Love Me Like I Love You

by Willow Winters

  “No,” I said to Samantha. “She can’t have any more. Second time she’s gotten it refilled. If she’s still having pain, she can take ibuprofen, but if that doesn't cut it, she needs to be seen again.”

  I wasn't overly conservative about doling out pain meds. Some patients needed them. Some were being abused and came in for falling down the stairs or walking into a door, which was doubtful. Their pain wasn't. I'd learned long ago that a woman needed to want help—the clinic offered options to get out of abusive relationships—before anyone could truly give it to her. In the meantime, I could at least make them comfortable. But I wasn't an enabler either. Alice Watkins' injury was such that she didn't need Oxy or Vicodin any longer. I wasn't going to help her become addicted.

  “Got it. Thanks.” Samantha left to wrap up those loose-end patients.

  “That’s it? Just an auditor?” Faith asked, returning to our conversation. “I need to live through your dating life.”

  I swiveled my chair around to face her. “What dating life?”

  She gave me a pointed look over the edge of her reading glasses. She let them drop to dangle from the thin chain around her neck. “Exactly.”

  I sputtered, tugging my stethoscope from around my neck and placing it on the desk. “You have four kids and a man who loves you dearly. Why are you so interested in other men?”

  “Not for me, sweetheart, for you.” She pointed her finger at me like Uncle Sam then grinned.

  I held up my hands, leaned back in the creaky office chair. “Oh, I’ve had a man. I’m good.” I’d settle for no guy than to have Jack back in my life. But then my thoughts veered to Gray. Again. I sighed.

  She pursed her lips and clucked at me. “From what you've told me, Jack was an asshole. I never met the guy, mind you, but I know that’s a fact.”

  I thought about my ex-husband. He really was an asshole. “Yeah, but I got Chris out of it. Jack can’t take that away from me.” Especially now that our son was eighteen. Sure, he’d grumbled about getting custody and moving him to California with him when we'd first gotten divorced four years ago, but he wouldn’t have gone through with it. He just hadn't wanted to pay me child support. Besides, he and Paralegal Sue hadn’t wanted to be bothered by a teenager since they had both acted like them.

  “Damn straight. Heard from him?” I knew she meant Chris not Jack because her tone softened. Her youngest two were still in high school, but her daughter was in her last year at the state school, and her oldest was in the army stationed in Germany. She knew how hard it was to have a child leave the nest.

  I sighed. “Last week. I told him to settle in and not worry about me. It’s a big adjustment for him, and the first year is extra tough. He did say he's on the soccer team, and Advanced Calculus is, I quoted, 'going to kick my ass.'”

  She laughed and gave my arm a squeeze. “Girlfriend, you raised a fine boy.”

  I did, and I was totally biased, but now what? What was next for me?

  An hour later, I was climbing the front steps of my house when my neighbor, Simon, popped his head out his door. “How was it?”

  Simon was a few years younger than me, an architect and gay. We’d hit it off from the day he moved in three years ago. He was from Tennessee, and his accent was thick like syrup. He was tall and lanky, with blond hair cut in a very crisp, very conservative style—short on the sides and longer on the top. He wore chunky glasses and stylish clothes. Although I’d picked my own dress for the party last night, he’d forced me back into my closet and into the heeled sandals instead of the ballet flats I’d originally chosen. He was bossy, opinionated and had a sense for fashion I never would.

  He’d also been a great guy role model for Chris when his father had pretty much abandoned him and had a surprising knack for getting through to a cranky teenager in ways a mother never could. I still had no idea some of the things those two had talked about, but it didn't matter. As Faith had said, Chris had turned out just fine.

  “It was good.” I dropped my shoulder bag beside the door then leaned against it as I took off my work clogs. Lifting the metal lid on the vintage metal milk box, I dropped them inside. They remained there until I went to work next, not wanting to take any of the funk I walked through at the clinic or hospital into my house. The sun was intense, and I was sweaty and ready for another shower. Even though I’d had one after my workout this morning, I always took one after being at work or the clinic. “Christy rocked her dress.”

