Stuck With You: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

Part 5

Timo

Bianca's eyes got big when I ducked into the closet under the stairs. She was in the act of chastising whoever was on the other end of the line for hanging up on her, but when I stuck my head into the closet she almost dropped her phone.

I folded myself into the only remaining space under the stairs.

"I see you've discovered my hiding place."

"You hide in here often?" Bianca asked.

"From time to time."

"And the kids haven't caught on?"

"Not yet."

I smiled at Bianca in silence for so long that things started to feel a little weird. She was staring at my mouth like she was three seconds away from leaning across and kissing me, although I'm pretty sure that was just a function of my overactive imagination.

I was sure Bianca did not want to kiss me. I was considering myself lucky that when I'd smiled at her she'd smiled back.

Neither of us was smiling now. The closet felt like it had shrunk by half, and I think Bianca suddenly realized she'd been staring at me because she abruptly started like someone had lit a Roman Candle underneath the stack of magazines she was using as a seat.

She sprang to her feet and hit her head on the low, sloped ceiling, then plopped back down on the stack of magazines. She gripped the top of her head where she'd bashed it against the low ceiling, closing her eyes as if willing herself not to cry.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

"I'm fine."

I didn't believe her.

I took hold of Bianca's hands, removed them from her head and tilted it down so I could see where she'd collided with the ceiling, my fingers parting her hair looking for blood.

She smelled of shampoo and fresh basil.

"You're not bleeding," I said.

"Umm—OK."

"I'll get you an icepack."

I pushed open the closet door and pulled her out after me, then sat Bianca down on the couch in the living room and left her there.

I'd gone into nanny mode, at least that was what I was telling myself. However, there was something so adorably vulnerable about Bianca that I reminded myself that I should probably keep more of a distance.

In the kitchen, I got the icepack, a tea towel, and recruited the kids to help nurse Aunt Bianca back to health. I needed the kids there before I crossed the line between impersonal concern for her health and wellbeing, and whatever that had been under the stairs just before Bianca bolted and busted the top of her head.

I returned to the living room with Franny (carrying an icepack), Marta (carrying a tea towel), and Morty (carrying a slightly sweaty gummy worm clenched in his fist).

"That's the usual procedure when you get hurt around here," I explained as Morty presented Bianca with the gummy worm.

I took the icepack from Franny and the tea towel from Marta, then sat down on the couch beside Bianca and held it to her head.

Then we both sat there awkwardly under the scrutiny of the three kids while Bianca sucked on the gummy worm, and I tried not to think about the fact that if I moved my knee a quarter-inch to the left, it would be touching Bianca's bare skin below the hem of her skirt.

"What happened?" Franny asked in a tone that would have been well in line with a homicide detective interrogating a murder suspect.

I couldn't very well say how Bianca had hit her head without giving away where she'd been when it happened. I wanted to use that closet under the stairs again. I was betting that Bianca did, too.

"Aunt Bianca was jumping on the couch," I said, crossing the fingers of my free hand behind my back. "She bounced so high she hit her head on the ceiling."

"You're not 'posed to jump on the couch," Marta informed Bianca. "There's rules."

I had a sudden vision of grownup Marta sitting behind the bench in a Federal appeals court somewhere. She would be perfectly suited to the job.

Morty came to his Aunt Bianca's defense.

"Nobody told her," Morty said. "She din't know."

"Well, she does now," I said, "and I'm sure she won't be trying it again."

After that, we finished making the pizza, then ate it all, down to the last crumb. Bianca washed the dishes while I put the kids to bed.

Putting the kids to bed was a complicated process involving toothbrushing, face-washing, stories, songs, and drinks. Bianca stayed downstairs, well out of the way, and scrubbed the pans. I had a sneaking suspicion that she would do the dishes in a rush, racing to finish and retreat to her room before I was done with the kids.

I wasn't going to let that happen. I drew the line at skipping the brushing of teeth, but nobody's face got washed. Everyone got the world's shortest bedtime story, the Itsy-Bitsy Spider sung at triple speed, and a no-exceptions one-drink limit.

Thankfully, baby Tobias settled right down. The older ones were freakishly cooperative; no one developed sudden stomach pains, there were no under-the-bed monster sightings, and nobody's favorite stuffed animal decided to play hide-and-go-seek as soon as the lights went out.

Twenty minutes after I'd gone up to put the kids to bed, I was heading back downstairs to the kitchen.

Bianca was just wiping down the last of the dusting of flour and smears of sauce when I came back downstairs.

"How's your head?" I asked.

"Fine."

I stepped toward her. I intended to take a closer look at the goose egg on Bianca's scalp, but she stepped back so abruptly she collided with the open oven door and almost took a tumble.

I took a big step back. I'd been treating her as if she were just a fifth kid under my care, which she definitely wasn't.

"Look," I said, "I'm sorry."

I wasn't entirely sure what exactly I was apologizing for. Maybe it was for trying to forcibly examine her head, maybe it was for just generally being a clueless jerk, but Bianca's next words indicated she thought I was apologizing for the debacle in the restaurant the night we met.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Bianca said. "What happened at the restaurant was just a misunderstanding."

"I was very rude to you."

"Well, maybe you had a right to be rude. Besides, you already apologized for that."

Sort of.

"I didn't have a right to be rude. It's just that—"

I'd intended to better explain my behavior to Bianca. It suddenly felt vitally important that Bianca not think badly of me. Unreasonably important if I'm going to be honest.

An explanation, however, was not to be. We were interrupted by Marta, who had descended from the upper story to inform the powers-that-be (me) about Morty's illicit use of a flashlight after "night, night."