Nicebomber

by Charles, Colleen

  “Forgive me for my complete lack of sympathy,” I comment. “'Doing good deeds doesn't count if you're only doing it for a reward. Your heart isn’t in it, which is why you’re failing. Karma.”

  “Oh, like you're such a martyr because you're a nurse, right?” he shoots back. “Sure. All out of the goodness of your heart. Bull. I know you private nurses get paid big money for these gigs.”

  I can’t help glaring at him. “No one who does what I do does it for the money, I can assure you. We'd never have any time to spend it.”

  Shane snorts. “How many hours do you put in here each week?”

  I raise an eyebrow, pouring a glass of tea for myself. “'How many hours?' I live in the spare bedroom. This is my life pretty much all day, every day.”

  His jaw drops. “Come on. Seriously?”

  I nod and take a slow sip, wishing it was vodka instead. Being around this guy ratchets up my nervous system. I should dislike him and yet, I… don’t.

  Looking around the apartment, he flicks his wrist. “But... why? Why would anyone choose to do this for a living?”

  “Because someone has to. Because it's important. Because a human being at the end of life deserves the best, most consistent, most comprehensive care available, and that means being there for them twenty-four hours a day. Not everyone can do what I do, and most people won't, so that leaves me and a few others who actually care about people.”

  Shane cocks his head at this, and I stifle another laugh. He looks just like Flyer.

  “So you really are selfless, then.” There's no irony in his voice—he means it as a serious question, like he's asking if I'm really a nurse.

  “It's my job, and I don't tend to think of it in those terms.” What am I supposed to say to that?

  He starts nodding. “No, yeah, see, that's what makes you selfless. You don't even pat yourself on the back for your personal sacrifice.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, I'm selfless. Thank you. You've given me a compliment, and I've expressed my gratitude. You're still not on my list of favorite people.”

  “No, no, you're missing the point,” he says. “I need to do selfless stuff, but I don't know how without acting like an asshole and pissing people off. But you do. You can help me, which will give you a chance to do even more selfless acts, which is clearly your thing. We hang out in your very limited spare time—do a few good deeds here and there—and you get to feel even better about yourself all while reforming a former asshole.”

  “Whoa, slow down there, Shane.” I cut him off with a lift of my palm. “First of all, I don't need you to give me chances to do selfless acts. I can handle my own selfless acts. Second, I see no reason to help you with this. You're just in it for yourself. You've admitted as much. You want to learn how to be a nice guy? Lose this whole Nicebomber thing and do it on your own. I can’t help you because I've got a real job.”

  “Think of it like this,” he begs. “Helping someone like me would be a truly selfless act, wouldn't it? Helping someone you don't even like?”

  A chuckle escapes my lips. “Well, guess I'm not that selfless after all, then. Sorry. No dice.”

  A wild look flickers in Shane's eyes—like a man being driven to desperate extremes. He goes to the kitchen door, poking his head into the living room. “Excuse me, Pinky? I'm sorry to disturb you again, sir, but I have a question I'm hoping you can help me with.”

  Sheesh, I wish he'd knock it off with the formal address routine. He sounds like Eddie Haskell from Leave it to Beaver. And what the hell is he up to now? He thinks he can get Pinky on his side?

  Dammit. What if he can?

  “Certainly, my boy,” Pinky says, gesturing for him to come in. Flyer is curled up next to the chair, dozing. “I’m enjoying the dog, by the way.”

  I follow Shane into the living room where he stands in front of Pinky's chair with his arms wide, as though making a presentation. “Pinky, there's a new...”

  He stops, searching for the right word. I smirk. This should be good. How's he going to explain a social media app to someone like Pinky?

  “Go on, son.”

  “...well, I guess you could call it a movement, of sorts, which people are trying to get off the ground,” Shane continues. “The whole idea is, it's a kind of, um... a group. And every day, all the members of the group agree to do something nice for someone else. And they all hold each other accountable, to make sure everyone does their good deed for the day.”

