Page 9 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

I’m almost a hundred percent certain that there’s no way she’ll have lingered at the door for an hour or so, but I open the door slowly and suspiciously anyway. I do not want to have an awkward conversation about any of this, and I think the sight of her being smug would kill me.

To my relief, the driveway is devoid of life, but when I look down, there is a cardboard box on the step. It’s on the small side, wrapped neatly in brown paper, my name carefully inscribed on it. Frowning, I take it inside.

As soon as I sit down, I rip the paper off and open the box. Inside is a takeout box filled with home-cooked pasta, some snacks, and a pair of fuzzy socks. I’m not exactly a fuzzy socks kind of person, which she would know if she’d spoken to me. But they’re team-name-branded and my size. It’s not like I really need dinner or snacks either, but I guess that’s not really the point of any of this.

The point is that she thought about me. She thought about me, and she cared enough to bring a whole box of stuff just for me because she thought I’d like it or might need it. The guilt of ignoring her twists my stomach into a tight knot.

Movies. That’s what I need now. That’s what will stop me thinking about her.

I wake up a few hours later, still on the sofa, my feet sweltering in my new socks, my hands clutching a bag of the pretzels Freya brought for me.

That’s pretty much how all of the next twenty-four hours go — alternating napping and snacking and wandering about until the next afternoon, when I’m interrupted again by a knock on the door.

“What are you doing here?” I demand when I open the door to see Freya standing there grinning. I’m possibly harsher than I mean to be, but really, can’t she leave me alone for five minutes? It’s like she thinks I’m going to drop dead.

“I see you got my package yesterday,” she says with a wry smile.

Yes,” I say, then add begrudgingly, “Thank you.”

“So, can I come in?”

A confused and slightly grumpy look is all I can muster. “Why?”

“You don’t have anyone here to look after you, do you?”

I purse my lips tightly then confess through gritted teeth, “No. Not other than the cleaner, anyway.”

That makes her smile too, and I find myself noticing the way it makes her eyes scrunch into little pools of joy. Doing that’s going to give her wrinkles. Not that wrinkles would stop her being pretty, but still.

“At least let me in to have a look at your arm,” she says, persistent.

“Don’t you have, like, anything else better to do?” I frown.

She shrugs. “I do. But unfortunately for you, I’ve decided to care. So, this is what I’m doing right now.” Yet again, she flashes me that frustratingly genuine smile, and I find myself staring at the constellation of freckles over her nose. They’re like a scattering of cinnamon over whipped cream. I bet she has them on her shoulders too. Not that I’m going to spend any more time thinking about her skin at all.

That would just be a waste of brainpower.

“Fine. You can come in.”

I step aside to let her in, and as I shut the door, say, “Won’t your brother be missing you?”

“He’s fifteen. He can fend for himself just fine. Plus, I don’t have to pick him up for another hour yet. There’s plenty of time for me to make sure that you’re doing okay first.”

“You’re very annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Oh, frequently,” she grins. “I take it as a compliment.”

I grunt. How can anyone be this cheerful? Everyone has something wrong in their lives — which means the way I see it, nobody has a reason to be smiling like this all the time. But Freya clearly thinks she does. I don’t believe it for a second, but from the look of her, you’d think nothing ever went wrong with her in her life.

And she’s clearly attached herself to me like a clam, which is infuriating. And it looks like the grumpier I am to her, the harder she wants to try.

We go through to the living room, and I sit on the couch, scrambling for the remote to pause my movie. She doesn’t comment on it, just asks to sit next to me and gently takes my arm in her hands, sending goose bumps over my skin. “How’s it feeling?”

“Hurts.”

“It’s looking fine, just a little bruising.” She examines it, and I have to look away to stop myself leaning in toward her, to get closer.

“Want to watch TV?” I ask, trying to break some of the tension.

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