He said to call anytime if I needed him. Isn’t that right? I hope he meant it. People say a lot of things without truly thinking about timing.
But really, Josia did say to call whenever.
I rest my fingertips on the smooth front of my phone and slide it off the nightstand toward me.
Three seconds later his phone is ringing. Two seconds after that, the words, “Fia, are you okay?” seem to drip like honey down from the heavens.
Seriously. It sounds that good.
“Can you come pick me up? I want to come home, Josia. Just for a little bit.”
“I’m on my way. Be there in ten.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s good, Fia. See you soon.”
He didn’t sound at all groggy, I think as I slip into my sweatpants and one of Jack’s Notre Dame sweatshirts. I can’t find my beastly sweater anywhere, and I have to admit, if Jack burned it behind my back, I not only wouldn’t blame him, I’d be thankful.
I’m happy to report to myself that getting dressed took half the time it did when I first came home from the hospital, and that I truly am on the mend.
When Josia pulls the truck up exactly ten minutes after our conversation, I’m stepping off the last stair. He swings open his door and rushes toward me.
I have to admit it. I’ve overtaxed myself. I stop and steady my hand against the handrail. “Wow,” I whisper. Some real pain meds would be good right about now.
“You okay?” he says, now at my side.
I nod. “I think so. I was feeling better than I had been up there, but now . . .”
“Too much, too soon.” He bends at the waist and picks me up in his arms, gently accounting for my leg. “Let’s get you to the truck.”
You read in books how a man will pick up a woman like she “weighs almost nothing.” So, okay, that’s not exactly the case with Josia. He’s not a large man. But he’s strong and he carries me with ease. In fact, speaking as someone who has been picked up like this a lot of times, particularly during my teen romance comedy phase that lasted about five films, I feel the most supported this time.
His shirt feels soft and worn under my fingers and along the length of my arm. But the freshly laundered smell reaches my nostrils as I lay my head against his chest. The warmth of him infuses into me and I’m ready, it seems. Ready for what?
Well, to get in the truck at the very least.
I laugh. Just a little.
“What is it?” he asks, gently depositing me on the red vinyl seat.
“I’m happy,” I say.
It isn’t an overwhelming euphoria as if I’m tripping without the necessary substances. It just simply is.
“Good.”
He swings around to his side, hops in, then pulls us away from the house and into the night streets of a city sleeping beneath a clear sky and a sweet breeze coming down off the mountains a hundred miles away. Or maybe a thousand miles. Maybe a million. It doesn’t matter, does it?
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” I ask, thinking I should put the seat belt on, but knowing I’m safe.
He looks over at me and smiles the widest grin I’ve seen on him to date. “It’s all beautiful,” he says. “Every bit of it, yes?”
He lets us in the front door of the house, then flips on the light. I gasp. He’s cleared the entry hall of its clutter, swept it clean, and replaced every single light in the chandelier. The sparkling, winking chandelier is now burning bright, throwing a pure and white light around the white room, bouncing it off the marble floors in a way that speaks of a healing sun.
“Josia!”
“Welcome home, Fia. I hope you don’t mind. It’s the only place I took the liberty to work on without your permission, but only because I was positive this was what you’d want.”
“It is!”
“And I wanted you to have a proper homecoming.”
I turn to him and hug him, his blacksmith arms coming around to hold me tightly. So much comfort here.
What is Josia to me? A friend? A father? A brother? The one who will always be there no matter what?
Yes, yes, yes, to all of these.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “How can this even be?”
“I don’t sleep much, if you want to know the truth.”
I laugh. Let him answer the wrong question. It’s okay.
“And when you don’t sleep,” he continues, “you can be there for people in a way others can’t.”
Oh, so he did understand.
I pull away from him. “So where to next? I have a feeling this isn’t it.”
“Oh, heavens, no! Come on back to the kitchen.” He pockets his keys, curves his arm through mine, and we proceed down the hallway—the hallway I’ve walked down so many times without thinking about it, the hallway that was dreary and sometimes dank, the hallway that led to more piles of wasted thoughts and maladjusted intentions now unrolled before my feet with more anticipation than any red carpet could previously hope to have afforded.
“They say the kitchen is the heartbeat of a home,” Josia says, stopping three feet shy of the doorway. “Close your eyes, Fia, if you don’t mind.”
I don’t. So I do.
He gently steps with me, leading me to the threshold. “Good. Open your eyes.”