  “That sounds like a charming concept!” Pinky says with a smile. “I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “I agree!” Shane says, clapping his hands together. I notice his long, elegant fingers and shake my head. I shouldn’t be noticing something like that. I don’t like him. Not one bit. Hot guys think that alone should open every door for them. Throw rich in there and it’s a recipe for an epic douche. Hence Shane Kleinfeld. “And I'm extremely eager to participate. But the only problem, sir, is that I'm not very good at it. I mean, you saw the hash I made of it the other day, and then today with the dog.”

  “Oh, the dog is wonderful,” Pinky replies, waving him off. “No need to worry on that score.”

  “Even so, I could use all the help I can get. Which is why I've asked your nurse Keeley to help me figure out how to do it.”

  Pinky’s eyes widen. “That's an excellent decision, young man. You know, you won't find anyone in the world with a bigger heart than Keeley, and that's the truth.”

  “Thank you, Pinky,” I say. After all this time, it's nice to hear him say that about me, but I'm still going to have to find a way to get out of helping Shane. I can’t even imagine spending more time with him after today. “But the thing is...”

  “Besides, it's so important to do good deeds,” Pinky adds. “It's like I always used to say to the kids on my show: 'Always strive to be the apple of someone's eye.' That was my tagline, you know.”

  “And that's a terrific message,” I agree. “The problem here, though, is that these selfless acts Shane's talking about aren't really selfless at all. The members of this group he's talking about are getting points for their good deeds, so they can trade those points in for stuff.”

  Pinky shrugs with a weary smile. “So what? There's nothing wrong with providing a little incentive to get people to do the right thing. It's the same with the summer reading programs we'd do on the show. The kids would have to read all the books to get the stickers in them, and then they'd mail the stickers in for toys and things. It was harmless, and it got them to appreciate books. This thing Shane's telling me about sounds wonderful, and if you can help him do it, you should.”

  “But it'll take too much of my time,” I insist, losing my cool and my hope to be left alone. Holy shit, I'm not really being roped into this, am I? “I've got my work here with you, and now there's the dog...”

  “Flyer will be just fine,” Pinky assures me. “You let me worry about that. Aren’t you always nagging me to get out more? Fresh air and sunshine? Besides, how much time could this take? An hour or two a day on my own won't kill me.”

  “You don't know that!” I blurt, desperation choking me.

  “Then I'll die knowing it was in the service of the greater good! You are doing this, young lady, and that's all there is to it! If your father were here, he’d say the same.”

  I swallow hard and nod, trying to avoid Shane's smug grin, wanting to slap it right off his handsome face.

  Chapter Six

  Shane

  I sit inside the coffee shop where I first met Keeley and Pinky, shaking my head and smiling at how I managed to make all this work.

  I take a sip of coffee, then eat a forkful of syrupy pancakes. That whole pitch to Pinky was a complete Hail Mary, and damned if I didn't pull it off. Now, not only will I have a chance in hell with this Nicebombing challenge, but Keeley will have to spend more time with me and get to know the real me, not the asshole she thinks that I am. Once she scratches beneath my slick exterior, I'm betting I can make her
laugh, melt that icy exterior, and get her to give me at least a second chance to be her friend.

  Maybe more.

  Sometimes I tend to rub women the wrong way the first time I meet them, but instead of running from that, I own it—I make it part of my charm, turn on the whole roguish, ‘I don't care what anyone thinks of me’ routine. Over the years, without a mother and a cold, calculating father, my walls have been built sky-high. No woman ever breaks through. My antics usually end with me being a drunken one-night mistake on her part, or a masochistic week or two at best before she figures I'm too insufferable after all and disappears.

  At least the good women. Gold diggers tend to stick around longer to see how much they can squeeze out of me.

  Which used to suit me just fine. But the closer I get to thirty, the more the sound of something stable and possibly involving forever looks better. Stability and kids would do a man like me a world of good. I could stop the family legacy of using your children as pawns in your own twisted game.

