Page 78 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Good thinking,” Maeve says. “We’ve got to get to school.”

We call the girls into the room.

“I wanna draw a pig,” Boston says. “Like Peppa.”

“You can draw whatever you like,” I say.

Maeve’s eyes go wide like I just released the kraken with my lack of boundaries.

“I brought tape,” Maeve says, whipping a roll of painters tape out of her purse.

She goes to work, sectioning off two squares on my cast. “This is your space,” she tells Boston. “Stay in the lines.”

“Staying inside the lines is so overrated,” I say softly to my sister, thinking of Winona’s unorthodox approach to practically everything.

“Who are you?” Maeve asks me. “And what did you do with my brother?”

“I think I broke more than my ankle,” I say with a smile.

“Well … good,” she says, seeming to understand my unspoken confession.

Boston draws with her tongue popping out of her mouth, a focused look on her face that makes me smile. After she’s finished, she holds up the marker and then she runs me through her design.

“This is the pig. And she’s kissing your boo-boo. And this is B for Boston.”

“I love it,” I tell her. “Come up here and give your uncle a hug.”

Boston climbs onto my lap and snuggles in while Ariella takes the permanent marker from her mom and stares at her blank square. She looks practically distressed.

“Hey,” I say. “You can’t mess it up. I only wear this for six weeks. No matter what you draw, I’m going to look at it every day and think of you. And I’ll smile when I do.”

“I just want it to be perfect,” Ariella says.

“I know,” I tell her.

Man, do I know.

“What’s perfect is how much it matters to you,” I assure her. “But you can do anything. Look at Boston’s.”

Ariella looks at Boston’s doodle.

“It’s really perfect,” Boston says.

“Yep,” I agree, even though I can’t tell what any of it is except the letter B. “Perfect.”

“Make a beautiful mess,” I tell Ariella.

Maeve crosses her arms over her chest and stares down at me. I run my hand down Boston’s hair and she snuggles in, tucking her head under my chin.

“I don’t see you often enough,” I say, almost to myself.

“Everyone’s busy. We all are. Patrick, me, you.”

“Let’s do better,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says, smiling.

“There,” Ariella says. “Done.”