Page 41 of Hometown Halftime

Getting Kinsey up the porch steps takes slow, careful teamwork—her hand gripping my arm, my other hand hovering near her hip in case her leg misfires again. By the time I unlock her door and guide her inside, she’s gone pale, jaw tight with pain.

“Bedroom,” she forces out, breathing shallow. “I need to sit.”

“Yeah,” I say, sliding an arm under hers. “I’ve got you.”

We move down the hallway together, her steps still unsteady, but less cautious than earlier. She lowers onto the edge of her bed with a shaky exhale, leaning back on her palms as if holding herself upright requires more effort than she’d ever admit to.

Once she’s seated, I glance around the room. Her bedroom is the complete opposite of what I would have imagined. Her duvet is a soft blue, white curtains drape the windows, there’s three vintage pictures of owls on the walls. She has one of those makeup desks with the light bulbs around the attached mirror against the far wall.

“Your bedroom is girly,” I blurt out.

Her brow pinches. “Well, I am a girl, Weston.”

I tuck my hands into my pockets. “Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s cute, I like the owls.”

She points to one of the framed prints, it has an owl wearing a monocle, sitting on a stack of books.

“That one is my favorite. They were all my grandma’s. They were the things I wanted most from her house when she passed away. I always loved all of her owls.”

“That’s really sweet.” I look away, thinking of what she might need. “Can I get you some pajamas?”

“Yes, please. They’re in the top drawer of the dresser.”

I cross the room and pull open the top drawer on the right and freeze.

Laid out in front of me are bras. So many bras. Every color, shape and fabric. Laced, smooth, padded, see-through, all arranged in neat rows. My brain short-circuits so violently it’s a miracle I don’t drop dead on the spot.

Kinsey’s voice comes from behind me. “Wrong side. Other top drawer, Riley.”

I fumble the drawer shut so fast I almost slam my fingers in it.

“Sorry,” I choke out, heat rushing up my neck. “I didn’t mean to—”

Her voice is amused. “Relax, Weston. Most people own underwear.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Not the point.”

She laughs again, then winces, the sound fading into a breath she can’t quite catch. My embarrassment vanishes, replaced with concern. I focus on the task at hand and open the correct drawer this time. I grab the soft sleep shirt and shorts folded at the front and bring them to her.

She reaches for them with trembling hands. “Can you just…wait outside the door? I can change, it’s just going to take me longer than usual.”

“Sure,” I say. “Take your time.”

She pushes herself upright and limps into the attached bathroom to change, leaving the door cracked just enough that I hear the rustle of fabric, the quiet hiss of pain, then soft thud of her hand bracing against the sink counter.

It shouldn’t affect me like this, not when she’s hurting and when I’m supposed to be helping, but the awareness that she’s undressing with just a door between us won’t leave my mind. I run a hand through my hair as a twinge of guilt spikes through me.

When she emerges, she’s in her pajamas and moving cautiously toward the bed. I take her elbow again and guide her, lowering her carefully until she’s settled against the pillows.

“Did the doctor say you could have ibuprofen?” I ask. “Or anything like it?”

“Yeah, there’s some in the kitchen pantry,” she says, lifting a hand, pointing toward the hall. “There’s a basket in there where I keep all my medications.”

I walk to the kitchen, where I scan the pantry for the basket. When I find it, I grab the bottle and fill a glass of water from the filtered pitcher by the sink. Her place is tidy, but still feels lived in. Throw pillows and blankets fill the living room couch. There's a neatly folded dish towel by the sink, and a sweatshirt drapes over a chair at the table. Photos line a shelf near the hallway—Kinsey with Brynn and Kate, arms looped around each other. Another one shows a younger Kinsey in a grass-stained rugby jersey with a victorious smile while holding a ball. Then one of Kinsey sprawled on the carpet while Kate and Cam’s kids climb over her like she’s a jungle gym.

She belongs to people. People belong to her. And selfishly, I want to feel that too.

I return to the bedroom. “Here you go,” I say, placing the pills in her hand.