Page 88 of Tangled with the Tight End

A few minutes later a cold cloth gently settles on my forehead and eyes. Her fingers trail across my cheek. I hum softly.

She settles into the chair next to me.

I mumble. “I was going to massage your shoulders.”

Her breath catches. I hear the pause. Then she says, “Why?”

Why? Because you do so much for me—never expecting anything in return.

Because I want to be the man who relieves your stress at the end of a long day.

Because I want to touch you.

“I saw you stretching your neck. All that bending over to do the invitations …”

She doesn’t answer me. The throbbing still thrums through my leg, but the burning is starting to subside. I sigh, sinking into the couch. I can hear Winona’s steady breath to my side. My mind drifts into thoughts of her. Blurry and sweet.

I must have fallen asleep. I wake to the quiet of the room, the ticking of the hall grandfather clock, and the glow of Winona’s iPad in her hand. She’s curled up on the chair next to me, her feet tucked under her, a soft smile on her face.

I wonder what’s making her smile.

She looks up, noticing that I’m awake. “How are you feeling?”

My throat is raspy when I answer her. “Better. Probably a four.”

“Four’s good. Zero’s better.”

“Task master,” I tease her.

“I just want you to be comfortable.” She stands. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah. Starving, actually.”

She lists the options and I pick Alice Springs chicken and green beans with mashed potatoes.

“Coming right up,” she says. “I was secretly hoping you’d pick that one.”

“You could still have it—even if I picked something else.”

“I like matching,” she says, sashaying into the kitchen with a familiarity that makes my heart ache. She’s almost to the kitchen when she shouts, “Did you notice Claudette is making two of everything these days? I think she’s trying to feed me! That’s so sweet!”

I could tell her my pain is back to eight. I never would. I’ll be fine by morning—when I wake to a whole day without her here.

Winona returns with two plates full of food. I sit up, my back resting against the couch arm, my feet still extended out in front of me.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Winona says.

“I probably should have expected that to happen at some point,” I say.

“Why keep an eye out for bad things?” she says. “I’d rather just face them when they come. I try to keep my eye out for the sweet surprises. Like this. Having dinner with you. I didn’t expect to be here. And here I am eating a dinner I didn’t have to cook, sitting in a palace with a professional athlete.”

She says the last part with a taunt to her voice—like she and I both know she couldn’t care less if I’m a professional athlete. It’s one of the things I like most about her. She doesn’t care about the things that everyone else seems to think matter so much.

We finish eating and Winona clears our plates. When she comes back she doesn’t ask my pain level. Instead, she grabs one of the french square pillows Mom tucked on a shelf under the TV console and pulls it onto the floor.

She stretches out, turning onto her side, placing the pillow under her bent elbow as a cushion and supporting her head with her hand. I watch her movements, acutely aware of her.

“I’ll get going in a minute. I just need a moment after that delicious meal.”