  We stood twenty feet apart, each on the short set of steps up to our front doors. The entire block was one long row of houses, all red brick with white stone steps. Built back in the forties, they were small and identical, but with a basement, there were three floors. My parents had bought the townhouse back in the late sixties, and I'd grown up in it. When I married Jack, I'd moved with him to the suburbs but returned after the divorce. I even slept in the bedroom I had when I was a kid, but my mom and I had ripped off the old eighties teenage wallpaper and painted it a pale yellow the first week back. A year later, they’d retired and moved to Florida, and Chris and I had stayed.

  “Of course, she did,” Simon replied. He was casual in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeve button-down shirt. “How did the shoes work out?”

  He had to gloat. I had to roll my eyes.

  “I hooked an auditor named Bob or Bill.”

  “Which was it?” Looking downright gleeful, he added, “Was he any good?”

  I tilted my head down and gave him the stern look I used on Chris when he was a pain-in-the-ass teenager. “Any good? I didn’t catch his name, and there was no way I’d sleep with that guy. He ate Rocky Mountain Oysters like they were donut holes.”

  “Bull balls?” Simon cringed. “Yeah, no good. You’re too normal. You need someone who’s different. Who catches you by surprise. Someone you wouldn’t expect. And I don’t mean finding someone who eats that shit.”

  “Me, normal?” I asked, faking insult as I picked up my bag. I knew what he meant. I was plain old Emory. I worked, I worked out. I volunteered. And up until a few months ago, I was a high school parent. I was… dull. Divorced and dull. I needed some excitement, and Bob/Bill wasn’t going to cut it. But Gray just might. Just thinking about him was giving me a hot flash. I could only imagine what would happen to me if he actually touched me and not just by holding my hand. Or kissed me. Or got me beneath him.

  Did I want to continue just to be normal? I wanted to feel like I had last night when I was talking with Gray. Again and again. That was not normal. The cowboy who was a personal trainer and played flag football. How not normal of a guy was that? He'd invited me to his game. He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t meant it. So what was stopping me? My embarrassment from last night? Fear? Nerves?

  Simon gave a little wave and started to go back inside. I called to him.

  “Yeah?” he asked, sticking his head out the door.

  I fiddled with the strap on my bag as I considered. Screw it. Screw normal. I was going to go see Gray. “Will you go with me to Antelope Park tomorrow to watch a flag football game?”

  I’d definitely confused him. He stepped back out onto his stoop. A car drove by, music blaring from the open windows. “Explain.” He gave the circular hand gesture to keep going.

  I ran my toe over the worn stone tread hot beneath my feet. “There was this other guy last night. I made a complete fool of myself.” I shook my head at my own stupidity. “Not going to say what I did. You can probably imagine.”

  He looked at me for a moment, his expression serious. He must have seen something different in me because he didn’t poke fun as he normally would. Thankfully, because that wasn't what I needed right now.

  “Yeah, okay. I won’t ask.”

  “He wants me to come watch him play tomorrow at eleven. I want to go, but I’m nervous to go by myself. He makes me nervous.”

  “This is so seventh grade.” A big grin split Simon’s face. “A guy makes you nervous? I’m in. I’ll totally be your wi
ngman.”

  He winked and went inside. As I was about to do the same, I heard crying. Little kid crying. Turning around, I saw a boy of about eight or nine walking his bike down the sidewalk. He was sniffling and wiping his face with the back of his hand. He wore shorts and T-shirt, sneakers. I could see his knees were bloodied, and he’d scraped an elbow.

  I dropped my bag, and as he continued down the sidewalk, about to pass by, I went down to him. “Looks like you’ve had a serious fall. Were you trying to be Evil Knievel?”

  He stopped and looked up at me, all sweaty and tear stained. I stood beside him and did a quick visual assessment. Nothing looked broken, it didn’t look like he hit his head. Just a typical bike spill.

  His face scrunched up in confusion. “Who’s that?”

  “He was a man from when I was a kid who would jump across rows of cars on his motorcycle. I think he even jumped across the Grand Canyon once.”