  I dip a piece of bacon in my syrup and munch on it just as Keeley walks up to the table. She raises her eyebrows. “Wow. Thanks for waiting until I got here to order.”

  I look down at my plate, confused. Did I screw up already? How? “You weren't here yet, and I was hungry. Was I supposed to wait? You didn't say anything about wanting to eat together.”

  She sighs and I feel it in every cell. I’m not used to pleasing a woman, don’t really know how, but I find I want to see this one smile. I just don’t know what makes her happy. Yet. “Forget it.”

  “No, hey, listen, I really want to know, okay?” I ask. “This is one of those selflessness things, right? I should know this. Go ahead. Tell me.”

  She hesitates, and I can see she wonders if it's worth telling me. Finally, she says, “All right, look, Shane. I'm not sure how easy this is going to be for you, but basically, what this is all about is trying to imagine how you'd feel if you were the other person in any given situation. So let's say you're meeting someone at a restaurant, and you're hungry, and you get there, and the other person already has their food. Now you have to sit and watch them eat while waiting for your own food to arrive. Does that sound like fun?”

  I never thought of it that way. I'm just used to eating whenever I get hungry. Dad was rarely home for meals—too busy doing business dinners.

  “You're right,” I concede. “Thank you for teaching me that lesson. I'll keep that in mind from now on.” I push my plate toward her. “Do you want some of my food, so you won't have to wait until yours gets here?”

  She smiles, and a tiny piece of her frosty exterior melts away. “No, thank you. And offering doesn't make up for not waiting for me, but it's a step in the right direction.”

  “See? I’m learning already. We just might end up having some fun with this whole thing after all.”

  “I'm not here to have fun with you,” Keeley reminds me. “I'm here to help you with this Nicebombing thing. The sooner we get that over with, the sooner I can get back to my real job.”

  “Okay, no fun,” I say, miming a checkmark on an imaginary list. “Hate Shane to the grave. Got it.”

  The waitress, a twenty-something girl with mousy brown hair and a large mole next to her nose, comes to the table. “Can I get you anything?” she asks Keeley.

  “No, thank you.”

  As the waitress leaves, I gape at Keeley in disbelief. “What was that all about? You made a big deal out of it, and you weren't even going to order anything?”

  “You didn't know I wasn't going to order anything,” she huffs. “That's the point. That's empathy. It's making an actual effort to stop and think of how other people might feel. Now let's figure out what your good deed's going to be today, okay?”

  “All right, let's check the options the app gives us.” I open Nicebomber and Mr. Nicebomb bobs up and down, presenting the list as bubbles flow from his oval-shaped mouth.

  NICEBOMBER: Option 1: Pick up litter for five straight blocks

  Option 2: Give a stranger a hug

  Option 3: Volunteer to read to kids in a hospital

  Keeley surveys the list, blinking in disbelief. “Wow. These options are all over the place, aren't they?”

  “Yeah, I don't know who comes up with those,” I admit, leaving out my father. Our complicated relationship presents a challenge I can’t explain to a woman I barely know. “So, what should we do?”

  “The first thing to do is stop with that 'we' crap,” she counters. “I'm here to act as a guide, but these tasks are still yours to do, not mine. This is not going to be some Tom Sawyer, 'help-me-paint-the-fence, it'll-be-fun' kind of thing.”

  I nod, even though I don't get the reference. I think I hired one of my friends to write my book report on Tom Sawyer. “Fair enough.”

  “So, picking up litter is a maybe,” she begins.

  “Cool. Where should I do it? East Lakeview, right? The stretch of Wellington between Sheridan and Halsted is usually pretty spotless, so that seems like the easiest way to go.”

  Keeley stares at me, her brow furrowed. “You really don't get how this is supposed to work, do you? The point isn't to pick up litter where it's easiest. The point is to do it where it's most needed, where it'll do the most good.”

