All the Good Parts (10 page)

CHAPTER 12

Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health

Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K

Leona A:
Larmon’s talking final projects already. It isn’t even midterms yet!

Darryl K:
It’s like going into a store and seeing Christmas decorations in September. You try to ignore it, but the pressure starts its slow build and before you know it you feel like you’re terribly late for something that hasn’t even begun.

Leona A:
Exactly. So . . . do you have a topic yet?

Darryl K:
Don’t you know me by now?

Leona A:
Oh. Yeah. You’ll probably wait until five minutes before it’s due, whip up a project in three, and spend the final two minutes playing Candy Crush. I know what I want to do—I’m going to do something on community health services for single mothers in the Chicago area.

Darryl K:
That’s a good topic. Hey, Larmon said we could do this in pairs. I live in Rockford, so if you’re willing to expand the geographical area to northern Illinois, we could work together. Want to take our partnership to the next level?

Darryl K:
Leona?

Leona A:
Sorry. I don’t know. I’ve always worked alone for stuff like this.

Darryl K:
Maybe it’s time you went outside of your comfort zone. And don’t worry, I’ll do my part.

Leona A:
Can I trust you? I don’t mean that to sound . . . how it sounds. I just don’t want you to flake and then I’ll get bitter and not like you anymore and I’d like to stay liking you.

Darryl K:
I want you to stay liking me, too. I won’t flake. I promise. We’ll split the duties 50/50, and I’ll let you pick first.

Leona A:
Sorry if I overreacted. I would have deleted that response if I could.

Darryl K:
It’s how you feel. Don’t ever try to hide that. Remember, though, just because you’re used to doing things yourself doesn’t mean you always need to tell yourself you like it that way.

Leona A:
You’re right. Thanks, Darryl.

Darryl K:
Don’t sweat it.

Rockford was only an hour’s drive.

We were practically neighbors.

An incredibly embarrassing soft-focus montage starring me (but with a longer neck and shinier hair) and a Tatum/Clooney/Mr. Rogers hybrid scrolled through my brain while I headed for the bathroom. I picked up my toothbrush and stopped the reel just as we were easing into a
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
–style kiss in the rain. Was I really the type of woman who fantasized about a romantic life with someone simply because he was being nice to her? No. No, I was not. Thirty-nine-year-old women did not fantasize about strangers they’d met on the Internet. Okay, maybe some did, but
this one
didn’t.

But . . . I couldn’t ignore the fact that I’d slipped into something with Darryl, something personal and revealing. Was it easy because we’d never met in person? Because he seemed to listen in a way that no one in my life was listening to me? I needed to see his face. Maybe I could work my way up to asking for a Skype chat. I could use the final project as an excuse.

Darryl was still on my mind as I drove to the library, the monkey in my brain restlessly swinging from branch to branch, screeching for bananas. What if he was hideously ugly? Old? Or worse . . . married? Darryl didn’t strike me as married. I didn’t know how I knew, but something told me he was lonely, too.

I pulled into the library parking lot, nearly deserted on a Friday night. Three cars huddled under the street lamp like hobos.

Not the best analogy given my appointment with Garrett. As much as I hated to admit it, as a regular (home-secure?) person, seeing a homeless person was harder than I thought. I’d always considered myself open-minded and fairly generous, but on the scale of
1, devoting my summers to Habitat for Humanity,
and
10, I once hit a homeless man with my Ferrari and sped off
, I probably hovered around a 5. I gave my old clothes to the Salvation Army, donated canned goods at Thanksgiving, and occasionally tucked a few spare bucks into the cup of the woman who hung out under our local overpass, but I’d just as often adopted that distant, glassy-eyed stare while passing a man holding out his hand, the one that said,
I’m going to say no, so let’s pretend I don’t see you and we’ll both retain our dignity, okay?

I wondered if Garrett had done that, stood on a corner holding a cardboard sign announcing his heartache to the world.

And if he had, did the experience transform him into someone I could not begin to understand?

Relax,
I told myself.
He’s just a guy. A guy who has run into a boatload of bad luck. I will not prejudge him. I will be free of expectations and prejudicial thoughts. I will not let my curiosity rob him of his dignity. I will be better!

Garrett waited for me in the foyer. His dark hair was wet and slicked back, showing a poet’s pale forehead and those blue, blue eyes. He wore the same jeans but paired with a button-down shirt embroidered with Rocket Industries on the pocket. It was wrinkled but clean, and I didn’t smell anything but soap. Shamefully, I was relieved.

“Are you ready to get to work?” I asked.

Garrett’s face flushed, and he ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That is not going to fly. Call me Leona. Or Lee, if you like.”

“What do you like?”

“My family calls me Lee, but I guess I prefer Leona.” I’d actually not given it much thought. My father always called me Leona. He said nicknames diminished character.

“All right,” Garrett said, and followed me into the library. “Miss Leona it is.”

I chose a study carrel against the wall—not the privacy of the corner, but not the visibility of the middle of the room. I mentally patted myself on the back for the choice that said (1) I’m not ashamed of you, and (2) I’m not afraid either.

I took out my laptop, and he extracted his newly typed resume from the depths of his mysterious duffel bag.

“I started some searches for you on the major employment sites,” I said, trying to sound businesslike. “It required setting up an account, which I did. Is that okay?”

He nodded, looking terrified.

“I wrote down the password and log-in for you. There are quite a few jobs you’re qualified for. If we can get a good cover letter together, I think we can send out a bunch of resumes this evening. Most of them prefer to contact prospects via e-mail, which is perfect, right?” I was pretty sure he didn’t own a cell phone. When I passed the drugstore, I’d considered buying a prepaid one but figured that would cross all kinds of lines.