  The boy had black hair that curled and was damp with sweat. His eyes were dark and had a Mediterranean look about him. Italian perhaps. His eyes widened, clearly impressed, then he frowned. “Nah, I just got my wheel caught in a storm drain.”

  I nodded, understanding. Those old grates were the perfect width to catch bike tires if you rode over them the wrong way. It was easy to do.

  “You don’t live nearby, do you?” I asked.

  He tilted his head. “A few streets over with my uncle. Why?”

  “Well, I think I’d have seen you before if you did. I’m Emory.”

  “Jackson. Jackson Baker.”

  “Hi, Jackson. How about a few Band-Aids for the road? I know it always made my son feel better.”

  “You have a son? Can he play?”

  I smiled indulgently at him. Sounded like he was a little lonely. “Well, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s away at college. But I bet he’d like to meet you when he comes home. So, Band-Aids?”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell you what. Lean your bike against the side of the steps and have a seat. I’ll go get them and come back out.”

  By the time I’d gotten the Band-Aids and a glass of water, he was sitting with his knees tucked up, but his tears had stopped.

  “I thought you might be thirsty.” I handed him the water.

  “Thanks.” He took the plastic cup and drank half the water, handed it back.

  “Do you want to put the Band-Aids on yourself or do you want me to do it?” I knew boys pretty well. They had their own little egos and pride just like the bigger versions. I had to be careful not to mother him too much. Or at least let him think he wasn’t being mothered. “Just so you know, I’m a nurse and work at the emergency room, so I see cuts like these all the time. I probably won’t throw up.”

  His face crinkled again. “Gross. You won’t throw up cause you’re a mom.”

  I nodded. “Especially because I’m a mom.”

  “Then you can do them.”

  “Okay, but this first part might sting a little.” I used a wet paper towel to dab at the cuts, then covered one scrape after another, making sure no blood or sore spot was exposed, just as Chris used to want. He flinched at first, but Jackson acted very brave.

  “Do you want to call your mom or dad to come pick you up?”

  “I live with my uncle and grandfather. So no. I can ride home now.”

  “Is your front tire damaged?”

  He shook his head, dark curls bouncing. “Thank you for the Band-Aids, Miss Emory.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He gave me an awkward side hug then dashed down the steps to his bike.

  “Jackson,” I called out.

  He looked up at me, all chubby cheeked and happy once again. I’d forgotten that Chris was ever his size.

  I held up one finger. “Can you wait just a minute? I have something for you. For riding your bike.”

  “Sure.”

  I ran inside then to the covered back porch and dug into the basket filled with a variety of sports equipment.

  “Here,” I said to Jackson when I returned, going down the front steps. I handed him a bike helmet. “This belonged to my son, but his head’s too big for it now. It’s really important you wear a helmet when you ride a bike. Okay?”

  He looked at the blue helmet with a Colorado flag sticker on the side of it. “Wow, cool! Thanks.”

  I helped him adjust the straps, so it fit him. It was a little big, but it was better than nothing, and he’d quickly grow into it. “There. If you ever get into trouble again, you can always knock on my door. You can remember it because the door’s red. Okay?” Since the block had about twenty houses and all were identical brick and white trim, I used the colored door as an easy way to indicate to people which one was mine.

  He gave me a big grin, a tooth missing on the bottom. “Thanks, Miss Emory!”

  I watched him ride off and around the corner, wounds forgotten.

  Chapter 5

  EMORY

  Simon and I showed up at the park a little before noon. I didn’t want to seem too eager, and I had to do some serious psyching up at home to actually go. I'd even chickened out twice. Committing Simon yesterday had been a smart move; I hadn’t been able to back out. There was no way he was going to miss seeing the guy who’d gotten me all flustered. When we’d met on the sidewalk out front, Simon had given me a once over as usual.

