I rested my hand atop hers. “I’m a pain in your ass.”
“No.” She tossed her hair back. “Yes. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just go to sleep. I’ll be here if you need me.”
***
I slept through most of the day. When I woke, groggy, the late afternoon sunlight stabbing my eyes, I'd sweated through my shirt, and my jeans were damp. Lindsey’s house wasn’t exactly hot, but sleeping under a blanket on a leather couch tended to make a body sweat profusely.
I sat up, rubbing my face, feeling both the pain of my burned feet and the sweet pleasure of a breeze cooling my hot body. The house was silent, making me think Lindsey had gone out. I stood uncertainly, her carpet harsh on my feet, then limped to her bathroom. After I’d emptied my bladder, I limped to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Breathing in the scent of hot charcoal, I saw Lindsey on her rear deck, watching the sunset. After I satisfied my thirst, I joined her, sitting near the big barbeque grill. The light breeze blew the heat and smoke away from me, fortunately, as I needed the cooling wind to dry my sweat.
“How are you feeling?” Lindsey asked.
“Weak, shivery.” I lifted my right foot. “Hurting, but obviously I can walk.”
Her hand rested on my brow. “Your fever is down. But you’ll keep taking those antibiotics.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In silence, we sat side by side, looking at her backyard, and into the backyards of her neighbors.Ourneighbors. From here, Lindsey had a decent view of mine, and I now knew I needed to mow my lawn.It needs a good watering.
“How about you?” I asked. “You okay?”
“Sure.” Lindsey didn’t look at me. “As right as rain.”
“Pardon me, but you aren’t a very good liar.”
Her glance flicked in my direction, then away. She raised a glass of wine I hadn’t noticed and sipped. “I’m fine.”
“Is it me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t suppose you have more of that?”
Rising, Lindsey went into the house while I stared over her shaggy lawn, the picnic table, the small rose garden in the yard’s center. I absently considered helping her with dinner, then returning to my house. It might not be habitable, but if I got used to the smell of smoke, I might be okay.
Lindsey returned with a glass of wine.
“Thanks.”
Our comfortable silences with one another were gone. I sensed Lindsey’s tension, observed the tension in the fine lines of her face. Suspecting I’d become the burden I’d hoped I wasn’t, I considered exiting stage left and go home.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
Lindsey sipped her wine. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
“I’ll help with dinner,” I went on lamely. “I mean, if that’s your plan.”
She glanced at my burned feet. “I can cook. Just hamburgers, chips. I hope that’s okay?”
“Well, duh. It’s your house. You’re helping me.”
“Do you think Austin Rivers really tried to burn your house?”
