In the Cards(62)

She chatters a lot, whether to me, or on the phone with friends or parents, or with the people from the nonprofit group she’s getting all jazzed up about. Most of the time, she says something meaningful, but other times she’s simply speaking aloud, almost narrating her actions and thoughts. It’s frequent enough to make me wonder if she does it even when no one’s around. When I do return home, I’m curious whether the silence will be heavenly or deafening.

She also doesn’t spend much time on her clothes, makeup, or hair. Her clothes are pretty basic with hints of femininity—a ruffle here, a sequin there. I’ve seen her blow-dry her hair only once. She’s a “girly tomboy,” if there’s such a thing, and it’s one of my favorite things about her.

Her cooking has improved, though she still can’t handle a knife well. I suspect she might end up enjoying the kitchen one day. The thought brightens me, since I introduced her to that particular pleasure.

At night, she insists on playing board games or watching reality-television competitions. She’s slick with word games, like Scrabble, and often chooses better words, but I’m a more strategic player. We’re both competitive, but my wins are sweeter because, unlike me, she pouts when she loses. She’d never admit it, but the fact that I can beat her Ivy League brain blows her mind.

Mostly, she’s a truly jubilant person. She wakes up with a start, takes off on her run, and returns ready to go. The only time she loses steam is after her mother’s calls. The damn woman destroys Lindsey’s confidence with comments I never hear.

I’m aware Lindsey’s not been honest about my living here. I’m not sure if she’s protecting herself or her relationship with Rob, but it bothers me either way. I’ve no right to be upset, but it’s the truth.

Unfortunately, I’ll probably just be here a few more days. I’m getting around better and can take the stairs more than once a day. Of course, I must look like an octogenarian—moving at a snail’s pace and bracing for a shock of pain that may or may not come—but I’m mobile. The grabber helps me get my shorts on, so I’ve ditched the robe.

I can shower now, too, which is great. It’s for the best, since her washing my hair stirs up longing I can’t afford to indulge.

As if on cue, I see Lindsey through the screen door, returning from her run. She stops to water her plants before coming inside. Bathed in sunlight, her skin shimmers. The tap of her foot indicates she’s listening to her pop hip-hop music, one of the few tastes in music we don’t share.

“Good morning.” She’s smiling and sweaty. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” I nod at my open laptop. “Been working.”

“Oh. Hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. I’m going to shower. See you in a bit.” She marches right past the shoes she’s left by the sofa, and the empty water glass she left on the table, and bounds up the stairs and out of view. I swear, my physical restrictions are all that have kept me from organizing her things this month.

A few minutes later, I hear the water running. I’m researching a tractor supply company, but visualizing Lindsey in the shower. Jesus, Levi, stop it. Thankfully, she’s not one to indulge in long showers, so I’m able to concentrate on my work again in a short time. When she returns, she smells like grapefruit.

Each day, the urge to touch her grows stronger, which is another reason I need to move out.

“What shall we do today?” she asks. “Hit a park? You must be growing bored of the view in here.”

I’m not particularly bored of the view, considering she’s often part of it, but I don’t argue with her. “Sure, but not too far. I don’t want back spasms later.”

“Then maybe we’ll only go to the grocery store or something?”

I wrinkle my nose. Normally I enjoy the grocery store, but I’d rather be outdoors. “Maybe I can manage a quick lunch outside at Duke’s?” It occurs to me I haven’t been back there since my accident.

“You can sit in a chair for an hour without discomfort?” Lindsey’s expression is skeptical.

“I can try.” I shrug. “If it starts to hurt too much, I’ll get up and walk the deck.”

“Okay. But first I want to read through some of this training material and read another few chapters of Invisible Kids.” She points to the book and pile of papers from the nonprofit group. “You still have work to do, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I smile.

Lindsey and I sit in companionable silence, reading our respective research. Although we’re not talking, it’s nice to work alongside her. She’s excited about pursuing this child advocacy thing, although the stories and statistics in that book upset her. I can’t help wonder if my own history affected her choice.