  I looked down at myself. Because it was hot and we'd be out in the sun, I wore black shorts and a racer-back tank top that was black-and-white stripe on the front and solid red on the back. A pedicure had been my Saturday night excitement, but at least my toes looked good in my flip-flops. I’d pulled my hair back into a ponytail, the shorter curls framing my face. I wore sunglasses and a thick layer of sunscreen. “It’s a flag football game in a park. I can dress myself for that.”

  My slight grumbling tone made Simon’s eyebrows go up, but he didn’t push. I could only assume he could tell how out of sorts I was and didn’t want to either make me run back inside and lock the door or start to cry. Not that I had plans for either, but he didn’t know that.

  When we got to the park, guys were out on the field running around, the game already started. I didn’t follow football all that much but knew the basics of the game. There was no scoreboard or time clock though, and it looked like a complete free-for-all to me. There were about twenty other spectators along the sidelines, some in folding chairs, others on blankets. Kids ran around chasing each other on the sides of the field, and babies took naps in their strollers, worn out from the heat.

  I spread out a blanket as Simon put down the small cooler I'd packed, then we settled in to watch. He handed me a soda as I sat cross-legged.

  “Which one is he?” He popped the lid on his drink.

  One team wore black-and-white striped T-shirts like a bunch of convicts, the other wore dark green ones with a yellow collar. As I scanned the men, I realized Faith would have enjoyed this. Watching sweaty, fit men run around and tackle each other, showing off their caveman qualities would spike any woman’s libido. It certainly worked on mine. But when I finally glimpsed Gray on the field, my heart stuttered. The other night wasn’t a fluke. He did something to me, not just the snap shirt. This guy, why this guy? Was I insane? There was one way to find out.

  “There.” I pointed.

  “The blond?”

  I shook my head, took a sip of soda to cool myself down. Gray looked… God, amazing. Manly. He was wearing one of the ridiculous convict shirts, the neckline stretched out by someone’s rough grab. It didn’t have any snaps, but it looked damned good on him. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and he had a streak of dirt on his forearm that blended in with the tattoo. With his arm exposed, I could see it was large enough to creep up his forearm and over his biceps. Although he was tan, the tattoo stood out in stark contrast. I hadn’t been wild about tattoos in general before, but on Gray… it totally melted my butter. I had to wonder if he had any others, and if so, where?

  “No, the tall one w
ith the dark close-cropped hair.”

  Simon looked where I pointed, his brows going up. “Holy shit, Em. That’s the guy?”

  I nodded.

  “I can see why he made you nervous. He’s fucking hot and nothing like a guy you’d normally be interested in.”

  There was that word again. Normal.

  “I know,” I admitted, taking another sip of my soda. “I don’t know what it is about him.” I turned to Simon, hoping he’d truly understand because I sure didn’t. “I mean, he’s got tattoos! And he’s a cowboy, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him now, but his snap shirt the other night made me want to toss him my panties.” I didn’t dare look at Simon after admitting that. “And when I first saw him Friday night, my heart stopped, and my brain went to mush. I swear I had a hot flash.”

  He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses, serious. “Maybe he’s the kind of guy you need and just never knew.”

  We sat in silence, watching the game. Had I been interested in all the wrong guys? It wasn't like I’d had much chance to find out. Being pregnant at nineteen, married and with a baby at twenty didn’t offer much opportunity to play the field. Of course, Jack had decided he’d wanted more and ditched me for a newer model. Maybe a guy like Gray was exactly what I needed. He wasn't normal. He sure as hell would push my boundaries.

  I watched his body as he played the game, and I tried not to drool. Muscles tightened and flexed in ways that had me taking another big swig of my soda just to cool off. What would it be like to kiss him, to run my hands over that body, to have his weight pin me up against a wall? Those thoughts made butterflies return to my stomach and scared the crap out of me at the same time.

  I hadn’t even realized there was a ref until he blew the whistle. I obviously wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the game, only Gray, and he'd only had the football a few times. The men worked their way to the sidelines, exhausted and sweating, slapping each other on the back. I couldn’t tell by the looks on their faces who’d won or lost. The camaraderie was surprising, considering they’d just been tackling the crap out of each other.