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“No.”
“What about this?” He wiggled my toes.
“Doesn’t hurt.”
“Can you move your ankle?”
I grimaced as I attempted to roll it back and forth. “I can, but it hurts.”
“Hopefully it’s only sprained. Do you want to go to urgent care? There’s one in town. I think it’s open pretty late.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll just keep off of it and ice it for a while.”
He folded the ice pack into the towel and tied it around my ankle, like he did this every day.
“You’re good at that.”
He nodded. “A lifetime of playing hockey. Dozens of bangs, sprains, and breaks over the years.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“I’m going to grab something from the house to elevate your leg.”
“Okay.”
He came back with a pillow and stuffed it under my foot. “How’s that feel?”
“Good. Thank you.”
Nursing done, Fox knelt to check out the area of the deck my foot had crashed through. He pressed down on the surrounding wooden planks and shook his head. “These boards are all rotted through. It’s pine, and even when it’s treated, it’s not the best wood for outdoor use. It’s too soft. Should’ve used oak. Most people go with Trex or some other composite decking these days—looks like wood but without the rotting and fading.” He smacked dirt from his hands and stood. “This whole thing needs to be replaced.”
I sighed. “Great.”
He eyed my glass of lemonade sitting on the table. “What’s it spiked with?”
“Vodka.”
“Got any lemonade without the alcohol?”
“I do. I made a whole pitcher. It’s in the refrigerator. I added two shots of vodka directly to the glass, so the lemonade is just lemonade. Help yourself.”
Fox took my almost-empty glass and disappeared into the house again. He came back with a refill for me and full glass for himself.
“Two shots looked like a lot, so I added one to yours.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”
It surprised me that he took a seat on the chair next to me. I didn’t think he’d stick around after the way he’d bolted out of here earlier. But we sat side by side, silently looking out at the lake.
After a long time, Fox spoke softly. “I apologize for the abrupt way I left this morning.”
“No need to apologize. You did so much for me today.”
He nodded. Then seemed to get lost in his head. He sipped his lemonade and tilted the glass toward me. “How many of those have you had?”
“This is my third. But I have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol. It’s genetics. Comes from my mother. She doesn’t drink much, but when she does, she can knock back three or four dry martinis and be fine. My dad, on the other hand, had a few beers and would get giddy and slur his words.”
“Is vodka your go-to?”
