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The side of her face that isn’t bruised and swollen is expressive enough to read her disbelief, sadness, and even a little longing. As much as I wish to read her eyes, I’m glad they remain closed so I can keep looking.
I can follow the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks from where I sit. They’re adorable. Especially because I know they don’t dapple the rest of her creamy skin. It’s the only place they are. I find I want to trace them again.
I can look at her lips, the bottom fuller than the top, blushed a peachy pink like the pink blueberries my ex-in-laws grow at their summer estate. My mouth waters when I think about discovering if she tastes as sweet as those berries.
I had watched her unbraid the mane of copper hair with its darker auburn streaks running through it like licks of flame. She finger combed through it and re-braided it so fast. Her fingers are thin but long and moved with expert ease. Her nails aren’t cut short, but also not manicured, a natural pink and white. I wonder how those fingers would feel wrapped around me. Would her stroke be as effortlessly efficient as she had manipulated the strands of hair? I curse myself again in my head, and try to put that image out of my mind.
I wonder for a moment if I should move her to the bed, but I don’t want to disturb her. It would hurt her to move. I go back to my book and get lost for another hour or so until my eyes are stinging. Then I add some wood to the fire, throw an extra blanket over Lorelai and Rusty, and stretch out on the bed fully clothed, not wanting her to wake to my normal boxer brief night attire.
The next couple of days goes pretty much the same. I cook, keep the fire going, carry Lorelai to the bathroom and back to the couch, and talk for endless hours since reading hurts her head.
So far, we haven’t lost power, but cell service is still down. The wind howls at a constant level and when I let Rusty out, the snow is swirling so much I can’t see at all. I don’t know how he finds his way back. We also end up with a blast of snow at the threshold, even with the porch serving as partial cover. It melts quickly into a puddle in the heat of the cabin.
I wonder a few times why I’m not annoyed at my vacation-crasher. I came here for peace and quiet. To “get away from it all” while Emilie is with her “uncle” and half-sister.
Lorelai is certainly easy to look at, even with the bruise on her cheek turning the darkest purple I’ve ever seen. She’s great at keeping me talking with intelligent questions that show she’s interested and smartass remarks to my attempts at humor.
The third day we’re snowed in, she’s balancing a little on her ankle, so I no longer need to carry her, and I’m missing that a little. Okay, a lot. After the first few times, she’d relaxed and curled into me when I lifted her up, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest. It’s a much different warmth filling my chest than when I tote Emilie around.
Now Lorelai just holds my arm to get to the bathroom. I can tell her knee is really bothering her, but she seems determined to make it as much on her own as she can. She still looks at me with surprise on her face when I hand her a sandwich or a bowl of soup or bring her an extra blanket when I see she’s tucking her feet under the loveseat pillow. This girl is not used to being taken care of.
Chapter 7
~~ Lorelai ~~
I wake on day four of being shut in the cabin to Rusty nosing my hand. James has been up earlier than I have every day until now. I get up carefully, finding I can put more weight on my ankle than the day before. Being as quiet as I can, I hobble to the back door off the kitchen to let Rusty out.
I look around the tiny kitchen, noting the dry goods in the pantry. I bet I can manage breakfast. I check to see what’s in the fridge and gather a few things. By the time I’ve measured and chopped and mixed and put everything into the oven, my knee is really starting to hurt. I pour a cup of coffee, grab a stool, and make an ice pack out of the kitchen towel. I sit at the counter with my leg outstretched and the towel pressed to the wrap on my knee until I hear Rusty scrape at the door and I hobble over to let him in..
Rusty sits watching, his tail beating a rhythm on the floor as I close the oven door and set the square baking dish on top of the stove. Then a voice startles me from the doorway, “What are you—”
My heart stops and I turn toward the sound, my elbow hitting the cup of coffee I left on the counter. I see it in slow motion sloshing over as it heads to the floor.
Rusty rushes by me in the same moment I turn, knocking against my sore knee, and then I’m sliding on the spilled coffee.
I close my eyes and brace for the fall.
I hear the crash of the cup splintering into pieces as it lands.
But I don’t.
I don’t fall.
James is there pulling me against his hard body. Holding me up.
I’m not breathing.
All that's in my head is the sound of the cup breaking.
I push backward out of reach of his hands as fast as my legs will let me, my whole body suddenly shaking. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying over and over.
I bend to pick up the shards of the ceramic mug, balancing on my other knee.
I grab the towel that had fallen and swipe desperately at the spilled coffee.
The shattering reverberates through my head over and over, and I feel vomit at the back of my throat around the words still spilling out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I hear James’s footsteps come closer, and I flinch. I still hear the cracking and breaking sounds repeating.
