“A nighttime routine,” he repeats. “Why are your arms shaking?”
I pant. “They’re not.”
“Okay,” he says, not believing a single word out of my mouth, which is about to kiss the ground.
I push off my hands, but that proves to be a mistake. They go limp and send the rest of my body over the sofa arm. I squeak, but my face never connects with the floor.
Protective arms hoist me up by the waist. Every ounce of color would drain from my face if I were upright, but my crack is right under Antonio’s chin. I can’t verify how close it is to his mouth, but I suspect he could nibble on the cheek meat hanging out of my shorts. The only thing visible are the three bookshelves lining the wall and mild embarrassment loading.
“You need a helmet,” he jokes. He lays me on the plush mattress like I’m a feather and not the one-eighty he casually lifted like a handbag.
Who is his rugby team’s strength and conditioning coach?
My forehead is battling a downpour of sweat after holding myself up for two minutes. Antonio is a different story. There are no heavy breaths or signs of strained muscles.
But there is a frown etched into his face. “I have to go.”
Oh.
He stuffs his hands into his sweats and looks off. “I’ll send you details about Vegas if you want to come. See you this week for the school bus event to make friends?”
I laugh and adjust my glasses. “It’s not a school bus.”
He shrugs. “It might be. You need a helmet regardless. Come lock up.”
I’m unsure why my chest is tightening at him leaving. He got the boot last night when he attempted to test-drive my sofa. Him sleeping over makes no sense, but leaving so abruptly after a phone call doesn’t sit right with me.
“Is everything okay?” Something happened from the time he was on the phone, trading quiet laughs, to now.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Need to take care of something, but I’ll check in later.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “Try not to break anything stretching.”
“Hush.” I try to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. So I sniff his armpit and inhale the fresh scent of his soap and what I assume is oak in his deodorant. “Can’t. Breathe,” I mumble around cotton.
He lets out a short laugh and goes through what’s now his post-bear-hug routine in search of injuries. His eyes soften. “It’s been good spending time with you. I’ve missed it.”
I chuckle. “We never spent time together, unless you count me checking your homework before you went to bed.”
Middle school Antonio was a handful. He’d fight to stay up and ask twenty-six questions about a problem we already solved just to annoy me.
His back straightens, lengthening the distance between the top of my head and his chin. “It counts for me. Lock up, Doe. Goodnight.”
The timbre in his voice lingers long after he leaves. God bless the woman’s organs he’s about to rearrange.
“Knock it off, Miriam.”
I blow out the candles, resettle under the weighted blanket, and fall asleep to a cake bake-off.
No sugary cookie nipples in sight.
Chapter 13
Miriam
Agood way to stir up childhood trauma is to sit through a church service three hours long or an overpriced meal with somebody’s lawn clippings as garnish.
AndHoward the Duck. The Dark Overlord possessing Dr. Jennings disturbed me.
Marcela is responsible for the first two today. If our server hadn’t dropped a basket of artisan bread on our table, I’d never speak to her again. Snatching off her lace front came to mind, but I’d be on the receiving end of her hands, feet, and elbows if I even hinted at the slightest desire for a physical confrontation.