“That’s fine,” he said, swallowing audibly. His skin had gone pale, and his beautiful eyes looked glassy, doll’s eyes, the kind that blinked but didn’t do much else. “Do you think someone will be interested in me?”

I smiled at him. “I do. You’ve got experience and smarts. There’s the possibility you’ll have to take a lesser position and a cut in pay, but most people do these days when they find themselves on the job hunt.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” he said, so sadly I reached over and squeezed his arm in comfort. He froze, and then I froze—was he unused to being touched?

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“No need to be . . . you just surprised me is all.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, slowly removing my hand. “Look, is this something you want? The last thing I want to do is push you toward a different life before you’re ready.”

He smiled wanly. “I don’t know if what I’m doing right now is any kind of life. But then I’ve always been . . . unparticipatory.”

“What does that mean?” I pressed. Garrett was opening the door, even if it was only a crack, an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

He gave the question some thought before answering. “I live on the outside, and I have no idea how to crack through to the inside. I try, but I overthink things, and it always ends . . .”

“How?”

“Badly,” he whispered.

I wanted to press for specifics, but I didn’t have the heart. “I think you have anxiety, Garrett,” I said gently, fighting the urge to touch him again, to offer some comfort. “Lots of people do. Have you seen a doctor about it?”

“Yes,” he said, his features growing slack. “More than a few.”

“Do you want to try again?”

“With a doctor? No, I think I’ve had enough of those.”

“Not a doctor, but the world. The one you’ve been hiding from. I think the older you get, the easier it is to figure out how to crack through to the inside. Or, maybe you’re not meant to. There’s plenty of people living on the outside, Garrett. Sometimes I think I’m one of them. It’s not so bad when you realize that outside doesn’t necessarily mean alone.”

He was quiet for what felt like a long time. I could hear the hum of the computers at the circulation desk, the air pushing through the heating vents, the creak of the elevator. I worried I’d pushed him too hard. Or maybe he questioned my sincerity?

Garrett placed his beautifully masculine hand on my forearm. He didn’t press—it was almost hovering—but I could feel the heat of his skin through my sleeve, the aliveness of him. “I would like to try again,” he said, eyes fixed on the point where our bodies touched.

“Then let’s get to work.” And we did. Garrett and I wrote a decent cover letter, attached his resume to it, and sent out a dozen. His enthusiasm grew with each sent e-mail, and I looked at this gorgeous man, this sensitive soul, and thought,
Why didn’t anyone ever help you?

There was more to his story, sure, just as there was more to mine, but sitting in the library, I thought maybe it wasn’t all that important. I forgot I wanted anything at all from him. This wasn’t about that—it wasn’t about asking him to give me a life but helping him figure out how to live his.

Around nine o’clock, the librarian moved from shooting us meaningful looks to politely asking us to leave outright. “Library opens at nine a.m.,” she said, and then hesitated only a moment before adding, “You’re always welcome to come back.”

I walked out to the deserted parking lot with Garrett, my previous fears embarrassing me. “Do they ever give you a hard time about hanging out at the library so much?”

“Sometimes. I help them out, and I know they appreciate it, but this is a nice suburb, and the patrons don’t expect it to look like a train station. There’s a bunch of us over on Hilliard, and not too many places to go besides the library and the park.”

We stood under the streetlight, halfway to my car. “Do you want a ride home?”

“I can walk,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer.

“Get in. I’ll sleep better if I know you got home safe and sound.”

He shrugged and folded his long body into my Honda. I laughed. “Sorry it’s not made for beanpoles.”

“We don’t have far to go,” he said, but he was wrong. Hilliard was clear across town, at least four miles. He walked to and from it every day, plus who knew where else. No wonder he was so thin. I rethought Maura’s impulse to invite him over for dinner. He could use a double helping of Donal’s Guinness stew. It would stick to his bones.

“Here we are,” Garrett said as we approached a tall, stately Episcopal church. It was stark white, its lighted spire piercing the inky suburban sky.

“You live in there?”

“I live behind there. The poor must remain humble,” he said, but there was amusement in his voice, not bitterness.

I parked in the church lot next to a three-story white brick dormitory-style building. It was plain, but not ugly, blocky but with clean, almost elegant, lines.

Garrett grasped the handle of his bag, stretched his fingers, and then grasped it again, knuckles white. “Want to come check it out? It’s not much, but I’d like you to see where I live.”

I couldn’t miss the vulnerability in his voice. He wasn’t simply being polite; he really wanted me to.

“I guess that’s fine. Are you sure it’s not too late?”

“Come on, Leona,” he urged, and I could see the eagerness now. “See how the other half lives.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m in
your
half.”

He smiled and exited the car, walked around to my side, and gentlemanly took my hand, lifting me from my seat. When we walked in the building, there was a door guard, a thickset, surly looking fellow who cocked an eyebrow when he saw I was with Garrett.

“Do you mind if I show her the facility, Mr. Williams? Won’t be more than five minutes.”

“It’s after hours,” Mr. Williams said, his mouth a grim line. He spared me a disdainful glance. “And you’ve got a woman with you.”

“This is Miss Leona. I’ll look out for her.”

“Against the rules.”

“I’d be in your debt,” Garrett pleaded. “Is there nothing I can do?”

Mr. Williams rolled up his sleeve, and for a moment I was terrified he was preparing to smash Garrett’s face with his swollen fists.

“It’s fine,” I said, stepping forward and throwing a protective arm in front of Garrett. “I can come another time.”