towel from a rack and bumped the cold water handle on. He wet the towel, turned off the faucet and dabbed her face. It looked so pale, like a little girl's.
One arm still around her, he guided her to the living room. Pulling a blanket
off the couch and onto the floor with one hand, he gently guided her down, laid
her back, then lifted her feet up onto a pillow at the other end. He grabbed a pillow from the chair nearby and tucked it under her head. “Here—here's a pillow.”
She looked up at him with big brown eyes which started to fill with tears.
“But I didn't get you anything.”
Peter smiled, then tucked some hair from her face back behind her ear. She
lay back, a smile returning, as he retrieved the blanket from the floor and gently
laid it over her. He kneeled down beside her, his arm resting on the side of the couch.
“Goodnight, Kate.” He thought about kissing her on the forehead.
Kate, smiling, nestled deeper into the couch and closed her eyes. In a few seconds, she was already asleep.
Peter stood, still watching her. Her chest rising and falling, he found himself
seeing her as that little girl from his tree house. Wavy hair spilling around her face, a sprinkle of freckles around her eyes. Angelic and childlike at the same time. Not the sophisticated career-driven woman who felt so out of reach, but a
simple small-town girl.
He knew she'd been working hard. Maybe too hard. And he felt a measure of
guilt himself. Was he making her life harder? Maybe that kiss was a mistake.
He cocked his head, spying a pink piece of paper peeking out of a top pocket
of her dress. Curious, he slowly removed it. It was wrinkled and old and smelled
like faded strawberries. Pink paper with ruled lines from a little girl's notebook.
He went to a chair, unfolded the note, and spread it on his knee. It was written in red pen, festooned with small hearts and the curlicues of a happy art-crazy girl.
Dear Peter,
I decided I Super-Love you
- Katie
P.S. I was the one who broke your favorite Star Wars guy, the gold robot.
Chapter Twenty-One
The headache hadn't been as bad as she had expected. The wine had been, though. Cheap wine, from Carol's top cupboard. Probably used for cooking years
ago and left there.
She'd made it through Monday, though. Her presentation was done, double
and triple checked. Still a few missing parts, but she was hoping she could fudge
those well enough to make it to the final round of branding candidates next week.
She shifted her weight, standing on Peter's front porch. The sun was down,
and fallen leaves rustled in the chilly shadows.
Her finger hovered over the doorbell. It was an old-fashioned one that rang
an actual bell outside on the porch. She was worried it would trigger her headache again, but the hangover had finally subsided.
She'd wanted to call Peter to apologize. She was embarrassed, as if she were
afraid he would call her parents or something and she'd be grounded. As if they
were still back in school and she needed him to keep some deep, dark secret.
She peered through the curtains to the side of Peter's front door. The lights
were on, but no one was in the living room.
Maybe he wasn't home. Maybe he was avoiding her because of last night.
