I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Fine. But you’re coming with me. Where's the nearest hospital?”
Chapter Seven
Keeley
“Come on,” I coax him. “You're doing great so far.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, looking like a man walking to the gallows. He sniffs the air and a dark shadow flickers in his eyes and stays. I wonder what happened to him to make him hate hospitals so much. Childhood injury? Maybe he broke an arm or leg as a kid.
I place my finger on the app. “Should I start recording this now?”
He shakes his head. “No, a quick clip while I'm reading to them should be enough. Or anyway, I sure hope it is, because if it isn’t, I'm not doing this again.”
Masonic in East Lakeview was the nearest medical facility. When we cross the threshold, I actually see Shane shiver all over, like a vampire stepping into a church. I almost expect him to start hissing and backing out, teeth bared.
For the first time since he told me about his problem with hospitals, I understand the seriousness. I've seen plenty of people get jittery in hospitals—they're unpleasant places, and practically everyone feels that way—but his reaction is starting to look like a full-on phobia. He's pale, every inch of his exposed skin is covered in a greasy sheen of sweat, and his pupils are so dilated he looks like he's on amphetamines. Judging from his rapid little pants, I'm willing to bet that if I listened to his pulse right now, it would sound like a machine gun.
It’s obvious he’s had a bad medical experience, but I don’t want to pry. If he wants to tell me, he will. Did I do the wrong thing, goading him into choosing this option? Should I be worried? Now I'm the one who feels like a selfish person, wanting to hurry it along and get this over with without considering what it might do to him.
He’ll pull through. It's reading to kids in a hospital, not delivering care packages in a war zone. Why should he get a pass from me just because he's squeamish like the rest of us? The most important part of agreeing to work on this project with Shane is my commitment to his personal growth. I can tell he’s an avoider like most rich guys.
Still, though... that fear lurking behind his eyes looks almost paralyzing.
“It's not too late to pick up trash instead, Shane.” Reaching out to touch his shoulder, I want the words to be comforting, but as they come out, I realize they sound a little sharper than I intended. This guy seems to bring out the worst in me, even when I don't mean it.
“Excuse me, Keeley, while I go launch myself directly into the sun,” he snaps. “But we're already here anyway. Instead, let's just rip the Band-Aid off. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Probably not a popular analogy around here, huh?” I tease, trying to get him to relax.
Instead, he bristles even more. “Fine. Thanks for the input. I'll just add that to the long list you've given me of things that make me an asshole, okay? I’ve never spent so much time with a woman who thinks I have zero redeeming qualities.”
“Hey, pal, you're the one who wanted me to help you.” I get flustered and defensive before I can stop myself. Honestly, I thought I had thicker skin than this. What's wrong with me today? Why can't I de-escalate this situation instead of steadily making him madder? I have patients far more annoying than this guy.
Why do you even care, Keeley?
Sadness takes over his expression to the point that he looks as if he might get emotional. “Yeah, well, helping me doesn't have to involve rubbing in the sins of my past.”
I stop in the middle of the hall, grabbing his arm so he'll do likewise, and take a deep breath. Wow, I really feel like I've been getting my breathing exercises in lately. Maybe I should thank him for being so damn exasperating.
“Look, if that's how this is coming off, I'm sorry,” I begin, trying to modulate my voice so I sound calm. “I really don't mean to. You know how some people have 'resting bitch face?' Well, maybe sometimes I get, I don't know... 'resting bitch voice' or something. I don't mean to belittle you, is what I'm trying to say. Even if that's how it sounds sometimes. I'll try to be better about that from now on.”
He pauses, then nods warily. “Okay.”
Shane’s muscles flex underneath my fingertips. “And I meant it, by the way. I didn't mean to bully you into this. If being in a hospital freaks you out this much, we can do the other option. We can even swing by your place to grab more appropriate clothes for that, if you want. I really do want you to succeed.”
But it doesn't seem as though he's even heard me. If anything, he looks too stricken and distracted to think about changing his good deed option. “No, you didn't bully me. And the point is, you're right. Overcoming my...” I can see him almost say fear, but he swallows the word instead. “...problem with hospitals is a big part of the selfless act. So, I'll do this.”
