Can't Always Get What You Want (16 page)

“How did you sneak away so early?” I ask. I rushed out the door a few minutes early, so I expected to be here first.

“I spent the last four hours doing an in-service on new peds equipment. It finished early, so they let us go.”

“Sounds fun.”

I survey Samira’s outfit. She’s wearing
Sesame Street
print scrubs and an Elmo stethoscope cover.

“How’s Elmo doing today?” I ask after ordering my drink.

“Whoops, forgot about him,” she says, laughing and stuffing her stethoscope and toy into her work bag. We collect our steaming-hot drinks and settle into some comfy-looking black chairs by the front window. I remember Brett saying he didn’t know what a caramel macchiato was, so I snap a picture of it with my phone and send it to him.

“How was your day?” she asks while sipping her drink, her dark eyes framed perfectly by black rectangular glasses. That would make a really cool photo, I think idly.

I breathe out a puff of air and run my fingers over my braided hair.

“That good, huh?” Samira says.

“Yeah.”

Samira quirks an eyebrow up. I look down at the table. If I make direct eye contact, I’m sure I’ll cry.

“Larry died today.”

“Oh Soph…” Samira soothes. She knows how close I’d become with Larry and his wife, Lorna, over the past month.

“I know I’m being silly,” I grumble. I wipe at my eyes and nose furiously. Why am I so torn up by this? I’ve dealt with death before. I’m no stranger to saying goodbye.

Samira looks at me seriously. “No, it’s not silly. Compassion is never silly. Do you want to talk about it?”

I take a deep breath.

“There was just something about Larry. Something endearing. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but…” I trail off, looking for the right way to describe it.

“He felt like family. He was gruff and abrupt, but also sweet and funny. He seemed like the perfect grandpa. And Lorna loved him so much. It was awful watching her today, when Larry finally passed.”

Larry’s liver cancer took its sweet time. He held on for weeks longer than we thought he would.

Lorna had been sitting in a chair by the bed, holding his hand and crying silently.

Larry’s gurgling breaths started to become more ragged and further apart.

“Can you do something about that awful sound?” Lorna snapped. Lorna isn’t a mean person, I reminded myself. She’s just worried about Larry.

“I might be able to give him some scopolamine, to help dry his lungs a bit. It’s very common for people to sound like that…toward the end.”

Lorna sobbed and buried her face in the bedsheet. Their children were there, too. All of them were teary, unsure of what to expect.

I looked up at Larry. His chest wasn’t moving anymore. I pressed my stethoscope against his chest, straining my ears to hear a heartbeat, a single breath. Anything.

Nothing.

Lorna’s red, tearstained face looked up at me, her fingers tightly gripping the bedsheet.

“Is h-he…”

How can I say the words she is so desperately afraid to hear?

“I’m so sorry, Lorna,” I whisper.

—

I puff out my cheeks, and slowly breathe out. I didn’t know that nursing would be this hard.

“I just don’t get it, Sam. It’s not like I haven’t had to tell a family that their loved one has died before. Why am I so torn up this time? Why do I feel like this?”

Her eyes shiftily make contact and then break it every few seconds. I suspect she has a theory, but isn’t sharing it.

Samira shakes her head. “I don’t know, sweets.”

Buzzing sounds emit from my work bag again.

The famous macchiato, I presume?

I sputter a laugh.

Excellent deductive reasoning, darling. I always knew you were more than just a pretty face.

“He seems to make you happy,” Samira remarks.

“How do you know who I’m texting?”

“I haven’t seen you smile like that in years.”

I shoot her a look that I hope says,
“Why did you have to bring that up?”

“Just saying. And it’s not a bad thing. I’m glad that you’ve clicked so well. Nar says Brett is walking around on cloud nine. He’s never seen him act like this before.”

Samira slurps the last of her drink and smiles at me pointedly. “You can thank me later. I expect to be a bridesmaid at your wedding, and for you to name your firstborn after me.”

I chuck my coffee lid at her, laughing.

Whoops, there goes my phone again.

“Darling”? What are you, ninety? We can come up with better terms of endearment than that.

I lean back and smile into my half-full cup. Thank God for coffee and friends.

—

I arrive at home twenty minutes later, and find Brett sitting on my doorstep, head leaning against my door.

“You know, there are laws against stalking,” I tease.

Brett’s eyes are closed to the sun, and he opens them in a tight squint.

“Is it still considered stalking when you’re dating the person in question?” he asks, laughing, and stands up to kiss me.

Afternoon light bounces off his angular tanned face. His hair is a tousled mess, golden and inviting. I’d love to run my fingers through it.

He’s wearing dark blue board shorts, a light gray T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses pushed up into his hairline. It strikes me that I’ve never seen so much of his body at once.

“It depends,” I reply airily while opening the front door.

He follows me in. “On what?”

“Well, for instance, on how long you were waiting for me.”

“Oh, about four hours,” he says.

“Four hours!?” I say, kicking off my horrid work runners.

“Yeah. I have a Viagra hard-on that won’t go away. Thought you could help me out.”

I accidentally kick one shoe off a little too hard, and it thuds against the wall.

Brett laughs. “I’m only joking, ‘
darling
.’ I was out there for fifteen, twenty minutes tops. ‘Darling.’ Pfft. I think the last person to call me that was my granny.”

I smile and point at him. “I challenge you to come up with a better term of endearment.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“Want a beer?” I ask, already walking toward the fridge.

“Sure.”

“I’m glad you’re joking, by the way.”

He takes the lids off two bottles, lips twitching in amusement. “Why’s that?”

“Do you know how they treat priapism?”

“Priapism?”

“A boner that won’t go away.”

