Page 18 of Take Me Home

“Very appropriate for your summer job, no? A peach and blackberry farm.”

“I can’t say it hasn’t been an inspiration,” I said, shooting her a shy smile. “Coming out here I had no idea what I was going to build, but I felt like something would turn up.”

The kettle whistled. As I reached to grab it, Darcy lunged for it as well.

“Wait!” Darcy tried. I shooed her away with my free hand, just as I laid my palm into the searing hot metal handle (terrible design). Darcy must have seen it coming as she had a kitchen towel held out to me.

“Fuck! That’s hot!” I shouted, doubling over and tucking my hand into my stomach.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” Darcy said quietly, gingerly pulling my hand free and leading me to the sink. She turned on the cool water and thrust my palm under it. A mix of relief and more pain flooded from the wound. I winced and tried not to be a huge baby but it fucking hurt. My elbow was lodged just below her breasts as she held my arm in place. I was sweating from the pain, breathing in staccato pants like a woman in labor.

“Stay here,” came Darcy’s soothing voice, patting my forearm before she left the room. When she came back I was practicing making a fist and hissing through my teeth. It still effing hurt.

“How is it?” She looked at my hand, but I didn’t miss her hand on my upper back as she did. I laughed nervously, trying not to show how bad it hurt. “Whenever you’re ready I’ve got a cold pack for you.”

Damn, Darcy knew how to care for a burn. I was impressed. Why was that hot to me? My days as a paramedic must have given me some weird kinks. I turned off the cool water and she led me to a barstool.

“Sit,” she commanded, eyes flashing to mine with a little amusement in them. A prickle of desire ran through me. I liked the idea of demanding Darcy. She dabbed at the angry, reddened skin with a washcloth, then fastened the ice pack to my hand with a bandage.

“I’m so sorry, Jake. I didn’t warn you about Uncle Bill’s sadistic tea kettle,” she said as she fastened the bandage.

“You tried to warn me,” I grunted. “I was trying to give you a break and ended up making you work.” I lifted my bandaged hand. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“The least I could do,” she said, smiling wryly. “So…do you still want some tea? Maybe some ibuprofen?”

I chuckled, trying not to think about how much I loved getting to see glimpses of the real Darcy, not the nervous person she usually was around me. “Still got any of that whiskey?”

8

JAKE

It was under duress, but I was getting more time with Darcy.

Whiskey glasses in hand, we sat on opposite ends of the couch with our feet facing in toward each other. Darcy’s legs were folded up under her chin, her glass resting on her knee. Little streaks of condensation rolled down her leg every once in a while. I tried not to think of how I wanted to lick those up on my way to more interesting parts of her.

No, I shoved those thoughts down until I’d be alone later, but took a mental picture of how pretty she was sitting there: curls falling out of her sloppy bun, a baggy long-sleeved tee, athletic shorts so small it was hard to believe they had any fabric for the legs, and her toenails painted bright red and summery. Best of all were her big brown eyes watching me and the soft curve of her lips as she listened to me tell what I hoped was a funny story.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t trying to make her want me in that moment. I sprawled out toward her, our feet almost touching, with my injured hand tucked behind my head and the whiskey glass balanced on my stomach.

Luckily, our conversation flowed easily, a comfortable warmth replacing her usual stilted uncertainty around me. This was the real Darcy. Had to be. I felt so lucky that she was letting her guard down for me. The whiskey was probably helping that along.

I’d just told her about how my sister used to scare me out of peeing in the pool as a kid. Darcy’s eyes shined as I talked, her earlier melancholy left behind for the moment. The post-giggle-fit hum descended over us. Sadness crept back into her gaze. She stared at my legs, zoning out a bit. I nudged her with my foot.

“Hey. I meant what I said earlier. You can tell me what’s bothering you if it’ll help. I hate to think of you being upset all alone in this big old house,” I said, meeting her sad eyes.

She smiled weakly and took a deep breath. “It was all a long time ago. When we were talking about hooking up with coworkers at dinner it brought some nasty memories back.” She stopped and chewed the inside of her cheek.

I sat up straighter and put my glass on the floor, reaching out to rub her shoulder. “Yeah, I noticed you kinda spaced out then. I’m sorry that bothered you.”

She waved a hand, signifying that it was okay. “It’s not your fault. Don’t feel bad.” She was quiet again for a minute, but I wanted to give her the space she needed. Her voice cracked when she spoke again.

“I got into my dream school for creative writing, and I was so excited. I’d worked so hard, really my whole life to that point, working on pieces, poems, stories. I had visions of being a renowned author. Even went through a phase of dressing like a little 50s poet in clashing dark colors and my hair in a neat bob, typing my stories on a typewriter because I was so edgy,” she said, laughing at the memory.

“I bet you were cute,” I said, smirking at her.

“Terribly cute, horrifically pretentious, and unwaveringly nerdy,” she said, shaking her head. “I was so into it that I applied to be the English department head’s assistant. The department head was my main boss, but all of the professors had authority over me. I figured it would give me more time to be around the faculty and learn from them.”

She sighed there and I knew the bad part was coming. I scooted closer, wanting to support her.

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