Her head bobbles in a shake. “I—I just think I need a little space. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay. Seeing how you also needhelpgetting inside, I’ll give you space in four minutes—five max.”
“Five—” she mumbles as I wrap one arm around her waist and begin walking her into the house.
“I’m fine,” she grumbles.
“I know. And it’s okay. Sometimes?—”
“I know. I know,” she says with a groan. “You have this effect on women.”
I laugh. “At times. But that isn’t what I was going to say. I was going to say sometimes the combination of spinning and falling takes a minute to wearoff.”
“Oh. Right.”
“This way,” Hailey says when we step inside. “Sit her down in the living room.” She sets both glasses of lemonade on a coffee table in front of a blue plaid couch.
I do as she says and Maggie happily plops herself onto the cushion.
“You’d best sit next to her, Lucca,” Hailey says.
Again, I do as the woman instructs. I’ve never been so happy to comply.
“Hold her hand. When Maggie was a little girl and sick, she always wanted a hand to hold.”
Maggie crosses her arms. “Mom, I?—”
“Here’s the remote,” Hailey says, cutting her off. “Find her something soothing and she’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
The woman leaves, and I reach for Maggie’s hands. She tightens her fold. “Mother’s orders,” I say, pulling one of her arms out of its fold and entwining our fingers. This is exactly where I like Maggie—next to me, hand in mine.
“Lucca, you don’t have to stay.”
“I’d like to stay. I need to see you…right as rainbows.”
She smirks. “Fine. But I get the remote.”
I don’t even have to prod to get her head on my shoulder. I wrap one arm around her and hold her hand in my other. I hold her close, making the world right again. I rest my head on hers and breathe in the scent of her fruity shampoo.
“Maggie McCrae,” I hum, just above a whisper. I’m not even sure she’s heard me. No matter—I was talking to myself anyway.
Her breaths are even, and our baking show is halfway through the competition when Maggie speaks. I thought she might be asleep. “Just tell me this: How many women have you loved?”
“One,” I say. “My vovó. I suppose that’s not what you meant. But I loved her more than any other woman.”
“That’s sweet. Not at all what I meant, but sweet.”
“Aw.” I move my lips to her temple. “You meant—” I say, speaking into her soft skin. “How many women have I wooed?” I tilt my head, but she isn’t looking at me. Her still body tells me she is listening closely. “Many. It’s true. Or maybe you meant how many women have I taken on dates? Again, many. Or maybe?—”
“Got it. Straight answer. Thank you,” Maggie says, stirring a little in my arms.
“Or maybe you meant how many women have I lain with, just listening to the sound of their breathing, while taking in the scent of their hair?”
She stills.
“One. Just one. Or maybe you meant how many women have I texted unceasingly, though hope of a reply was slim?One. Or maybe you meant how many women have made me insane with their strong will and obstinate, brilliant minds? Just one.”
She tilts her head, peering up at me.
