“I know, but everybody needs something,” he says with a shrug, checking his own phone.
“Not me.” I match his shrug, and look down at mine.
I miss you.
My stomach flutters. I look up and see that he’s still sitting at the same table, by himself now, still looking at me.
Is that why you’re staring at me like you’re mad at the world?
“Those hearts that you had the kids make,” Chris says suddenly. “Is that what you do?”
I nod.
“You sell them?”
I nod again. “Yeah.”
“How much are they?”
“Well, it depends on the size, I guess.”
“Do you custom-make them, or do you have some already made?”
I frown slightly as I smile. “I have some made, but I also accept custom jobs.”
Chris breathes out harshly and rubs his forehead. “I kind of have to get my fiancée a gift for our anniversary, and I have no clue what to get her. You would think after eight years of being together I’d know, right?” He laughs. “She would love one of those hearts, though.”
“Well, I can bring some by on Thursday when I come back with the ones for the kids.”
He smiles. “That would be awesome. Do you know where my office is? It’s on the opposite side of Jen’s, same wing as you.”
“I’m sure I’ll find it.”
We get up at the same time and awkwardly looking at one another, back to our phones, and then to the other. Finally, he holds out his hand, and I shake it. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
I say goodbye and walk over to Oliver’s table, but he stands before I get there, and signals me to the hallway. I follow him into a room beside the food court. He closes the door behind us and pins me to the wall, kissing me before I can get a word out. I tug on his hair, he pulls on mine, and our hands hold the other’s face as our tongues collide. I pull apart on a breath.
“You really did miss me,” I pant. “Do you normally accost women in random hospital rooms?”
Oliver puts his forehead against mine and breathes out heavily. “Definitely not. I’m usually never this desperate.”
He groans when I drag my nails down his chest. “Tell me more about this desperation, Dr. Hart,” I murmur, leaning in and licking the seam of his lips. He pushes his hips against me, and I moan at how hard he feels.
“I need another date,” he whispers against my lips, his hands going under my shirt.
“Are you trying to take advantage of me in the middle of the workday?” I ask, arching my back when he tucks his hands under my bra.
“I clocked out over an hour ago,” he says, brushing my nipples with his thumb.
“And you stayed?”
“I wanted to wait for you.”
“Really?” I ask, gasping when his mouth dips and he takes in my nipple.
“Hmmm,” he responds against my skin.
“And then you sat there staring at me from across the room?”
“He’s not your type,” he says, licking my other nipple.
“What?” I grab his head to stop his movements, and he looks up at me.
“That guy you had your little lunch with. He’s not your type.”
I can’t help but smile. “You think I was on a date with a guy in the lunch room of the hospital you work at?”
He lets out a long breath, still cupping my breasts. “What would you call it?”
I laugh, shaking my head and cup his chin so that he looks at me again. “Calling it a date would be ridiculous. Would it bother you if it was?”
It takes everything in me not to laugh at the way he shrugs and looks away.
“Are you telling me you brought me in here because you got jealous?”
His eyes flicker to mine. “I’m not jealous.”
“So if I tell you that the guy you saw me with asked me out on a date—a real one—outside of the hospital, you wouldn’t mind?”
“Did he?” he growls.
“Would it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Because?” I ask, running both of my hands through his hair. He closes his eyes at the motion.
“Because.” He leans into my touch. “Because . . .”
“Uh-huh?”
His eyes pop open. “Because I want it to be me. I want to be that guy who takes you out all the time.”
“So be that guy,” I respond.
“I will be,” he says, leaning in to kiss me. “I will be.”
“Okay,” I respond, folding into his arms, wishing I could stay in them forever.
The reality that this may not be something I can do every day makes me ache.
As if uneasiness is seeping from me, he pulls away and touches my cheek with the back of his hands.
“It’s just an interview, Elle,” he whispers, looking at me.
I take a long, deep breath and close my eyes. It’s not really just an interview, though. It’s a life-changer. Life is short, I remind myself. Look at what happened to Wyatt. I’m not going to make Oliver feel bad for doing something he loves. I can’t be that girl—the one who demands someone give up their dreams in exchange for my happiness. When I feel calm again, I reopen my eyes. “I know. Go kick ass on your interview, Bean. Do what you need to do.”
I reach up and kiss him on the cheek. He grabs for me again, but I stop him.
“Call me when you get back.”
Somehow, I turn away from his big green eyes, from those large, warm hands, and from the sense of comfort he brings me. I walk out of the room and the hospital without looking back.
SITTING OUTSIDE on one of my parent’s lawn chairs, I reach over for a bigger piece of glass and prick myself with it. I start swearing and alternating between flicking my wrist and sucking the tiny cut on the tip of my finger. That hasn’t happened to me in . . . a while.
“Today is supposed to be a celebration,” my mom says, coming up behind me with two glasses of lemonade in her hands.
“It is,” I say, reaching out for the one she hands me.
“Are you happy you finally sold the house?”
I sigh, moving the box on my lap aside and propping my legs up on the chair. “Happy, relieved, a tiny bit excited.”
