Page 46 of Dice & Dekes

“You want company?” she asks, voice flat.

“No, I’ve got plans.”

“Plans,” she repeats. “So you’re just gonna hit me with the mysterious-errand-and-a-kiss-on-the-cheek routine like I’m your Stepford wife?”

“It’s nothing shady,” I say quickly. “Just something I do every month. Like an outreach thing.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that before now?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

Her jaw ticks. “Wow. That’s a bold assumption for a guy who literally railed me a few days ago.”

I hesitate. I could tell her where I’m going, but it seems in poor taste after the other night. “Nothing’s up. I just have things to do. A… standing engagement. I’ll be back. Just tell me what you want me to bring back for food later.”

She curls back up in her blankets and pouts. “Maybe I won’t eat.”

“That’s my stubborn wife. I love it.” I kiss her cheek before doing one last check to make sure I have everything. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

“Whatever. Enjoy your... thing.”

I linger in the doorway, unsure if I should say something else.

She doesn’t look up. “Door’s that way, husband.”

* * *

I replay the conversation in my head half a dozen times on my drive. Did I make it sound like I was up to something suspicious? Possibly. But I feel weird being all,Oh, you fly life-saving missions? Well,Icoach for the Special Olympics.

Even that would be an overstatement. I coach exactly one person. I do more in the summers, but during the season, it’s hard to juggle multiple athletes, so for most of the year, it’s just me and Ella.

I’ll tell Knova eventually, but it’s a whole thing I don’t want to get into. Even my sisters don’t know I still do this. The only one I’ve told is my mom. I don’t want to come across as bragging, and bringing Knova along today might have set off another PTSD attack since she just went through a traumatic event.

Sometimes it feels selfish, like I keep it a secret just so it stays mine. Just so I don’t have to share the one thing in my life that isn’t complicated, strategic, or designed to prove I’m worthy of love. It’s just Ella. Just us. Just this one thing I know I’m doing right.

I pull up to the bocce field where Ella told me to meet her today. I recognize some of the cars in the lot, since there are other kids out here practicing today.Not kids,I catch myself. Ella’s twenty-two, and she doesn’t appreciate being infantilized.

I spot her well before I reach the field. Ella always wears brightly colored exercise outfits to training, the kind I used to associate with Zumba classes. Today she’s wearing leggings with a neon floral print and a deep purple top with green piping around the edges, not to mention her electric-yellow sneakers. She jumps up and down when she sees me, waving her arm over her head.

God, I missed that smile. The world is so heavy lately, but Ella’s joy always cuts through the static.

“Viktor!” she calls. “Get over here!”

This is one of the reasons people sometimes treat Ella like a kid: no other adult I know has as much energy and enthusiasm for life. That’s not a Williams Syndrome thing. It’s just an Ella thing.

Her round face, short stature, and general baby face add to the sense that she’s younger, but that just means that people tend to underestimate her. In addition to being a Special Olympics athlete, Ella works with one of the local school systems to do one-on-one tutoring with kids who have developmental delays. Her outgoing personality and colorful style make it easier for kids to trust her, and instead of talking down to them like some of their other teachers, she can engage with them on a personal level. Ella talks alot,so I know all about her job, and it seems like a great fit for her. Last time, she was telling me about how she couldn’t get through to one of her students until she finally brought out her ukelele and started communicating through song. The kid finally opened up to her.

That’s Ella in a nutshell.

“Hey, Ella.” I stride up to her. As usual, she goes in for a hug. After giving me a big squeeze today, she hops back and grins.

“Notice anything different?” She holds up her hands like she’s framing her face for a photograph, and poses as she does so.

“New glasses,” I say at once. “I like those blue frames.”

“Thank you!” She beams. “This is the kind where you can change out the front so you can wear different patterns every day. See?” She reaches into one of her pockets and pulls out another plastic frame. This one is covered in polka dots. “They use magnets. It’s so cool, and the kids love them.”

“Right,” I tease, “that’s why you got them, for the kids and forno other reason.”

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