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My fine motor skills haven’t been affected until now, and it’s terribly frustrating; knowing what I want my body to do but being unable to accomplish it.
Part of my issue might be the fact that I’m holding the cane also. But damn it, I should be able to do this.
“Fuck,” I grit out, letting my cane fall to the floor with a clatter while leaning against the wall next to my closet.
“Is everything all right in there?” a deep voice says from the other side of my bedroom door.
“Shouldn’t you be waiting outside?” I snap at Ellister, my irritation at my illness getting the better of me.
“No,” he replies, sounding very sure of himself.
“It’s rude to just hang out in a stranger’s house,” I add. “Especially when you weren’t invited in.”
“Your mother invited me. She literally said, “You can wait right here,” and motioned to your living room.”
“Well, this isn’t her house.” I bark out an exasperated sound as I continue to fumble with the infuriating button. I try to do it with just my right hand, but that doesn’t work either.
“Whatever it is you’re struggling with, I can assist you.”
“No, you really can’t.” I laugh bitterly. Because he doesn’t need to be anywhere near my pants.
“Want to bet?” he asks. “Let’s make a friendly wager. If I can help you with your problem, you’ll give me more samples of sweet stuff.”
A pointless gamble. Of course he’ll be able to button my jeans. There’s no use in asking what I’ll get if I win.
My shoulders slump as I accept the fact that I might as well take him up on his offer. The only other option is to call my mom back, and I really don’t want to do that.
“Fine.” Before I’ve even finished saying the word, my door is flying open.
Like Ellister couldn’t wait to get in here.
As soon as he’s in my space, just a couple feet away from me, a wave of calm comes over me like a warm blanket. My pain recedes, and some of my energy returns.
Equal amounts of relief and anger follow.
Because why do I always react like this around him? It’s really messing with my head.
And damn it, he looks good today. My dad must’ve loaned him more clothes, because he’s wearing a very familiar flannel shirt—one my dad has owned for more than twenty years. I remember tracing the blue and yellow squares with my fingers while he gave me piggyback rides.
The jeans Ellister has on are new. Guess my dad didn’t want to give him any of the ripped ones, which was nice of him.
I still don’t understand why Ellister didn’t pack a bag if he knew it was a possibility he’d stay for a while, but whatever. His big black boots look out of place, and the stocking cap is obviously a permanent fixture on his head.
Ellister bends to pick up my cane and extends it toward me so I have something to balance with instead of hugging the wall.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, quickly scanning my body with his eyes as if he’s searching for open sores or a missing limb.
In answer, I motion to my waist where the denim is hanging open, where I’m positive there’s a sliver of my red-and-white polka dot panties peeking out. “I need you to button it.”
Ellister swallows so hard I hear it. Seeming frozen in place, he just stares at the area, and for several seconds, his gaze stays there.
From the way he’s acting, you’d think there’s a snake poking out of my underwear, and he’s afraid it’s going to bite him.
For heaven’s sake, it’s just clothes.
“Am I gonna win this bet?” I prompt impatiently. “Because if that’s the case, I need to know what my prize is.”
“I’ll do it,” he rushes out, suddenly crowding me.
