Page 20 of Colt
“I mean, good luck with that, Colt. It would take you about two minutes to drain my bank account and spend everything I have.”
He leans in and, without sufficient warning, begins to lower himself down. I brace myself and stand firm as he manages to bring himself down to the ground with what seems like relative ease to me.
“And suddenly, I’m grateful that I’ve spent the past ten years lifting weights,” he says. “Though, I don’t love having that validated. I’d like to let myself go to seed at some point.”
“Yeah. I’m sure the upper body strength helps,” I say.
And then I look up, and we’re not even multiple inches apart. We are a breath away from one another. He’s looking at me. Gazing into my soul, I swear to God. My heart is beating so hard I feel like I might choke on it. I look up, above his eyes, at that mean scar, and without thinking, I begin to lift my hand and let it hover there, right over it.
Then I catch myself and jerk it back down to my side on an indrawn breath.
I can’t just touch him. I know better than that.
“It looks better,” I say. “The cut on your head. Than itdid, I mean.”
“It’s my understanding that’s how healing works.” His voice sounds rough.
“Yeah,” I say. “It just takes time.”
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Okay.”
I move away from him, and with his keys in my pocket, lead the way to the door, where I unlock it and open it up for him. I gaze around the small, crowded living room, which was entirely furnished by Cindy, or it wouldn’t be this well coordinated.
I’m rarely at Colt’s house when he’s there.
I’ve been before to check the mail, bring it in, and put it on the table when he’s traveling, and I’ve been to check on things when Cindy has concerns about the rental. But that’s it. Now I’m looking at it, and critically. The walkways are distressingly narrow for somebody trying to navigate on crutches, and I worry that he might fall.
“We need to get you a life alert,” I say.
He turns and shoots me a deadly glare.
“Hey. When you’ve fallen and you can’t get up, don’t complain at me because you chose to ignore my very sterling medical advice.”
“Get wrecked, Allison.”
“You already did.”
I walk into the kitchen, ignoring him now, and I open up the fridge. He’s got nothing in there except a bottle of beer and an onion.
“This is pathetic.”
“I haven’t been home for months,” he says.
“I know. Still, I… I’ll do a grocery delivery order for you, but until then, can I just bring you dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” he says.
“I’ll probably make something like spaghetti. I’m not a gourmand.”
“I appreciate it,” he says.
The sincerity weirds me out. Normally, he would fire back a quip of some kind about my cooking, or how he already had one near-death experience this month and doesn’t need to add another with my culinary skills. The simple thank you is extremely weird. I hear him walking away, and I decide to follow to see exactly where he’s headed.
He takes the short trek to the living room, then turns away from the couch, standing in front of it, bracing on his crutches, his leg in a brace that makes it so stiff and straight that maneuvering is a challenge. I can see him doing the mental gymnastics on how exactly he’s supposed to sit down without falling down.
“I can help you,” I say.