  I rear back in surprise. If I ever say the right thing to this woman, I’ll break out in an impromptu performance of Riverdance. “But it's a street, and it's five blocks! The app didn't say which street it had to be. If it mattered, they should have said. That's on them.”

  “This was obviously a mistake. Look, do what you want,” Keeley says, standing up and grabbing her purse. “But you wanted me to help you do the right thing, and I'm telling you that if you're serious about doing the right thing, it can't be based on some bullshit loophole just to make less work for you. I'm sorry you don't see that.”

  “No, wait, please! Sit back down,” I plead, my heart squeezing at the thought of her leaving—mad at me again. “I'm sorry. You're right. I do need your help with this, clearly. And I do understand. But the thing is, I didn't really dress for heavy-duty trash disposal today, so let's just—for the moment, at least—consider our other options, okay? Can we do that?”

  She pauses for a long moment, then sits back down. “Fine. The second option is out, though.”

  “Really? I thought that would be a good one. You know, kind of a free-love, putting-a-positive-vibe-out-there thing, right? Showing affection to a stranger?”

  Keeley grimaces. “I have a grim feeling you never learned the benefits of showing affection to strangers, but that aside, it's just too problematic. A lot of people don't like to be touched by people they know, let alone strangers. It could even go so far as to be considered assault.”

  “It's just a hug, though,” I protest. “It's just a quick little, you know, embrace thing. Boom, hey, and it's done. It's not like I'm feeling them up or something. It shouldn't be such a big deal. Studies show that hugs are really good for people’s health, it even lowers blood pressure.”

  She closes her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. I can see this is getting to her, but I'm not sure why.

  “But to many people, it is a big deal,” she explains slowly, “so you need to be conscious of their feelings, instead of dismissing them just because it's not a big deal to you. When you hear someone has a problem with something, the first words out of your mouth shouldn't be, 'Well, I don't, so they should be fine with it.' Am I making sense?”

  I have to admit, she is. I'm starting to feel like an asshole... and not in the usual fun way. More like there’s absolutely no hope for my personal redemption and future as an upstanding citizen of the world. One my mom could be proud of. “I never looked at it like that. Thank you. Really, I mean that.”

  I can see her eyes soften a bit. Good. Maybe I've still got a chance after all.

  “So that option's out,” I conclude.

  “Exactly. So that leaves the third one.” I shudder at this, and she notices. “Something wr
ong?”

  A wave of unease flows over me. “I, uh, have a real problem with hospitals. And kids.”

  “Everyone has a real problem with hospitals,” she points out. “Overcoming that is part of what makes this a genuine good deed. And as for kids, what do you mean?”

  “Um... just generally, I guess. I like them, I've just never been around very many of them to connect with their vibe.”

  Because kids seem to see right through my charming façade to the black soul lingering underneath. You can’t bullshit kids.

  Her eyes narrow and she tugs her lower lip between her teeth. All that does is draw my attention to her incredibly kissable full mouth. “Can you think of a single specific instance in which you were objectively bad with a child? Where you somehow actually hurt or traumatized them?”

  “I suppose not,” I admit. “More like they just don’t get me.”

  She pinches her eyebrows together. “So what you mean to say, then, is that kids are a little foreign to you.”

  “Yup,” I say, snapping my fingers.

  “Well, that goes into the same category as the problem with hospitals, then. Doing it even if you don't like it is part of what makes it a good deed. Did you ever read that awesome book, Feel The Fear and Do It Anyway? There's not much to it. You sit down, you read aloud to the kids from a book, and you're done.”

  My heart flips over in protest. The smell of hospitals reminds me of… “I—I don't know.”

  “Or you can do five blocks of trash-picking in Armani slacks and Gucci loafers,” she says, eyeing my killer outfit. What does she care? She always wears scrubs. Maybe she even wears them to bed. Damn—not the mental image I wanted while I’m also considering entering a hospital. For a second, I imagine those killer curves wrapped in Monique Lhuillier. “Hope everyone remembered to pick up after their dogs.”