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“I’ve carried heavier things further.”
“I can walk. Put me down and I’ll prove it. It was just the shock of it all, it’s not even hurting that much right now.”
“You can’t hike up this hill on a bum ankle, Maggie.”
“Put. Me. Down.”
This last one is accentuated by a sharp twitch with each word, and I almost lose my grip. I freeze, glaring down at her. Maggie glares right back, blood and dirt on her face.
“Maggie, if I drop you right now, you’re going to be hurt even worse.” With a jerk, I tighten my grip on her back and underneath her thighs. “Fuck, you’re more difficult than Olive. Now quit.”
What I don’t tell her is that the way she’s squirming against my chest is doing things to me I’d rather forget about. How long has it been since I’ve touched a woman? Since I’ve had a hug from anyone apart from Olive? Even the way her hands keep accidentally brushing my neck are driving me to distraction, my skin on fire from each light touch.
I start back up the hill, and Maggie subsides, tucking her hands under her chin. I don’t know if I’m relieved or sad that her fingers are nowhere near my skin now, but I push the thought away and take us home.
“Olive! Open the front door please.” My daughter’s face pops out the open front door before I finish speaking. She dances out the door, hands fluttering and chattering. Greg follows behind, herding Olive out of my way as I bring Maggie inside and set her down on the couch.
Maggie explains what happened to Greg as I grab the first aid kit from the kitchen counter. I snort as she insists that she’s not hurt that badly. “Pickle, go grab me a washcloth from the closet.” I snag her before she can get in Maggie’s space and propel her down the short hallway. I love my daughter, but a seven-year-old who can’t sit still is not the most helpful in an emergency.
“Can I take your shoe off?” Greg asks Maggie. “I’m not the doctor, but we’ve had more than our share of bumps and bruises around here.”
“Here, Dad.” Olive flaps a piece of fabric in my face, tearing my attention away from the conversation happening on the couch.
“Can you get it wet with warm water?” I turn her toward the kitchen sink. “And wring it out so it’s not dripping wet,” I add, remembering what happened last time I asked her to do this.
Greg has Maggie’s shoe untied, but hasn’t taken it off yet. He glances up at me. “I think this calls for two good hands.” He lifts his splinted arm and winces.
“Right. Good call.” I kneel down beside the couch. Maggie has her arms crossed over her chest now, glaring alternately at Greg and me. “May I?”
She flaps a hand in my direction. “By all means, it’s not like either of you are listening to a word I’m saying. I’m. Fine.”
I don’t point out that for all her protests, she hasn’t tried to stand up and walk away. Gently, I ease her shoe off, doing my best not to pull or twist her ankle as I do so.
“See, it’s not even swollen.” Maggie indicates her ankle. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” She flexes her foot but can’t hide her wince. “Okay, it’s a little sore. I’ll ice it when I get home. Happy?”
Olive comes rushing over, placing the warm, damp washcloth in my hand. “Thanks, Pickle.” I tear my eyes away from Maggie to look my daughter in the eye. “You did good, kid.” She grins at me. “I know you want to stay and help, but I think the best thing you can do right now is go with Grandpa Greg. Maybe you guys can whip us up a snack?”
“But I want to help.” Olive’s bottom lip protrudes, and I can tell she’s about to make a fuss.
Greg claps a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Pickle, I can hear your dad’s stomach rumbling from here. How about we go to my house and make some of Jackie’s famous mac and cheese for everyone?”
Olive digs her heels in for a second, before I catch her eye. “I am very hungry. Rescuing damsels in distress is hard work.” I wink. “You wouldn’t want your old dad to die of starvation, would you?”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead and pretend-flop over Maggie’s legs on the couch. I can’t see Olive’s face, but Maggie must see she’s about to give in and adds her own dramatics to the situation. “I am awfully hungry. And I’ve never tried Jackie’s famous mac and cheese.”
Olive gives in with a giggle. “It’s not really Grandma Jackie’s, it’s Daddy’s. But we call it hers because it’s her favorite meal ever. And mine! You’ll love it, Maggie.”
“Well, you better go make some for us before your dad withers away to practically nothing.” There’s a gentle pat on my elbow and goosebumps prickle along the back of my neck at Maggie’s touch. I am seriously starved for touch, it seems. It’s ridiculous how much my body is overreacting to everything Maggie does.
I lift my head, my hand more-or-less accidentally resting across Maggie’s thighs as I sit up. “Go, please,” I add, a hint of sternness to my tone.
Olive huffs then leans in to kiss my cheek. “Okay, fine. Come on, Grandpa Greg.” Without waiting for him, she charges out the front door. “Let’s make some mac and cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese!” Her voice trails off like a siren’s wail as she races away. Greg’s chuckle cuts off as he closes the front door, leaving Maggie and I alone in the silence.
Silence Maggie breaks with a soft sigh. “She’s a hoot.”
Removing my arm from her thighs, I reach for the washcloth I’d left on the coffee table. “Yeah, she is. Takes after her mother like that.” I roll to my knees and start dabbing at the blood on her face.
One of Maggie’s eyebrows quirks under my touch. “Oh, I don’t know. I think there’s hidden depths to you, Mr. Grumpypants. Something tells me she takes after you more than you think.” She cuts off with a wince as I brush against the scratch on her temple.
