Page 14 of Scythe & Sparrow
“You did well.”
“Would have been easier if you just picked me up.”
“Umm.” I grip a hand over the back of my neck, trying to recall if I actually said my thoughts out loud. “Probably …?”
“Maybe you should make me an adult-sized BabyBjörn and just carry me around strapped to your chest,” she barrels on, a teasing glimmer bright in her mahogany eyes. “Can you imagine? Trips to the grocery store would be fucking hilarious. If you have a sewing machine, I can totally make that happen.”
What the fuck am I doing?I think again, but this time the question has taken on a whole new meaning.
Rose is standing on my porch grinning at me like a little demon. Sure, she asked me for help, but I don’t really know this woman. What if she’s a complete weirdo? Or worse,dangerous? Unhinged? I know so many dangerous, unhinged people that maybe my barometer for that shit is broken. She certainly didn’t seem like it the first few times we met, with those big brown eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes and her angelic face framed with chocolatefringe, the waves untamable as they cascaded over her shoulders. But there’s a mischievous streak in her that I think is maybe just a little fissure that leads to an endless well of chaos.
Her expression softens, and I wonder for the second time if I’ve spilled my thoughts into the world. I swear she’s climbed into my head when she says, “Don’t look so mortified, Doc. I just get extra weird when I’m nervous and you’re standing there being all doctory and shit. I’m only joking.”
“I knew that—”
“Probably having second thoughts about letting me in your house now though, right?”
Maybe. “No.”
“That was totally a maybe. It’s cool, I’ll be one hundred percent fine with the corn children, trust me,” she says, flashing me a smile as she firms her grip on the crutches and swings closer to the stairs.
“Hold up.” My palm is wrapped around her wrist before I can even string together the arguments about whether or not I should touch her so casually. Rose’s eyes linger on the point of contact. I should let go, especially with the way she stares down at my hand as though we’re soldered together and she can’t work out how or when it happened. “I’m not having second thoughts. Just … please. Come in.”
Though I uncurl my fingers from her wrist, the loss of that touch resonates in my skin.
I open the door. And for a moment, she hesitates. Then, with a faint smile that evaporates in a halo of nerves, she turns and passes over the threshold.
“It’s a nice house,” Rose says as she swings her way into my living room, the click of the crutches filling the space with a metallicmelody. She casts me a brief smile over her shoulder. As though drawn by a magnetic force, she maneuvers closer to the coffee table until she bends to pick up the crocheted coaster resting on the surface. It was the very first thing I ever crocheted. The pattern is imperfect. Some holes are larger than others.
I’m not sure what she must be thinking as she inspects the cream-colored yarn. She holds on to it as she pans her gaze across the overstuffed couches and chairs, then toward the simple kitchen that still clings to a 1950s vibe despite the new paint and countertops, and then the dining table where only one place mat rests on the surface.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Seeing my home through someone else’s eyes is humbling. Literally one place mat. And a single crocheted coaster. What the fuck must she be thinking?
Probably the same thing my dickhead older brothers think about my life here in Hartford, Nebraska. And it’s the first time I really acknowledge that they might be on to something. Lachlan was right. I’m knee-deep in my peak “Hallmark Sad Man Cinderwhatever” era.
“It’s really nice,” Rose says again as she sets the coaster down.
“You think so?”
“Yeah.” When she turns to face me, her smile seems genuine. Maybe a little melancholy. She puts on a brighter smile when she says, “I really do. Feels like a proper grown-up home. Something befitting of Dr. McSpicy Kane.”
I snort a laugh and set her bag down next to the couch as I head past her to the kitchen. “Just call me Fionn.”
Rose replicates the pronunciation. When I look over, she’s watching me, her dark eyes fixed to mine as though searching for something. “I’m sorry if I’m upending your life. Cramping your style or whatnot.”
“You’re not.” Part of me wants to admit to what she must already be thinking—that despite her polite words, there’s nothing much to upend. Now that she’s suddenly appeared, I realize how minimal my life has become. How monochrome. It’s just work. Gym. More gym and more work. A monthly appearance tending to the wounded fighters at the Blood Brothers barn. My only real socialization has been with Sandra and her club of crocheters every week, and that only started for me a few months ago. I guess that’s what I wanted when I moved here. Maybe not the crocheting, but the solitude. And yet, this is the first time I’ve wondered if I don’t want the result I’ve successfully achieved.
I clear my throat as though it will rid me of these questions I don’t feel ready to explore. “Want something to eat?”
Rose’s stomach responds before she has a chance to, releasing an audible growl. “That would be great, thank you.”
I bring out my blender from the cupboard and set it on the counter, then rummage in the freezer for frozen greens. Rose taps her way to the table, setting the crutches against its edge. I look up when she drags a chair back and lets herself down with a heavy sigh. She lifts her injured leg onto the chair next to her and closes her eyes, tilting her head back to rub her neck, the shimmering sliver of flesh on her chest exposed by the low V-neck T-shirt she’s wearing. I’ve definitely been avoiding even the remote potential for romantic encounters way too long if that tiny slice of fleshthreatens to upend all my attention. I look away, though it’s harder to do than it should be. I start cutting oranges just to keep my focus where it belongs.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks, and there’s a shuffling sound that draws my gaze back to her. She has a deck of cards in her hands, their edges bent and softened with use.
“Just over four years now.” I watch as she nods and sets the deck on the table. “I was in Boston before that.”
