The counters, which had been immaculate and organized this morning, are now covered in Evy’s shower caddy and cosmetic bags. I dig through her clutter and pull out the supplies he requests.
“Should we move down to the kitchen table?” Having him in my bathroom seems way too intimate. I get naked in that shower every morning. The way-too-flimsy-but-never-seen-in-public bathrobe Evy gave me for Christmas is hanging on a hook behind his head. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“It’s not a big deal. Sit.” He points to the lidded toilet and takes a seat opposite on the edge of the bathtub. “Do your nails and try not to flinch. This is gonna hurt.”
I pull nail polish remover from a cabinet and sit, reaching over to snag some cotton balls from the bag. Jonah props my foot on his knee, soaks a cotton ball in peroxide, and presses it to my toes.
My determination to be brave shatters with the first contact of cotton. Pain flames through my toe, and I have to grasp the side of the counter to keep myself from wrenching my foot away from his hand. I gasp and exhale a whimper.
“Your small toe’s the worst—even part of the toenail’s torn off. The rest shouldn’t be so bad.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” I repeat softly, wincing as he dabs my next toe and a new sting fires through my foot. I set my ring on the counter and concentrate on wiping off Mina’s handiwork. My fingers shake slightly as the blush of color smears and dissolves.
Jonah leans in and blows on the bubbles forming from the peroxide—like Dad used to when I skinned a knee.
“I bet you’re a great big brother.”
“What?” He looks up at me, puzzled.
“Sophia looks like you,” I add.
“You think? I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” He smiles a little. Almost. “She’s a chill baby, I’m going to miss her when I leave for State in the fall.”
His hand rubs my insole as he talks, the light touch masking some of the pain throbbing from my toes. I look from his face to my foot, curious if he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Oh, no. Sorry, I’m getting blood on your shorts.” I try to pull my foot back, but his fingers hold firm.
“It’ll wash out. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ve got stain stuff under the cabinet.”
“It’s fine.” His clipped words kill my efforts to free my foot and get the Spray ’n Wash. My cheeks burn with color—like they always do when I feel chastised—and the nails on my left hand end up a little smeared.
He crumples the Band-Aid wrappers into a ball and lowers my foot to the floor. I wipe at a stray speck of glitter on my thumb and desperately seek something to say. He softened when talking about Sophia; another question about her, maybe?
My gaze rises slowly from my nails, drifting up his shirt to his face, and locks on the brown eyes that are studying me. “Thank you—” The other words of my gushy like-me speech die in my throat.
He nods and stands. I do too, and the space between toilet and bathtub is far too small for both of us. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, hear his breathing. I wait for him to step away.
He doesn’t.
“What do you think of the color?” I ask, lifting a hand and holding it out to him.
He cups it and leans back to create enough room between us to examine my fingers. “It’s very green.”
But I’m looking at his hand cradling mine, not my nails. He has kind hands. Can hands be kind? His are.
I want to find a flippant reply, something that will keep him smiling with amusement not condescension, yet all my mind will repeat is: he’s being nice.
If only I could freeze time and figure him out. Make a list and uncover the secret to receiving a smile like this. Instead, I suppress the shy grin that wants to spread with my blush, and force a practiced smile. “You like it? Maybe it’ll start a trend. All the girls in Cross Pointe will be wearing green nails.”
His fingers drop mine, his mouth drops into a scowl, and he crosses the bathroom. “It’s nail polish, who cares?”
My words dry up. I shrug and lean back against the countertop.
“You’re about to knock your ring down the drain.” He points.
“Oh. Thanks.” I don’t bother to explain it wouldn’t fit down the drain. Instead I guide it back onto my finger, careful not to hit a nail. The green of the gem and the polish are a perfect match.
“Is that real?” he asks.
“My dad gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.” It was my last birthday with a father.
“Because you’re really careless with it,” Jonah adds.
Careless? I’ve been hyperaware of its weight on my finger all day. It’s an anchor, keeping me grounded and prepared for whatever Mom might need. A reminder that when I get past the stress and emotions of tomorrow, it’s all for him.
I wish I could communicate this to Jonah with a look, because I can’t find the right words. Normally if I’m in a situation where I have to utter the phrase “my dad” to anyone but Amelia, I’m suffocated by pity and the subject is changed.
“Don’t worry, I won’t lose it,” I finally say.
“AAA’s in the driveway,” Evy calls from the kitchen.