“Not sad,” she says in a statement. I look over to her and catch her smiling at me.
“Not sad,” I reply, and am relieved that it’s true. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I’ve been living with Victor for what now feels like forever. Maybe I’ve come to accept that, while a part of me will always be sad when I think of losing Wyatt the way I did, I survived it and have found a way to move on.
“And you sold that painting of Wyatt’s you love so much. You’re taking a lot of big steps. I’m proud of you,” she says with a smile.
“Thanks. I am too,” I respond with a small laugh.
“But you will keep the gallery?” my mom asks, again in what’s more of a statement than a question.
I frown at her words. “Of course.”
“You know if you need help opening up a new one and getting a fresh start, we’ll gladly do that for you, right?”
I stay silent for a moment. The gallery has as many memories as the house does, but somehow I’ve managed to compartmentalize them differently. When we were in there together, I was off in my studio, and Wyatt was off in his. We didn’t share the space the way we shared our bedroom.
“Thanks, but I’m fine for now. I’ll reconsider when my lease is up.”
“When is that?”
“End of the month,” I snort. My mother shakes her head.
“You embody procrastination so well,” she responds with a small laugh. “That’s a lot of glass. How many hearts have been broken this time?”
My parents have a running joke about my hearts. They don’t even know how they came to be, but they think they’re pretty and are in support of me making them. The first people who bought the hearts were a group of pissed off older women with no Valentine dates. They
made them the center of their “Who needs a man anyway? Party.” The next year, all three of them were married. That last part is usually ignored in the broken hearts conversation though, because everybody prefers to recount the sadder part, which was that they were divorcées who were sick of going on bad dates.
I smile. “I am pleased to report that these hearts are for a bridal party.”
“Really?”
“Really. The guy that runs the department in charge of the art program at the hospital bought one for his fiancée, and she decided she wanted one for each of her maids.”
“That’s nice. She must have a lot of money to dish out,” she comments. We both turn around at the sound of my father shouting that people are starting to arrive for the barbeque.
“I’m going to put this away,” I say, standing and stretching.
“I’m here,” Mia calls out, stepping into the yard. For the first time in a couple of days, I feel something other than stress.
“Help me with this, please,” I call out as I pick up one of the boxes. She saunters over to me and picks up the other box.
“They’re so pretty,” she says, as we walk toward the house. We set them aside in the sitting area by the front door and end up staying there as her mom arrives. Conversation continues about the hearts, Mia’s pictures, and boys. It’s the same thing every time my parents have a barbeque. Same conversations . . . same people . . . yet it never gets old. I skipped out on a ton of these when I was with Wyatt because, well, he didn’t really like coming. He said everybody made him feel like an outsider, and it hurt me that he thought that, so I didn’t come either. I don’t regret it, even though I did miss it at the time. My family understood it. They knew that if they were in my shoes, they would have done the same.
Victor gets there shortly after, with some girl I’ve never seen before, in tow, followed by a friend of hers.
“This is Madelyn and her friend Emma,” he says by way of introduction. “Madelyn is Bobby’s sister.”
Mia and I share a look, and then share it with Victor before we greet Madelyn and Emma, who look like they could be my little sisters. My first thought is—I wonder what Oliver thinks about this whole thing. We haven’t spoken much since he left for his interview last week. There have been a couple of text messages and a phone call one night when he called “wanting to hear my voice,” but nothing about where we stand has been established. Thankfully, I’ve been busy enough that I’m only left to wonder about those things at night or in times like these, when the reality of everything closes in on me.
“Jenson’s on his way,” Vic says after the girls walk off. He likes to give Mia a heads-up on his friend’s status. At least he’s not clueless enough to let him trample in here and catch her off guard.
“I thought he was away on a job,” Mia says, her voice quieter than it was just moments earlier.
“Got rescheduled.” Vic says, as he turns away.
“How did you end up bringing Bobby’s sister anyway?” I ask, nodding at the women who are now talking to my mom and Bettina.
“She stayed the night.”
I gape at him. “You hooked up with your friend’s sister? How old is she?”
“Relax,” he says, laughing at the look on my face. “She’s old enough, and we’re consenting adults. Staying over just seemed like the gentleman thing to do since they were over so late, and Emma was sick from drinking all day.”
I feel my ears get hot at his easy confession, but I try not to let my bubbling anger seep through enough to show. He’s right about the consenting adults part, but he’s such a hypocrite for hooking up with his friend’s little sister, when all he’s ever done is warn his friends away from me.
“Where was her brother?”
“Working on a case.”
“I can’t believe you hooked up with her,” I say, glaring at him.
“It’s not like she’s seventeen,” he says back, as if he’s offended or something.
From my peripheral vision, I see Mia cross her arms. I do the same and glare at him harder, mentally shooting daggers through his brain. Vic laughs under his breath, then looks down at the floor.
“I like her, okay?” he says, walking away. I turn to Mia and wordlessly tell her I hate him, to which she nods sharply in agreement. After our mutual hate for my brother is established, we head back outside and pour ourselves extra large glasses of her mom’s Sangria.
