My hand shoots out to grab her arm, which is in the air, her head somewhere in the cardigan still. She nearly topples over, so I pull her back flush against the front of me, my other hand holding her bag and the water bottle. With my free hand, I help her pull on her sweater, leaning down to her ear. Her breath is shallow. She smells like lemon cake.
I swallow hard.
"Sorry, peaches--one sec." When I pull the hem to loose it from her tights, she freezes, realizing what happened.
"Oh noooooo," she says quietly.
I chuckle, my mouth still near her ear. "Nobody saw."
"You did."
I don't know what to say to that, so I stand, finally landing on, "Well, I'm nobody too."
"That's not true either." She turns around and looks up at me, flushed cheeks smiling. "I see you, whether you want me to or not."
Then she's off for the tables to say goodbye. For a second, I just stand there, blinking. And then I find myself and follow.
This was a mistake. Big mistake. Get her home and tap out.
I don't say much as we leave the bar, get in my truck, head to her house. But she doesn't seem to notice, chattering happily, drinking the Gatorade I shoved in her hand the second we got in. She just lives a couple of blocks away and had walked to the bar, but I'll be goddamned if I'm letting her walk home in the dark after midnight, couple of blocks or not. When we pull into her driveway, she nearly falls out of the truck, giggling. I spend the time between my truck and her front door measuring the risks of picking her up and carrying her inside--I don't know what I'd do with that much of her body against mine. Instead, she wobbles toward the door, and I follow with Gatorade and Saltines.
The little yellow house is charming and teeming with personality, even in the dark with no porch light. At a distance at least--up close, it's easy to see the effects of time in the worn, bowing wood and flaking paint. It was probably built in the twenties like my house, but with little Edwardian details in the woodwork, the porch rails, the window casings, the beautiful front door. Once safely up the stairs, she hinges at the waist, her eye about two inches from the lock as she tries to insert it. I take the keys from her easily, gently, noticing that beautiful door is hung crooked as I unlock it. This is confirmed when I open it and it sticks.
"Your door's not straight."
She blows a raspberry as she passes and waves a hand at me.
"This is burglar bait, Molly--anybody could break in." I work to shut the door, glaring at it before giving it my back.
A trail of shoes and a sweater lead toward the bedrooms, I'd guess.
"Right, since the crime rate in Roseville is on the rise."
Don’t worry! I’ve taken self-defense!”
I hear her make a karatehy-yah!sound and imagine her doing an air chop.The thought almost erases my frown as I pick up her shoes and setting them near the door so she doesn't trip on them later. Her sweater, I throw on the back of the couch. Looking around, the inside is in worse shape than the outside, but with even more charm--curved casings, elaborate fireplace facing and mantle, original flooring, plaster medallions around the ceiling light fixtures, though it's all in need of repair. At a glance, a couple of the windows look stuck, and there's some bowed molding. When I pour her a glass of water for her nightstand, I note that the sink is loose too.
"Who's your handyman?" I call, striding toward her room, looking for a trashcan. There's one under a small writing desk, and I'm glad it has a plastic bag. She very well might need it.
"Don't have one."
I frown, making my way in her direction with my hands and arms full.
"What do you mean you don't have one--"
I stop dead in the threshold of her room, once again with a magnificent view of her magnificent ass, this time with the added gift of her slender waist and bare back. All of it disappears with the fall of a gigantic tee.
I don't realize she's still talking until she turns around and her mouth is moving. She's unfazed. I shake my head like a dog.
"…and I've been fixing what I can myself. Well, me and Dale. Dale's Demos. He's pretty good, despite sometimes giving you the steps out of order. Is that for me?"
I nod, stepping into the room to hand her the glass of water and set the trashcan next to her bed.
"Ooh, thank you," she says, swaying as she glugs the water down.
Somehow, I remember my objective, unloading my haul, setting the Gatorade and crackers on her nightstand before reaching into my pocket. Next to the haul, I put a roll of tums and a little travel case of Advil after taking a few out.
"Here, take these."