“Ah. Gotcha. What do they do?”

I smile sweetly at him. “Draining the blood can help. They start with inserting a needle into the shaft—”

Brett pulls a face, and waves his hands. “Whoa, whoa. I’m good.”

I pat his arm. “Aww, big tough guy like you gets squeamish over blood?”

“When it involves my wiener I do.”

We take our drinks outside and sit in the shade of my vine-laced gazebo.

“So, you think I’m a big tough guy, eh?” Brett says, flexing his biceps.

I wink at him, and take a sip.

Ah…sunshine and alcohol. What a great combo.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Not bad. Yours?”

“Rough. A patient of mine died. I got pretty close to him and his family.” I stop, and sniff once. “It hit me kind of hard.” Tears burn on the edges of my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Soph,” Brett murmurs, and pulls my chair closer to him. He wraps an arm around me in a sideways hug and plants a kiss in my hair.

“Thanks,” I reply, attempting to cover the wobble in my voice.

I try to relax into my chair, and realize that the muscles in my neck and shoulders are wound tight. I crane my neck and stretch my arms every which way, trying to stretch them out, but nothing helps.

“Feeling tense?”

“That’s an understate
ment.” I laugh, and rub my neck.

“Want a massage?”

My eyes trail from Brett’s calloused hands to his muscular forearms, and finally settle on his eager, concerned face.

My lovely, handsome, brilliant boyfriend. Touching me.

“Sure, that’d be great,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Just let me clean up a bit first. Who knows what sort of feces and junk I have all over me.”

Brett pulls a grossed-out face, but doesn’t say anything.

Crap. Why do I say things like that? I bet he thinks he’ll pick up some superbug if he touches me now.

We walk back into the house, and I realize that my braided updo is pulling my scalp tight. Just as well; I need to take it out for my shower anyway.

Brett stands by the fridge, filling a glass with ice water.

“Do you mind getting me one too?” I call out.

He nods, and I go about releasing my hair. Once the braids are undone, I lean forward and ruffle it with my fingers.

Ah, that feels good. It looked pretty, but that hairdo was sucking my will to live. And now, I’ve got this curtain of wavy, beachy-blond hair surrounding me.

Wait—why does it sound like water is pouring all over?

I flip my hair back, and see Brett pouring water from a pitcher into a glass. The glass has long since filled, and is overflowing. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s staring very seriously at me.

“You okay?” I ask, chuckling lightly.

My words seem to lift him from his trance.

“Yeah, fine.”

The ice water trickles down his hand and into a puddle on the floor, beckoning his attention. Brett growls, and hands me my glass of water.

“Where are your towels?” he bites out.

I retrieve a couple towels, and we kneel to mop up the floor. Our hands bump into each other every so often, and I notice that his mouth is still drawn, his jaw tight.

“No use crying over spilled water,” I tease.

He smirks at me under furrowed brows.

“I know. Just felt like a dork.”

His lips are framed by the perfect amount of stubble.

Enticing.

With both of us kneeling on the kitchen floor, I lean forward and give him the mother of all kisses.

It leaves him gasping for air.

Hurrah! I am a love goddess.

“Just going to take a quick shower,” I say, after breaking from his lips. It was difficult to do, but I’m working a seduction angle. Anticipation is key. We’ve been dating for nearly a month. Let’s get this show on the road!

Don’t get me wrong, I really like Brett. It’s not
just
sexual attraction. It’s so much more. I never thought I’d feel this way again. Brett makes me laugh, makes me feel beautiful and wanted. We have fun together. I respect him and care for him deeply.

And lately, when I look at him, I physically ache. I’m starting to wonder if there’s a female equivalent to blue balls.

I shower quickly, hoping he’ll join me.

He doesn’t.

I was having rather detailed visions of him gently washing me of the day’s grime. And then, you know, taking me roughly up against the shower wall.

Who knew that this man would bring out the wanton, sex-crazed side of me? My thoughts really have been straying into more…ahem, lascivious territories lately.

But can you blame me?

Although…

I’ve only ever made love with one person before. To be honest, before Brett, I had only ever dated one person before.

With the exception of Barbie Joel, but you know, I never “did” anything with him, so I’m not sure if he counts. I wonder if he makes his Barbie and Ken dolls act out things. Anyway, that’s beside the point.

Oh no, I just had a horrible thought: what if I’m a terrible lay?

Maybe Brett has high expectations. He did say that he used to date “a lot.” What sort of sexy tricks do other women know that I don’t? Things like putting on a condom with your teeth, or whatever.

Panic sets in, like a bird wildly flapping its wings in my chest. Maybe I should back off a bit. I’m not sure I could handle the failure.

Yes. It’s decided. I will back off.

Ten minutes later, I rejoin Brett in the living room. He does a double take.

“What are you wearing?”

I glance down at my outfit. First, an old sweater knitted by my dearly departed Grandma Lucy. It’s olive green with orange trim and holes in the sleeves, making me look a bit like a homeless person. Over this I’ve wrapped my threadbare pink robe that has pilling all under the arms. I’ve also put on my puffy winter coat and snow pants.

There. No skin visible whatsoever. That should cool him off.

Although I may stroke out from the heat. Even though we’re indoors, all these layers are killing me.

Brett gives me an odd look, then turns around to look out the window.

“What is it?” I ask, craning my stiff neck to see what’s outside.

“Just checking to see if we’ve had snow. In July.”

Hardy har har.

“What the hell, Soph? I thought you wanted a shoulder massage.”

“I was feeling a bit, erm, cold. And you know, layers are supposed to help support muscle tissues. It’s something to do with the…”

Think, Sophie. Think.

“…melatoni
n…and err, circadian rhythms…”