I nod. “Okay. Good. I'm right here next to you. You got this.”
He looks at me, surprised. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and finally—in a small voice—he says, “Thank you.”
The sincerity in his voice throws me off. I suddenly realize I'm still clutching his muscled forearm, and I feel my cheeks flush as I let go. We proceed to the volunteering office without another word.
When we get to the office, a plump woman in a plum-colored polyester ensemble who introduces herself as Mrs. Turpin greets us. Shane explains our task, and she claps so hard her bat wings jiggle through her garish outfit. “Oh, how wonderful! We don't get nearly enough people coming in here to read to the children. They'll be so thrilled! Did you bring your own book, or would you like to use one of ours?”
“Oh, no need, I was just gonna read them a few letters from Penthouse Forum,” Shane says, forcing a grin. Well, at least he's trying to get through this with a sense of humor. “That counts as educational, right?”
Mrs. Turpin's face falls down around her ankles.
“He's kidding,” I tell her. “He uses inappropriate humor when he feels unsure. We'll use one of yours, if that's okay.”
Mrs. Turpin smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she starts to rethink letting us do this. Mentally, I catalog the other hospitals in the area, just in case we need to choose another one.
She reaches under her desk, pulling out a large volume of fairy tales. “Can't go wrong with this one. Here, I'll take you to the pediatric ward.”
She leads us through the halls and takes us on an elevator, finally leading us into the children's unit. It's everything I expected it to be, but still, the sight of it tugs on my heartstrings. Some of the kids are bald from leukemia, while others are terribly pale and thin, or covered in bandages and ointment from injuries. One of the girls appears to be badly burned. Most of them don't look like they're over six years old.
I expect Shane to turn and bolt when he sees this—but instead, I'm surprised to see him visibly relax, his breath slowing. Whatever he pictured in his mind's eye, apparently, this tragic scenario is better.
Thoughts pop into my mind, unbidden and inappropriate. Thoughts of touching him. Kissing him. I shake them away before they take hold. For someone who acts like such a shallow prick, he seems to contain many mysteries and layers. I find myself yearning to learn more about him, which is strange, since just a few days ago I wouldn't have cared enough to piss on him if he was burning to death.
“You can probably start recording now,” he whispers, leaning in. I nod, switching on the app's camera option and pointing the phone's screen at him discreetly.
“Children, we have special visitors for you today!” Mrs. Turpin chirps. “This is Shane and Keeley. Let's make them feel welcome!”
“Hi, Shane and Keeley!” the kids call out in unison, waving as their sunken eyes sparkle.
Shane waves at them. “Hiya, kids. How are you doing today? Feeling any better?”
I giggle at the near-miss, and he shoots me a smile. Did he do that just to get me to laugh? From the gleam in his eyes, I'm betting he did.
Mrs. Turpin frowns again brie
fly, and for the second time, I see her censuring gaze sweep over Shane. Nevertheless, she soldiers on. “Shane is here to read you a story. Would you like that?”
“Yes!” the kids crow. One of them has a voice that's muffled by bandages. “Shane, are you famous or something?”
His lips tug upward for the first time since we went through the automatic doors. “Only in my own mind. Okay, let's see, here.” Shane sits in a plastic chair and flips through the book. “How about Little Red Riding Hood? You guys like that one? So, yeah, um, there's this girl, right? And her name is Little Red Riding Hood.”
“What kind of name is Little Red Riding Hood?” Burn Girl chimes in.
“It's not her real name. It's a nickname. Because of the, you know, little red hood she wears... for riding. Her real name was probably Susan or something.”
“That's a stupid nickname! It's four words long!” exclaims a boy with an eyepatch. “A nickname's supposed to be easier for people to say, not harder. Why wouldn't they just call her Susan? Or Suzie?”
Shane shrugs. “You've, uh, got a point there, I guess. Okay, so one day, this girl Suzie, says to her mother, 'I'm going to go visit Grandma in her cabin in the woods.'”
