Page 39 of The Pocket Pair

I yank my hand out of my pants so fast it probably set a world record.

“Tiny?”

She is frozen, mouth half open, and I’m not sure if it’s my bare chest still on display or the whole hand-in-pants situation, but she looks like a newborn baby deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck. Meanwhile, I’m blushing furiously—something I haven’t done since I was probably in junior high.

What self-respecting adult male blushes?

The kind who answers the door with his hand in his pants, apparently.

“I thought I was meeting you at your place in an hour,” I say.

“That was the plan. I just couldn’t sleep and figured I’d load my car and make the first trip.” She starts to slowly back away, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come early without calling or texting. I probably woke you up and—”

I step over the threshold and take her by the elbow, steering her back toward the house. Even though this also steers her toward me and my bare chest. For a brief second, she makes eye contact with my pectorals before jerking her gaze away.

I will never open my door shirtless again.

“Hey, now,” I say. Gently, like I’m trying to coax a scared kitten out from under a crawl space. “I’m up. I’ve been up. Get in here.”

“Are you sure?”

I take the box from her hands. “Come on, Tiny.”

She’s still hanging back, and I can see, not for the first time recently, how lost she looks. How small. Protectiveness wells up in me once again, warm and solid. Protectiveness is fine. You feel this for Winnie. For Lindy. It’s just the same.

It is not even a tiny bit the same, but I shift the box to one hip and wrap an arm around Val’s shoulders. “I’ve got coffee, but I don’t know if I have enough cream for you. You take one ounce of coffee for every six ounces of cream, right?”

This makes her smile, and it’s a better feeling than a winning lotto number.

“No,” she says. A pause. “Half an ounce of coffee per six ounces of cream.”

“Well, in that case, I definitely need to run to the store.”

“I’ll buy my own cream,” Val says. “In fact, as a thank you, we can go to the store together and I’ll stock up. Things for me and some things for you. Maybe I can make you dinner?”

Val buying groceries. Val in my kitchen. Val making me dinner.

The thoughts are flying at me like one of those baseball pitching machines has gone haywire, sending balls at full speed right at my head.

“One thing at a time—let’s get you settled.”

The hallway leading back to the two bedrooms has never felt as small as it does right now, walking with Val under my arm. This house—a modest two-bedroom craftsman bungalow—has also never felt so cramped. Not even with my sister living here and sucking up all the oxygen in the place. Leaving her romance novels all over the place. Buying me throw pillows. Having lovey-dovey phone conversations with James.

Val’s presence has a whole different impact. It’s one I feel deep down in my bones. The air is charged, almost like the house itself is waking up, taking notice, watching to see what will happen next. I would not be shocked if the tea kettle jumped up and started singing for Val to be our guest.

“You’ll be in here,” I say, leading Val into the guest room.

Not like she doesn’t already know where my guest room is. But she allows me to steer her anyway. I drop my hand from her shoulder as she looks around like she’s never set foot inside before. I’m grateful I washed the sheets and cleaned up after Winnie, who left books, hair ties, and a pair of blue underwear I picked up with a coat hanger and flung directly into the trash.

I set Val’s box down on the dresser. “Make yourself at home. I’ve got a few extra things stored in the closet or dresser, but I can move them if you need more room. As you know, my room’s just right across the hall.”

Something I suspect I’m going to deeply regret. If only I had a two-story house and could be separated by a floor and some stairs. Knowing there’s only about twenty actual feet between our beds—that’s going to keep me up at night.

Val still isn’t speaking, a fact which worries me. She’s always speaking. Smiling, chattering, emoting. I learned that word from Winnie, who claims that James has a lot of feelings but isn’t good at emoting them. Val is normally an Olympic-level emoter, and right now, she’s locked down tight around whatever she’s feeling.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Val walks around the small room with her back to me, taking in the blank walls and the empty closet. I don’t do clutter or fuss. Bare, clean spaces calm the noise that stays like static in my head, especially after a long day on shift.

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