This Girl: A Novel

better after I bust this damn thing.”
    I take the gnome out of her hands when I reach her. “You don’t want to do that, gnomes are good luck.” I place the freshly injured gnome back in his spot before she destroys him completely.
    “Yeah,” she says, inspecting her shoulder. “Real good luck.”
    I immediately feel guilty when I see the blood on her shirt. “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have laughed if I knew you were hurt.” I assist her up and get a better look at the amount of blood coming from her injury. “You need to get a bandage on that.”
    She looks back to her house and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t have any clue where to find one at this point.”
    I glance at our house, knowing I have a full supply of bandages in the first-aid kit. I’m hesitant to offer them, though, since I’m already running late for work as it is.
    I’m looking at my house, struggling with my indecision, when all five of my senses are suddenly flooded. The slightest smell of vanilla that permeates the air around me . . . the sound of her accent when she speaks . . . the way her close proximity wakes up something inside me that’s long been dormant. Holy hell. I’m in trouble.
    Work can wait.
    “You’ll have to walk with me. There are some in our kitchen.” I take my jacket off and wrap it around her shoulders, then help her across the street. I’m sure she can walk on her own, but for some reason I don’t want to let go of her arm. I like helping her. I like the way she feels leaning against me. It seems . . . right.
    Once we’re inside my house, she follows me through my living room as I head to the kitchen to find a bandage. I pull the first-aid kit out of the cabinet and remove a Band-Aid. When I glance back at her, she’s looking at the pictures on our wall. The pictures of my mom and dad.
    Please don’t ask me about them. Please.
    This is not a conversation I want to have right now. I quickly say something to deflect her attention away from the pictures. “It needs to be cleaned before you put the bandage on it.” I roll up my sleeves and turn on the faucet, then wet the napkin. I catch myself taking my time when I know I should be in a hurry. For whatever reason, I just want to drag this time out with her. I don’t know why I feel like my desire to know her better has suddenly turned into a need to know her better. I turn back around and she darts her eyes away from me when I look at her. I don’t really understand her sudden embarrassed look, but it’s cute as hell.
    “It’s fine,” she says, reaching for the napkin. “I can get it.”
    I hand her the napkin and reach for the bandage. It’s awkwardly quiet as I fidget with the wrapper. For some reason, her presence makes the house seem eerily empty and quiet. I never notice the silence when I’m alone, but the lack of conversation occurring right now is uncomfortably obvious. I think of something to say to fill the void.
    “So, what were you doing outside in your pajamas at seven o’clock in the morning? Are you guys still unloading?”
    She shakes her head and tosses the napkin into the trash can. “Coffee,” she says, matter-of-fact.
    “Oh. I guess you aren’t a morning person.” I’m secretly hoping that’s the case. She seems sort of pissy. I’d like to blame it on her lack of caffeine, rather than on indifference toward me. I take a step closer to place the bandage on her shoulder. I briefly pause before touching her and take in a silent breath, preparing for the rush I seem to get every time I touch her. I put the bandage in place and pat it softly, securing the edges with pressure from my fingertips. Her skin prickles and she wraps her arms around herself, rubbing her forearms up and down.
    I gave her chills. This is good.
    “There,” I say, giving it one last, unnecessary pat. “Good as new.”
    She clears her throat. “Thanks,” she says, standing up. “And I am a morning person, after I get my coffee.”
    Coffee. She needs coffee. I’ve got coffee.
    I quickly walk over to the counter where the remaining brew is still warm in the pot. I grab a cup out of the cabinet and fill it up for her, then set it on the counter in front of her. “You want cream or sugar?”
    She shakes her head and smiles at me. “Black is fine. Thanks,” she says. I lean across the bar and watch as she brings the coffee to her lips. She blows softly into the cup before pressing her lips to the brim and sips, never taking her