“Why does the grandma live out in the woods?” This time, the question comes from a boy with both arms and one leg in traction.
“Why wouldn't she?” Shane asks, confused. “The woods are very calming and peaceful.”
“There ain't nothin' to do out in the woods,” Traction Boy explains, as though he's talking to an idiot. “Everyone knows that. There ain't even anything to do in the suburbs. The city’s where it’s at. Chi-Town all the way.”
“Yeah, and besides, ain't that old lady ever seen any scary movies?” Eyepatch demands. “Cabins in the woods are not safe. Stranger danger.”
“She went into the woods because she wanted to live deliberately,” Shane answers, maintaining good eye contact. “She was a big Thoreau fan.”
“I know him! The lightning guy from the Avengers movies?” Burn Girl asks.
I can sense his frustration by the way he tightens his chiseled jawline. “No, that's Thor. Look, do you kids want me to keep going or should we have a philosophical debate about the plot lines of the Brothers Grimm?”
I stifle a laugh. I know I should feel bad for him, but this starts to remind me of the old clip of Christopher Walken reading The Three Little Pigs to schoolkids. If Shane wanted to look better on this video than he did in the confrontation with Pinky, I’m afraid it doesn’t present him in a much more positive light. I can almost hear the viral comments in my mind. My heart sinks just a little for him because his heart is in the right place this time.
“So, anyway, her mother says, 'Okay, you can go visit Grandma, but be careful when you're in the woods... they're dangerous.'”
“That's it?” Traction Boy yells, shifting in the hospital bed. “She's just like, 'Yeah, it's dangerous, but go anyway?' She doesn't drive her there or even give her mace or nothin'? Glad she’s not my mom.”
“Man, Suzie's mom really sucks,” Burn Girl agrees. “If my mom let me go off into the woods alone like that, someone would probably call Child Services on her.”
How do these kids know about CPS? I stare, wondering if I should intervene.
“Okay, yes, fine, Suzie doesn't have a good mom. A lot of people grow up with bad parents... Take it from me,” Shane adds under his breath. “So anyway, she puts together a basket of food...”
“What kind of food?” Eyepatch challenges.
Shane sighs, flicking his wrist. “Sandwiches and potato salad. And don’t forget the apple pie.”
“And the stupid chick puts all that in a basket instead of a cooler?” Traction Boy sounds like he can't believe his ears. “With all that mayo? It's gonna go bad before she even gets there! She and Grandma both gonna die from botulasticism!”
The other kids laugh.
“Botulism, you moron!” Eyepatch crosses his thin arms over his equally thin chest.
Shane's cheeks redden. He clears his throat. “So Suzie takes her basket and walks into the woods...”
“Yo, hold up, hold up,” Eyepatch interrupts, waving a hand. “You said her hood was for, like, riding or whatever. So why ain't she riding? Why's she walking? If her name’s Riding Hood, she has to have a horse.”
“Her motorcycle's in the shop,” Shane growls. “And while she's in the deep dark forest, a big bad wolf sidles up to her and asks, 'Where are you going, little girl?' Before she can stop herself, she answers, 'I'm going to my grandma's house, which is just up ahead on the path.'”
“Man, this girl's crazy,” Traction Boy says, waving his cast. “When some random dude creeps up on me an' asks where I'm goin', I'm all like, 'I ain't got no change, sorry,' and I keep on walkin'.”
“Well, you're smarter than Suzie, I guess,” Shane replies. “Because sure enough, the wolf disappears back into the forest again, taking a shortcut to Grandma's house.”
“Why didn't Suzie take the shortcut, if there was one?” Burn Girl asks.
I see him heave a breath, so I hold mine. “She didn't know about it.”
“What? All those times goin' back and forth to her grandma's, and she don't even know there's a shortcut?”
“Yeah, and besides,” Eyepatch adds, “why didn't the wolf just eat the girl, instead of goin' to the grandma's house? My dad always says it’s easier to kill two birds with one stone.”
