Free Full of Grace by Misty Provencher

as I stare at the dark rings around her eyes, I know that the only thing I can do now is fight her—with exhaustion, with food, and with hijacking all her shit so it makes it harder for her to leave.  I’ll do anything, besides driving her to the clinic.
    “I wish I’d gotten to know you better, before all this happened,” she says, collapsing on one end of the couch.  A whiff of an unconquered battleground rises out of her tone of regret.  I jump on it.
    “Would that have changed things?”
    “Probably.”  Her smile is weak.  I take advantage of that too, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.
    “What did you want to know?” I ask.  Her weak smile surfaces again.
    “Oh no, I’m not falling for this again.  You did this to me last night.”
    “Did what?” I ask, trying my best to look shocked.  “We just let each other know where we stood last night.  We didn’t really get to talk.”
    “I’m tired.”  Elbows on her knees, she slumps into her own hands, her face hidden and her ponytail dangling toward the floor.  I get this crazy urge to reach out and touch it.  Seeing her hair fall over her fingers triggers some muscle memory in me, how her hair spilled over my hands the night we created the reason that we’re here now.  I remember how the locks of her hair felt cool across my fingers and my fingertips itch for it again, but I keep them in my lap.  I can see how grabbing her ponytail might send her screaming from my apartment.
    “Me too.  You want me to rub your feet?  I’ve been told I’m excellent.”
    “Oh yeah?  By who, Man Whore?” she mumbles into her hands. 
    Oh screw this.  I reach down and grab her ankle, the tips of her hair brushing my arm.  It feels better than I remember.  Cool and heavy.  I instantly picture it spilling over my chest, but I gently pull her legs up, so her feet land in my lap.  She doesn’t resist much.
    “Every chick in my family,” I tell her.  She giggles.  It’s like ribbons of oil sliding down a waterfall.  The sound is almost holy.  I can’t figure out why it bothered me so much before.  I pull off her shoes and let them drop on the floor.  Before she can tell me not to, I’m doing my magic, pushing my thumbs into the tender pads of her feet with precise pressure.  Gentle enough that she doesn’t pull away, firm enough that she doesn’t laugh.  But she still giggles.  I’m not sure that can ever be stopped and I think I’m being conditioned like a dog.  She giggles, I relax.
    “You’ve got sisters?” she asks.
    “Sure do.  Five.”
    “You’re the oldest?”
    I shake my head.  “Nope.  The youngest.”
    “Really?  I wouldn’t have guessed that, by how bossy you are,” she giggles.  I massage her heel and a tiny, tired moan breaks from her lips.
    “Told you I was good.”
    “You are,” she agrees and in a couple seconds, her eyes drift shut.  The second her lashes hit her cheek, she pops her lids back open and tries to sit up, to stay awake, but I elevate her foot a little to keep her down.
    “You can go to sleep, if you want.  It’s fine,” I soothe her with my most gentle tone, but I can see how scenarios might be popping through her head, of all the things I might do to her while she’s sleeping. I would bet the worst one she can think of is how I could steal her pants again, because she shoves her fists into her pockets.  I ignore it and keep rubbing—slow and steady pressure, methodical patterns.
    She’s out in less than ten minutes.
    Her pants are off in less than twenty.  And since she sleeps like a brick, most of what she’s brought from home is stowed in the locked trunk of my car in less than thirty.  When I come back inside and close the door, she hasn’t even stirred from where I left her on the couch.
    I drag a blanket from my bed and tuck it around her, before I grab a pad of paper, a pen, and my laptop.
    When I slow down and think about what’s happening here, how I’m