* * *
Lindy found Rush was in the kitchen when she returned from job hunting late that afternoon. Her day had gone amazingly well and she felt greatly encouraged. After filling out dozens of forms and passing a series of tests, she was scheduled for an interview at the Boeing Renton plant for the following Monday. The salary was more than she’d hoped for and the benefits substantial. She held high hopes for the interview. Perhaps the worm had finally turned and her luck was going to change. She certainly hoped so. But in the meantime she felt obligated to keep job hunting in case something else turned up between now and then. Besides she didn’t relish lingering around the apartment, bumping into Rush everytime she turned around.
“Hi,” Lindy greeted Rush cheerfully, draping the strap of her purse over the back of the kitchen chair. She was in the mood to be generous with her reluctant roommate. After her fruitful day of job hunting, she was actually beginning to feel a little like her old self.
It was obvious, however, from the vicious way Rush was scrubbing away at the dishes that his earlier dark mood hadn’t improved.
He grumbled a reply, but didn’t turn around. “Listen, I’ve got a schedule posted outside the bathroom so there won’t be a recurrence of what happened this morning.”
A schedule for the bathroom? He had to be joking! “Okay,” she answered, having difficulty disguising her amusement. She opened the refrigerator and took out a cold can of soda, closed the door and momentarily leaned against it. It struck her then that she was hungry. She’d eaten lunch hours before, but with her limited funds she couldn’t afford a fancy restaurant meal and had opted, instead, for a fast-food chicken salad. She had started to search through the cupboards when Rush turned around and nearly collided with her
“Excuse me,” he said stiffly.
“No problem.” She pressed herself against the counter as he moved past.
From the way he skirted around her, one would think she was a carrier of bubonic plague.
Without another word, Rush wiped his hands dry, rehung the dish towel and moved into the living room to turn on the television.
Since he didn’t appear to be the least bit communicative, she wasn’t about to ask him if he’d eaten or if he was hungry. Far be it from her to appear anxious to share a meal with Rush when he obviously wanted to ignore her. They weren’t on a Sunday-school picnic here, they were merely polite strangers whose presence had been forced on each other.
Sorting through the cupboards, Lindy brought out spaghetti noodles and a bottle of spicy Italian sauce. After weeks of a skimpy appetite, it felt good to think about cooking something substantial.
The sausage was frying up nicely and the faint scent of fennel and sage wafted through the kitchen. Lindy brought out an onion and had begun dicing it to add to the meat when the knife slipped and neatly sliced into her index finger.
The sight of blood squirting over the cutting board shocked more than hurt her. She cried out in a moment of panic and rushed to the sink, holding her hand.
“Lindy, are you all right?”
She ignored the question. The cut hurt now. Badly. Closing her eyes, she held her finger under the running water.
“What happened?” Rush demanded, joining her at the sink.
“Nothing.” Already the stainless steel was splashed with blotches of blood.
“You cut yourself!”
He sounded angry, as though she’d purposely injured herself in a futile attempt to gain his sympathy. “Are you always this brilliant or is this show of intelligence for my benefit?” she asked through clenched teeth. He looked stunned for a minute as though he didn’t understand a word of what she was saying. “Any idiot could see I’ve cut myself,” she cried, her voice raised and laced with a healthy dose of fright.
“Let me take a look at it.”
She shook her head forcefully, wishing he’d go away so she could assess the damage herself. The terrible stinging had been replaced by an aching throb. She couldn’t keep herself from bouncing, as if the action would lessen the pain.
“Give me your hand,” he demanded, reaching for it.
“Stop shouting at me,” she yelled, and jerked away from him. “As far as I’m concerned this is all your fault.”
“My fault?” His expressive blue eyes widened.
“Any fool knows better than to keep sharp knives around.” Lindy knew she wasn’t making sense, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“For God’s sake, stop hopping around and let me get a good look at it.”
Using his upper body, he trapped her against the counter. She really didn’t have any choice but to let him examine the cut. Biting unmercifully into her bottom lip, she unfolded her fist, while gripping her wrist tightly with her free hand.
His touch was surprisingly gentle and she watched as his brow folded together in a tight frown of concern.
“It doesn’t look like you’re going to need stitches.”
Lindy expelled a sigh of relief. With no health insurance, a simple call to the hospital emergency room would quickly deplete her limited funds. And although her parents were willing, Lindy didn’t want to ask them for money.
“Here.” With a tenderness she hadn’t expected from Rush, he reached for a clean towel and carefully wrapped it around her hand. “It looks like the bleeding has stopped. Wait here and I’ll get a bandage.”
It was all Lindy could do to nod. She felt incredibly silly now, placing the blame on him for having a sharp knife. He left her and returned a couple of minutes later with some gauze and tape.
“I didn’t mean what I said about this being your fault,” she told him, raising her eyes to meet his.
His eyes widened momentarily, and then a smile flickered in their blue depths. “I know,” was all he said.
Although she was willing to credit her loss of blood with the stunning effect of his smile, there was no discounting the way her heart and head reacted. The simple action left Lindy warmed in its afterglow long after her finger was bandaged.
* * *
Three days passed and Rush and Lindy became a little more comfortable with each other. There were still a few awkward moments, but Lindy discovered that they could at least sit across the table from each other and carry on a decent conversation without risking an argument.
Rush tended to stay out of her way—and she, his—but there were certain times of the day when meeting was inevitable. In the mornings when they were both hurrying to get ready to leave the apartment, for instance. Twice Rush had gone out in the evening, leaving abruptly without a word. Lindy hadn’t asked where he went and he didn’t volunteer the information, but Lindy had the impression that he was simply avoiding being at close quarters with her.
Since it seemed silly for them to cook separate meals, they’d reached an agreement that Lindy would prepare the meals and Rush would do the dishes.
Rush was sitting in the living room when Lindy let herself into the apartment on Friday afternoon. She tossed her purse aside and slumped down on the opposite end of the sofa away from him.
“Any luck?” he asked in a conversational way, watching her.
Lindy noted that he looked tired and frustrated. “No, but I’m hoping everything will come together at the interview on Monday.”
He stood, rammed his hands into his pockets and looked away from her, staring out the window.