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When I nod, she sits up and rotates to pound the throw pillows with her fist a couple of times. She gets comfortable, relaxing against the pillows, and I have a hard time not staring at her. She’s like a princess on a chaise lounge.
“Are you sure you want to do this? I have ballerina feet.” She makes a face.
I grab a pillow that’s fallen to the floor and use it to prop her feet up. “I like your feet,” I insist.
They’re tanned, with a defined and high instep. Her ankles are strong. Her toenails sport dark pink polish. I pick one foot up and settle it in my lap, resting the other foot on the pillow.
“I have corns and calluses. I even had stress fractures from my pointe shoes.”
“Well, then you have even more reason for some TLC.”
She gives a soft, low moan as I knead circles into the arches of her foot.
If we don’t start talking about the festival, I’m going to be too distracted to think straight at all.
“I have to admit, I’ve never paid much attention to the festival,” I say. “How’s it going to be on opening day?”
Her eyes pop open wide—brown pools of excitement. “If we get an opening day, it’s the best kind of madhouse you’ve ever seen.”
“We’re going to get our opening day. And it’s going to be a success. I can feel it.”
“I hope so,” she says, letting her eyes sink closed.
“So, we’re supposed to show up, say our spiel, and move out of the way?” I ask.
“Basically,” she concedes, her eyes still closed. “The media will be there for the ribbon cutting, so I think we should practice how we might answer questions. Do you think the news stations will be big jerks and mention Carl and Amanda?”
“I don’t know, but we need to be prepared either way.”
“What do we even say?”
I study the paintings above our heads. “Do our best to answer in one vague sentence and then change the subject.”
She nods. “Here’s a change of subject for you.” She opens her eyes and straightens. “Theo? Was there something wrong earlier? You seemed kind of down.”
I shift in the sofa, my back feeling tired. “It’s my pro bono case.” It does have to do with the case. She just doesn’t yet know in what way. I can’t tell her because of client confidentiality.
“When’s the court date?”
“Next week.”
“Have you figured out your approach with the judge?”
“I think so.”
I’ve spoken briefly with the prosecuting attorney and he’s willing to consider some good options. It’s just that lately, whenever I’m working on the case, I freeze, lost in thoughts of my father.
There’s so much about this I can’t talk with Aria about. “But let’s practice some talking points for the media.”
And so we do. Me obsessing over her calves and feet, and the feel of her skin on my fingertips, while she adds notes to a doc on her phone.
Far too soon, she drags her feet towards her and wraps her arms around her knees. “Thank you for that. I think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow without dying.”
“I’m happy to help. I like taking care of you, Aria.”
She stares at me, her gaze moving, rapid fire, from one eye to the other. “I’d better call it a night.” She stands and stretches her arms over her head, the hem of her shirt riding up just enough for me to see a flash of skin right above her waistband before she lowers her arms.
Okay. I need to get out of here. My feelings are like clean socks in the dryer, slamming against the drum—mixed up, falsely secure, heated.