I have to admit, this question gives me pause too. Like everyone, I've heard the story hundreds of times, but I never really asked myself that.
Shane hesitates, and Eyepatch cackles, pointing at him. “Yeah, see? He don't even know! Yo, this story is bullshit!”
“Language!” Mrs. Turpin exclaims, shocked.
But the kids all start chanting together: “Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!”
She turns to us, teeth clenched, and snatches the book from Shane's hand. “I think you need to stop reading, Shane. Right now. Storytime is over for today.”
We dart into the hallway, followed by calls of “Bullshit! Bullshit!”
Then we stop and look at each other. I lean in. He leans in. My breath stalls in my throat before he pecks me on the cheek. And we burst out laughing.
Chapter Eight
Shane
Glancing around the coffee shop, I experience a stab of Deja vu, except this time, it seems like Keeley and I are more relaxed around each other. I could have kissed her at the hospital. I should have. While I lament my distinct lack of balls, I dig into a plate of chili cheese fries, scraping the onions away carefully. Usually, I love them, but since I'm spending this much time in close proximity with a woman I find irresistible, I figure it's probably not very considerate to breathe a lot of onion fumes in her direction.
With a jolt, I realize that I’m considering Keeley’s feelings above my own. Is this what positive change looks like? If so, I’m all over it.
Keeley plucks a shiny cherry from the top of the sundae she ordered, popping it into her mouth and wiping a dab of whipped cream from her lip. I catch myself staring and look away, hoping she didn't notice. She really is sexy, and kind, and funny—when she's not being judgmental of my faults.
Maybe even when she is.
“Okay, so, good news,” she begins. “The next time you tell someone you're bad with kids and they ask whether you've actually done anything to hurt or traumatize children, you can say ‘yes’ and really mean it instead of just being self-deprecating.”
“Better than that, I've got video evidence to back it up,” I chuckle, holding up my phone. “Although the negative comments are bound to come in again in droves, I hope the haters at least try to cut me a break. Those kids were tough.”
“Oh, good point.” She points her long spoon at me. “That was a live feed we were shooting through the app, right? So they probably didn't even have time to slap a 'Mature Audiences' warning on it before people saw it.”
“Not sure if bullshit triggers
a mature audiences warning.” I lean over and dip one of my fries in her ice cream and pop it into my mouth, savoring the salty/sweet combo. “So you're saying I may have also inadvertently traumatized hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of other children who were watching it.”
She nods with fake solemnity, her eyes wide. The effect is sexy as hell and hits me square in the groin. Lifting the corner of the carpet of my mind, I sweep the lust underneath it before I say or do something ridiculous. Pesky emotions have no place in this relationship where she’s helping me.
I paste on a smile. “Awesome. Go big or go home, right? Who was it who said, 'I'd rather fail spectacularly than succeed minimally?'”
“Wile E. Coyote,” she guesses with a giggle.
I shake my head. “No. He never said anything.”
“Well, if he did, it would have been that.” She carefully alternates between hot fudge and ice cream with her spoon until she achieves the perfect ratio. “Mmm… this is so good. Besides, who says you failed? You didn't fail. You learned something and that always equals success in my book.”
My mind drifts back to the boardroom debacle. “My father will say it. He will absolutely, one hundred percent say that I failed.”
“He's wrong. Dead ass wrong.” She dabs at the corners of her lips with a napkin. She still has most of her sundae left, but she still can't stand for her lips to be unclean between bites. Even the way she eats is meticulous. I want to reach over and mess her up a little—snap her tenuous control.
Instead, I squirt out another blob of ketchup onto my plate. “I drove a room full of sick kids to profanity and got thrown out of a hospital. How do you get any kind of success from that?”
She folds her hands in front of her, looking me right in the eyes. For a moment, I'm the one who feels like a child, being sized up by a schoolteacher.
“Once upon a time...” she begins.
My hand goes to my forehead in a mock fainting spell. “No, no, no. No more fairy tales for me today. I'm done.”
“Relax, you'll like this one. Once upon a time, there was a little boy who wanted to give his teacher a gift, but he didn’t have any money.”
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