Page 26 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

I haven’t eaten. But I don’t want to tell him that. “I’ll have dinner when I get home.”

“Join me,” he says, his voice soft and, for some inexplicable reason, irresistible.

“Okay. Thanks. But I’m not drinking kale. Ever.”

He laughs again. “Okay. Help yourself to blueberry-acai, then.”

“I might need smart water.”

“There’s plenty of that too. Help yourself.”

After a few trips back and forth between the front room and the kitchen and an overuse of the intercom, I have discovered the microwave and learned how to turn on the oven. I find a tray and carry our meal in to Declan in the front room.

“Guess what?” I announce, setting the tray on the coffee table.

“What?”

“It’s time for your pain meds!”

“You sound ecstatic,” he deadpans.

“I’m just happy for you.”

I pick up two of the bottles, shaking out a pill from each into the caps and then handing those and his kale smoothie over to him.

“I apologize for that drink in advance.”

“I’m used to these,” he says. “They’re really good for you.”

“They’d have to be the cure to cancer and the secret to eternal life for me to drink one. I’m not a fan of swamp water.”

He chuckles again and his face softens just the slightest.

Then he lifts the pills to his mouth and takes a swig of the drink. He doesn’t flinch, but I make a grimace strong enough for the both of us.

There’s a knock at the door and then the sound of it opening.

“Hey,” a man’s voice carries through the hallway. “It’s Patrick.”

“In here!” Declan shouts.

Patrick rounds the corner, carrying an overnight bag.

“I’m here to stay with you,” he says.

Declan’s face grows hard again. I busy myself taking my food off the tray and passing the tray to Declan so he can balance it over his lap with the little legs that extend underneath.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Declan says. “Did Mom put you up to this?”

I avoid his eyes and Patrick’s. Instead, I take a seat in the chair next to Declan’s couch and pick up my fork, digging into the lasagna. It’s really good.

When I hum around a bite, Patrick and Declan’s eyes snap over to me.

“Sorry,” I say around a mouthful. “This is really good. Want some, Patrick?”

“No, thank you,” he says. “I just ate.” He glances at his brother, sizing up his condition, his eyes lingering on Declan’s ankle, which is currently in a splint.