“You okay?” I ask Mia, who looks like she’s swallowed a frog.
When she nods without saying a word, my gaze follows her to Jenson and Oliver who are laughing and talking as they walk in, looking like they just got out of a goddamn Abercrombie photo shoot. As if they’re not responsible for our discomfort and restlessness. The sight of them makes my insides churn.
“You want to leave? We can just skip out,” I suggest, hoping she agrees, but she doesn’t. She puts a smile on her face and turns to me with suddenly clear eyes.
“Nope. Your parents are really happy you’re here this year,” she says, placing her hand in mine. “I’ll survive.”
“We always do, don’t we?” I say, smiling sadly, as I watch Oliver and Jenson walk over to Vic and the girls. They both greet the guys with overly excited hugs that make my stomach dip. I squeeze Mia’s hand tighter as I watch Emma practically drape herself over Oliver, who’s smiling down at her.
“I’m calling Nathan,” she says suddenly, which makes my mouth drop open.
“You’re not,” I say, smiling despite myself. Neither of us normally plays head games or tries to make anybody jealous. I guess I never needed to make Wyatt jealous because he was born with an overly jealous bone, but Mia has never been like that either. My brother’s friends are all similar in one thing: They’re sure of themselves. So confident, that they believe every woman is a sure thing when it comes to them. Jenson always treated Mia like she would never go anywhere—not that he was mean, but he clearly took her for granted. As outlandish as Mia is now, she was the opposite with Jenson—always serving him, always quiet when he was around, because he was the boisterous one. When things went wrong, she climbed out of her shell like a mummy ready for rebirth. I know she uses her loud comments as a shield more than anything, because she’s never been the same after Jenson. Not out in public anyway. The only time I get the real Mia is in times like these, where she’s quietly vulnerable. I look over at them, talking and laughing with those girls. I decide that . . . fuck it . . . we can have fun too.
“Tell him to bring some friends,” I say, glaring at the back of Oliver’s now short hair. He must have cut it before his interview. Of course, it’s still gorgeous, brushed back so that it curls over the collar of his polo. He shaved down his beard too, so it looks lighter, barely there.
“Let’s go,” Mia says, typing furiously into her phone. “We’ll be back.” I follow her out the side door and laugh when she lets out a grumbled “motherfuckers” under her breath. I love her.
We go upstairs to my room, and she helps me sort out the hearts I was working on, until Nathan calls to let us know they’re outside. We practically trot downstairs and bolt outside to meet Nathan, Hunter (yes, my “first” Hunter), and Steven. They’re guys we hung out with through high school and college. They’re just downright fun, nice people.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” Hunter says to me after he gives us each a huge hug.
“I know. Whatever happened to that girl you were dating? Emily?”
“We’re kind of on a break. Long distance relationships are tough,” he says with a shrug. “I do think we have something though.”
I smile at that. We talk for a while, and I completely forget about the party in the backyard and the guys we were going to try to make jealous. I’m pretty sure Mia does too. It feels like high school all over again, and sometimes acting juvenile is all you need. We’re laughing and joking about Nathan’s wrestling days, and after a stupid demonstration of one of the moves—where I was used as a sparring partner—I land kne
e-first on the ground. Even though I laugh, it hurts.
“You okay?” Nathan asks, inspecting it like the concerned EMT he is.
“I’m fine. Obviously too old to be playing this crap, but I’ll live,” I say, making us all laugh.
“Come on, I’ll piggyback you inside for old time’s sake,” Hunter says with a wink.
Hunter, for some weird reason, runs into the yard shouting something about a zombie apocalypse. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to imitate somebody from The Walking Dead, but the voice he’s using is way off. I hang on for dear life, laughing hysterically, my hair swinging back and forth, as Mia, Nathan, and Steven follow behind. We are all laughing so hard, the crowd in the backyard turns as a unit to face us.
“Great, there goes the neighborhood,” Vic says, smiling when Hunter stops to greet him, still holding me over his shoulder. Vic and his friends have always been fond of these guys. They used to surf together, and I’m pretty sure they still play football together on Thanksgiving.
“Long time no see, man,” Hunter says, walking around and greeting everyone with me still hanging on his back. I complain about my knee and am about to hop off, when he swings me and catches me in a cradle like we’re on the cheerleading squad, my head hanging upside down, and hair dragging on the grass.
“Are you going to put her down? You know it’s not safe for her circulation to be in that position for too long,” says Oliver the doctor, as if anybody asked him.
Everybody snorts at that.
“Dude, please, leave work in the workplace,” Jenson says.
“Will you put me down?” I say, laughing as I push the hair out of my face.
Hunter laughs, looking down at me and shakes his head. When he leans into me, my eyes widen. I don’t think he’s going to kiss me or anything, but still, I inwardly freak out. He leans into my ear and whispers, loudly, so that everyone can hear him. “The zombies are still out there, but sure, if your knee feels fine, I can put you down.”
I laugh when he pulls back and slap him on the chest, then shimmy so he drops me on my feet. I hold on to his arms, steadying myself.
“If you wanted to cop a feel, all you had to do was ask,” he says, flirting.
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