Wicked Restless

“He’s at work,” he says.

“At…at that gym?” I ask, the thought of Andrew getting hit by someone squeezing my heart.

Trent chuckles lightly and looks at his feet, shaking his head. “No, his real job,” he says. “He’s at the elementary on Fourteenth. He’s probably coloring right now.”

My lips form a tight smile at the mental picture that paints.

“Coloring,” I repeat.

Trent nods and laughs again. “Yep, Harper’s one bad-ass colorer,” he says.

Looking down, I let my smile grow slightly bigger. My feet are bare, and the chill hits them. I wiggle my toes.

“You need some shoes?” Trent asks. I laugh once to myself then look up at him, holding my arms out to show off my Andrew wardrobe.

“Andrew packed my bag, but he didn’t include footwear,” I shrug. “Seems I need a little of everything.”

Trent nods, then holds up a finger and jogs back to his room. I wait in the middle of his living room, listening to the sounds of drawers sliding open and his closet door closing. He comes out with a pair of short socks and sport sandals.

“Here,” he says, motioning to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

I step around to the front, and he kneels in front of me, handing me the socks to put on. I slip them on quickly then put my feet on the floor so he can slide them into the sandals and adjust the Velcro so they don’t come loose.

“You’re like Prince Charming, only instead of a glass slipper, it’s an old Adidas sandal,” I laugh, holding my foot out and moving it to test to be sure the shoe doesn’t fall away. Trent laughs with me.

“I guess so,” he says. “Only, don’t tell Drew that. He’ll rip my head off if he hears you call me Prince Charming. That’s his job.”

I keep my eyes on him, and he glances up at me a few times, his lips in a tight smile, perhaps a little guilty for selling his friend’s feelings out to me. I’m glad he did, though. And he’s right—it is Andrew’s job.

I head down the hall for a quick glance in the bathroom mirror then walk to Andrew’s room to grab my broken purse and keys. Trent catches me before I leave completely, asking if I want a ride, but as much as I appreciate the gesture, I also want to go to Andrew alone. He seems okay with my “Thanks, but no thanks.”

I leave their apartment, looking like a member of the Tech hockey team. It’s still early, maybe not quite seven, and the traffic on the road is light. The fall weather is growing colder, and I notice my breath form a small cloud in front of me as I walk. I blow hard once just to test. I love it when the weather is like this.

I pass a few people walking their dogs, and I push my hair forward, wanting to hide the glaring bruise on my face. I don’t know what drove me to leave the safety of his apartment this morning, only that I had to see him. I have to thank him, and it doesn’t feel like it can wait. When I reach the school, I notice a few cars pull up to a main lot, parents stepping out and walking young kids up to a side building. I head to the open door, holding it as a woman walks out, her phone resting between her cheek and shoulder as she mouths thanks and passes me.

When I glance inside, I see Andrew’s back to me; he’s sitting on a long lunch-table bench with about a dozen six and seven-year-old girls gathered around him—all of them coloring. His hair is messy, tousled in varied directions, and he’s wearing his black, long-sleeved shirt with gray jeans, the laces from his Converse shoes dangling off to the sides, waiting to trip him.

He looks like an innocent little boy in a man’s body as his arm shakes from side to side with his coloring, his head leaning and his other hand twisting the paper in a slow circle so he can fill up something with the bright blue in his hand.

There’s a tiny girl sitting next to him, her legs folded up as she sits sideways and watches him color. “Use pink next,” she says, her voice high and precious. Her ponytails flop next to her face as she turns her head toward me and grins. She’s missing two of her teeth on the top, but she’s smiling like a supermodel. I hold a hand up and bunch my fingers in a wave. She waves back, then taps Andrew on the shoulder, scooting up on her heels to reach his ear. When she’s done whispering, Andrew flips his body around quickly, his eyes wide on me.

“Sorry…Trent…he told me you were here,” I say. His shocked look fades into a happy one, and he holds his crayon out for the young girl next to him to take.

“Kaitlyn, you mind finishing?” he asks. She pouts at first, but he brings both of his hands together in a begging motion and she finally sighs and begins coloring.