“I’m luckier to have her,” she said quickly.
“Understatement of the century,“ I replied dryly.
“Siri, what flowers say, ‘Sorry I was careless and triggered your PTSD?’”
I expected lilies or daisies, but I was wrong. Tulips, apparently. Huh.
I didn’t want to give the wrong impression — flowers might seem, ugh, romantic. I went with what I know: Mexican food. Because nothing says, ‘Sorry I made you relive the worst moment of your life’ like apology burritos.
Good thing I brought them because when Grace opened the door, wearing an oversized Vermont hoodie and flannel pajamas, with her damp hair loosely braided and the makeup scrubbed off her face, she looked exhausted.
Leaning warily against the door frame, she eyed me cautiously. She shouldn’t keep the door open with wet hair, she could catch cold.
“I brought burritos,” I said, holding up the paper bag with a cocky smirk.
She didn’t budge. Her eyes narrowed on the bag. “Which meat?”
“All of them.” I almost ordered two of my regular order, but didn’t know if she’d like that, so I asked for one of each. “Plus guac.”
“But guac is extra.”
“I’m extra,” I shrugged. Isn’t that something the kids say?
She reluctantly let me in — Thank you, Guac — and set the table for two. When was the last time I ate at an actual table with silverware and napkins, not at my desk while reviewing a contract between calls?
“Did you choose carnitas because your mom made it?” She nodded without looking at me. “Good, then I don’t have to share the best choice.” I smugly unwrapped the barbacoa. Her eyes crinkled at my fake gloat.
We finished our burritos — well, I finished mine, she ate a third and then wrapped hers up and fidgeted around the kitchen, too polite to kick me out. I could work with that. “What were you doing before I got here?”
“Watching a movie.”
“Let’s do that, then,” I said, moving to her couch with my arm over the backrest. She curled up against the opposite armrest and pressed play.
You seem like a decent fellow, I hate to kill you.
You seem like a decent fellow, I hate to die.
“I love this movie,” I whispered. How long had it been since I watched it?
“Mallory and I have watched tons of movies, starting with The Princess Bride," she yawned. "She's trying to fill in the pop culture I missed.”
We watched for a few minutes as a memory surfaced. I couldn’t remember the last time I told this story … or any story from my childhood, come to think of it. “One time, Mal, Nick and I all got the flu, and this was the only movie we could agree on. I tried to convince them that Humperdinck did nothing wrong. He was a prince, she was beautiful and single … of course he’d woo her! Why does that make him the villain?”
Grace covered her mouth, but I couldn’t tell if it was in laughter or horror. “Mal told me that story years ago. I wondered if you believed that or were trying to get her goat.”
Only Grace could look cute saying a ridiculous phrase like ‘get her goat.’
“Now that you’ve met me, what do you think?”
“I think,” she said softly, those gorgeous hazel eyes meeting mine assessingly, little flecks of green glimmering. Her soft lips tilted up into a knowing grin, “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Alexander Clarke.”
Not sure what to say, I tugged her into the crook of my arm, where she hesitated before relaxing into my chest. I tucked the blanket around her as Westley led Buttercup into the Fire Swamp.
Slowly her head drooped, her weight heavier on my chest as her breathing shallowed. Knowing how exhausting her night had been, I stayed still so long that my arm fell asleep. Once I was sure she was out, I carefully lifted her sleeping body, her head lolling against my shoulder.
I settled her into her bed, watching fondly as she curled up on her side and sighed into her pillow. I would stay to finish the movie while I caught up on my email, which I hadn’t checked in hours.
But as I pivoted, she said my name so quietly I almost missed it. Her hand stretched out, fingertips grazing the inside of my wrist.
That was it. Her whole request.
She could be so persuasive — standing up to me for my dad and her patients — but only for somebody else. She wouldn’t ask me to stay.
I slid under the sheets on the bed’s opposite side. Her body rolled to face me, and I slipped an arm under her neck.
“Come here, baby,” I said, surprised as the affectionate term slid out … and even more surprised to feel her twitch away, her reaction so minimal I wouldn’t have noticed it if we weren’t so close. I wondered if somebody had called her baby before and it hurt her. Would she have told me not to call her that if I hadn’t seen her reaction up close?
My mind spun to course correct. At the tree farm, Mallory had called her ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart,’ and she was both of those — so damn sweet, always.
But I didn’t want to use my sister’s terms.
The kids want a show, darling. The word felt right under the mistletoe, and she’d tilted her head back so I could kiss her.
“It’s ok, darling,” I murmured and felt her tightly held exhale releasing like a balloon deflating.
Her breath caught in her throat. I relaxed my hold, afraid I’d done something wrong. Her fingertips slid down my waist, pressing her cheek into my chest.
