Page 59 of Tangled with the Tight End

Just like everyone else.

~ Margaret Mead

I’ve spent the majority of today alone. Winona isn’t officially scheduled to come in today. She texted this morning to make sure I took my meds.

It’s been two weeks since I broke my ankle. Two weeks to the hour. I’m on the couch, watching the Thunder play in Denver. The motor on my compression cuff whirrs in a steady rhythm. I managed to set it up without Winona.

I didn’t take my vitals. I heated my lunch in the oven.

I can do a lot of things without her. I’ve just gotten used to her doing them for me. In only two weeks’ time, I’ve grown accustomed to her.

The gate alert sounds. I mute the game and pick up my phone, running my fingertip along the smooth wood of the box she got me.

When I open the security app, I smile. Winona’s pulling into the driveway.

What’s she doing here?

I push the buzzer to unlock the door. A minute later, the sound of the latch opening echoes through the hallway.

When she rounds the archway and comes into view, I stare.

Is this some sort of joke?

Is she trying to make me laugh?

I don’t say anything at first.

When I find words, I say, “I didn't expect you. You're not scheduled ‘til tomorrow.”

“I had a commitment in town. Just thought I’d check in to see if you need anything before I head home.”

She looks me over, her eyes landing on the cuff and then on the muted game.

“You’re wearing your reading glasses,” she says.

My hand goes up to my face. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot to take them off.”

I remove the glasses and set them on top of the book I was reading before the pregame commentary. I’m not a real reader. Not like my brother, the bookworm. I read a few books a month. Mostly stuff related to leadership and excellence, usually books written by coaches and players.

Winona stares at me and I can’t hold my tongue any longer.

“What’s with your face?”

“My face?” she turns and looks out at her image in the hall mirror.

“Declan!” she shouts. “Why didn’t you say something? Oh! My! Gosh! I’ve still got my makeup on.”

Still? And makeup?

Her face is made up like a clown. Winona’s a clown?

She runs from the room and out the front door. I hear the solid clunk of the door shutting forcefully behind her.

I immediately pull up her number and dial.

Did I embarrass her?

She doesn’t answer.