“What was that measurement?” he asks, measuring a two-by-four for another cut. I look down at my hand and call out four and five-eighths.
Bo pauses and narrows his eyes at me.
“What?”
“Did you write that on your hand?”
“Yes, the notepad is next to you, and I was busy, so I wrote it down on the next best thing.” I didn’t see any problem with this. If he thought this was bad, it was a good thing he wasn’t here when I hung the new cupboards in the laundry room.
“You use your hand to write down measurements.”
“It’s actually not a bad idea. It goes where I go. Very convenient.” I hold my palm up. “Four and five-eighths. Read it yourself.”
He crosses the bathroom, takes my hand, and tilts it toward the light. His thumb rests against the inside of my wrist while he reads the numbers, and my pulse jumps.
“Four and five-eighths,” he confirms. Then, slowly, his thumb rubs across the numbers.
They smear.
“This is why you don’t write it on your hand.”
“It wouldn’t have smeared if you didn’t rub it.”
He releases my hand, not quite hiding the expression on his face.
“Told you it works,” I whisper, a little distracted.
He shakes his head and goes back to his side of the room.
When the last screw is in, we both sit back on our heels and look at the new subfloor. “That’s not going anywhere for a long time.” I feel pretty good about the work. It took us most of the day, but that’s only because I, and I quote, played too much. But he liked it and even laughed with me, even if he wouldn’t admit it. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him.
I stretch out my legs and back. There is dust in my hair and on my face and probably in places I won’t discover until I shower, and I can’t find it in me to care, because the floor is done and we did it. I would do every minute of it again. Maybe next time I skip the shin, though.
Bo stands and reaches for my hand. I take it, and he pulls me up slowly.
“Thank you,” I say. “For all of it.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere.”
I look up at him.
He reaches out with his free hand and brushes something from my cheek, his thumb moving in a slow pass.
His eyes meet mine.
There is something in them I don’t yet understand. It’s not like I haven’t made myself clear. But it goes much deeper than that. It looks like want, but it feels like effort and control.
He steps back.
“I’ll clean up the tools,” he says.
“Okay. I’ll order a late lunch. How does pizza sound? If I order now, Denny might deliver it. He owes me twenty from the last time I ordered.”
Bo laughs. “Pizza sounds great. And give Denny a break. The poor kid has to deal with Mrs. Winslow on aweekly basis. That old woman is a riot.” Bo picks up a few tools and heads to the garage, Rowdy at his side.
And then it’s just me in the small bathroom with dust in my hair and my hand still warm where his was.
I press my fingers together.
