Page 102 of Tangled with the Tight End

His face warms. “You’re always watching out for me.”

I’m about to remind him it’s my job. But that’s not why. It started that way. But now, I just care about him. This isn’t my workday. And I’m not his home health aide. Not tonight.

“I told Cass we could have a sister night.”

“Oh? Were you supposed to have dinner with her?” His forehead draws up.

“No. We’re having ice cream on her bed in our PJs and talking until we can’t keep our eyes open.”

“That sounds fun.”

“It’s been too long. I’ve been running all over doing odd jobs, keeping up with school … We’re overdue.”

“I keep you from her.”

“I choose what I do with my time. And tonight, I wanted to spend dinner with you. Thanks for the chicken.”

“Thanks for staying.”

He turns and propels himself toward the house.

I walk behind him, watching him make light work of the stairs. I’ll never tire of watching him move. He’s artistry in motion.

Once he’s settled back on the couch, we say our goodbyes.

When I pass Geese Witherspoon, I look down.

We’re expecting rain tomorrow.

And she’s wearing her raincoat and matching yellow hat.

I smile all the way home at the picture of Declan dressing a goose.

She doesn’t fit in his world any more than I do. But he made room for her.

“It’s just a porch goose,” I say out loud as I pull into the driveway of the house I share with Cass.

Cass is curled up with a book on one of the couches in our front room when I open the door. Unlike Declan’s house, we don’t have a foyer and a grand hallway.

Our home is an old craftsman with beveled glass windows and tons of wood details everywhere you look. The chunky frames around the windows and the old, original wood floor are my favorite.

Our “front room” is just the place you walk into when you open the door—cozy, lived in, and the place I’d always choose to be on a rainy day.

I wonder what Declan would make of this place.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Declan dressed the goose for the storm.”

“What?” She sets her book down, splayed on the coffee table.

“Get a bookmark, you heathen,” I tease her. “Daisy would have you tarred and feathered for book-spine abuse.”

“You’re right,” she says, hunting around for anything she can use to mark the book. She pulls a receipt out of her purse. “What’s this about dressing the goose for the storm?”

“When I left, I glanced at Geese, you know, to tell her goodbye. And she’s wearing her raincoat and rain hat.”

“How do you know it was him?”