. Um. I’ll go find the Motrin. Only, didn’t we get something else? Migraine-Away, or something?”
“Even better,” she sighs, then roots around in the bag, holding the sheet to her chest with her chin.
I get out of there fast, before I can dwell on what she said.
Gorgeous.
She said I’m gorgeous.
THE REST OF THE DAY is spent checking on Victoria every couple of hours and going downstairs to the shop to work on a project pick-up that I’m putting together, bit by bit, paying for the parts myself.
Victoria’s a little project, too. A pet. She’s like a pet. That’s what I tell myself, but I’m not convinced.
I make sure she eats, drinks, and I take her to the restroom even though she says she can walk there herself. I roll my eyes, pick her up, and put her down at the door. “You can walk back to the recliner,” I tell her, then put the television on TV Land.
Pets don’t talk to you (well, maybe a parrot would), and they don’t look up at you with these soft, hesitant smiles that make you feel like you’re floating.
Pets don’t ask to come downstairs on Saturday morning and sit at the office desk to look over the parts catalogs. They don’t hobble and hop to the metal door between the office and the shop to watch you sweet-talk a timing belt on an old black pick-up that needs a new everything.
By Sunday, I have the brilliant idea of going to the pharmacy and buying adjustable crutches for Victoria, only to talk to the pharmacist (grudgingly), who points out that with her type of injury, she might be better off with something called a knee scooter.
