Page 52 of One More Chapter
I shrug, then take a seat on the opposite end of the couch. Her expression is scrunched, and that pink is turning red as she tries to scrunch it all in toward the middle.
“I amnotcrying. I am simply onpainkillers.”
I can feel my eyes sparkling with the open-mouthed laugh I expel.
“Sure,” I chuckle, nodding. “Absolutely.”
“Anthony James Ellis…”
“Oooo, she full-named me.” I waggle my eyebrows. “What’s next? You gonna tell me to sit like a good boy?”
“No, I’d much rather you were the one giving the orders.”
She flames scarlet, then brings both hands quickly to her mouth presumably to hold in any further confessions—only, she forgets that one of her arms now weighs significantly more, and whacks herself with her new cast.
“Oh,fuck!”
“Easy there, killer!” I laugh, scooting closer on the couch to peel her cast away from her face. We fall into the kind of laughter where you can’t breathe, and I wonder how I ever let a day go by where this woman wasn’t in my life. How I ever gave myself the option otherwise.
Once we can both breathe again, she realizes I’m still holding her casted hand and slides it away, but I can’t help it. Touching her today has been like finding water in the desert. I slide my hand up to gently cup her face and skim my thumb over her upper lip, letting her breath catch and heat my skin with her gasp.
“You’d better start being careful, PJ. I’m gonna end up using all my sick time to take care of you.”
The nickname breaks the spell, and she shakes me away, settling back into her blanket burrito. I remain on the middle cushion, spreading my legs wide as I relax against the back of the couch.
“How are you feeling?”
“Stupid.” She grumbles it in a whisper, crossing her arms. I long to reach out and tuck the loose hair behind her ears, but I feel like my touching has reached capacity for today. I grip my biceps to keep my hands from going rogue.
“Why? It wasn’t your fault. It was the damn Stanley cup’s fault. I already told Nathan we need to ban them. Hell, I might go after the corporation itself.”
“You can’t avenge me against a Stanley cup, Anthony,” she chuckles breathlessly.
“I can give McKenna Smith detention for a week,” I nod.
“How’d you know it was hers?”
“The volleyball sticker. All of our girls have them.”
She shakes her head, turning her cast over a few times in her lap, studying it.
“I’m just glad it’s my left hand,” she sighs. “At least it won’t totally get in the way of work. Writing, on the other hand…”
She tilts her head and chews on the inside of her lip.
“Hey, I’m here to help in any way that I can, Pen. You want me to write for you, I can type.”
“Absolutely not,” she answers immediately. But almost as quickly, the line of her brows softens. “But I might need your help with a few other things. I don’t know. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Just say the word,” I nod. Getting an idea, I stand and head to my bedroom. After digging around in the unpacked boxes of knick-knacks, I come up with exactly what I was looking for.
I jingle the bell as announcement of my reentry.
“What the hell is that?” she laughs skeptically, taking the bell from my hand.
“Bought it during our seventh grade field trip to the Boston Tea Party museum,” I say. “Might make calling me for help a little more fun than yelling across the house.”
“Or just texting you,” she chuckles with a lifted brow.