Page 38 of Seale the Deal

When I come down the stairs, I realize Wrenley never made it up them last night. The TV glows softly in the dim room, Netflix cycling through previews of whatever murder show it thinks she’d enjoy next. She’s curled herself beneath a blanket and some kind of fuzzy… something. A pincushion circles her wrist, and beside her sits a floral sewing kit, big enough to fit her sewing supplies, but definitely not designed to carry fabric in.

She looks peaceful, and I like that she seems settled here. I don’t want her to spend her time here feeling like she’s walking on eggshells or like she can’t be comfortable.

I suddenly realize I’m staring at her and pivot toward the kitchen. Getting curious about Wrenley as a person is one thing, but letting myself linger in the doorway watching her like a creeper is another thing entirely.

As I pull out what I need for breakfast, I can’t help but reflect on how easy it’s been to go back to cooking for two. Elk sausage hits the cast iron pan with a loud sizzle, the smell of sage and pepper filling the kitchen. Then I start my mom’s waffle recipe, the one that insists on whipping egg whites separately. She always claimed that was the secret. It’s not. I learned from various cooks who come through the outfitter camp that it’s pretty common knowledge. But I let the lie survive in memory of her.

A soft groan drifts from the living room. My body reacts before my brain catches up, which is deeply unfortunate because suddenly, my sweatpants situation requires management.

I clear my throat. Morning, I call toward the living room.

There’s a muffled response.

I turn the waffle iron on, check myself, and head toward the couch, trying to look normal despite the fact that hearing her wake up apparently activated my more primal instincts.

Can you repeat that? I ask.

She squints up at me through sleep-heavy eyes. I said, ‘Shit, I lost my needle.’

I stare at her for half a second too long. How? You have the little pincushion thing.

She’s already patting around the couch cushions. It’s the one I was actively sewing with.

Right. Makes sense.

I step further into the room, scanning the floor while she moves toward the other end of the couch. I pat the carpet, trying to feel it before—

Wrenley suddenly yelps and jerks upright, lifting one foot. I’m across the room in a blink.

Let me see. I squat down in front of her and gently rest her foot on my thigh. Sure enough, a silver glint peeks through the ball of her foot.

I think you found the needle, I say.

Please say it’ll come out.

I glance up at her face, scrunched in pain, and I don’t like it.

I think so. Hold still.

I grit my teeth and pull the needle out. Blood wells to the surface, and she lets out a hiss. She grips her calf, eyes squeezed shut.

Is it out? she whispers.

Yeah. You’re good. I grab a tissue from the table next to the couch and hold it out to her.

She exhales a low breath, and our eyes meet. Her hand brushes mine to take the tissue, and for some ridiculous reason, the contact is enough to ignite every nerve in my body.

I stand too fast. I’ll get a bandage.

I hustle to the bathroom and find the first aid kit, which I set on the counter before I grip the sink. My heart’s still hammering, my skin buzzing like I just sprinted through a blizzard in bare feet. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to reel it all back in.

What the hell is going on?

This is only supposed to look real for everyone outside this house, not start feeling complicated inside it. I’m supposed to care about her because she’s living under my roof. I do care about her. Anyone with a pulse would grab a first aid kit after someone stepped on a pin. So why did seeing a little blood make my chest tighten? Why did some stupid primal urge to fix it take over? I shake my head, grab an antiseptic wipe and a bandage, then head back downstairs.

The kitchen smells amazing now—waffle batter and elk sausage. She’s limping around, one foot tucked behind her like a flamingo as she flips sausage and loads a plate with a steaming waffle.

I saved breakfast, she says as I walk toward her.