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Author: Kristan Higgins
“But what?” I asked, needing the validation and hating myself for it.
“But he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, punkin. ”
It didn’t help.
In addition to the self-recrimination that was running rampant through my veins, I simply missed Joe, too, his sweetness and his happy-go-lucky ways. I missed the thrill of seeing him, the sweet shock of his beauty, the physical closeness. And even more than that, I missed the days before I’d been involved with him, when thinking of Joe had sustained me. Let’s face it. I’d lost my lifelong hobby.
Once, I’d been so sure that Joe would be a huge part of my future. The truth was, I never really imagined myself with anyone else. My thirties suddenly yawned in front of me, and I pictured myself with only Digger and his irritable bowel syndrome to greet me each night, no person to interrupt the relentless quiet of my house.
Only when I was seeing patients was I remotely normal, but the clinic’s business was slowing down, and I had too much time on my hands even there. The new wing at the senior center was nearly finished, and I took to visiting patients twice a week, sometimes just dropping in for a visit. If Joe’s truck wasn’t in the parking lot, that was. The folks there all knew me by now, and it was comforting to be in my Dr. Barnes persona rather than full of self-beratement. I’d stay as long as possible in my patients’ rooms, reading to them, asking them questions about their lives before creeping through the halls, praying that I wouldn’t run into Joe.
SEPTEMBER BROUGHT IN EARLIER evenings and chillier days. The ocean seemed to have less green in it and more gray, and the wind was cool enough that I brought a hat when I went to the beach at night. The poison ivy was edged with red, the tourists left and the kids went back to school, and in the quiet of my home, I couldn’t avoid the thought that had started to ring the loudest in my head.
For years, I’d thought that Joe was a wonderful amalgamation of kindness, decency and dependability. But I only knew one man that terrific, and it wasn’t Joe.
Joe Carpenter was no Sam.
For the past several weekends, Sam and Danny had been visiting colleges throughout the Northeast—Williams, Wesleyan, Colby and Penn—and I hadn’t seen much of them lately. It was just as well. My head was muddled enough without me dwelling on the fact that my sister’s ex-husband embodied all the qualities I’d wished on Joe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DR. WHITAKER GAVE ME the chance to snap out of my funk.
“Millie,” he said over the phone one day toward the end of September, “I’d like to discuss the partnership with you, now that the clinic will be closing…when exactly is that?”
My breath caught. “We close the week after Columbus Day,” I answered calmly.
“Right. At any rate, you’ve done very well at the senior center, and I’m very pleased with your work at the clinic. If you’re still interested in joining me, we should work out the details, don’t you agree?”
I bolted upright. At last. At last! “I’m absolutely still interested, Dr. —George. Thank you. I’m honored,” I smiled.
“Excellent. Why don’t we meet next Thursday for dinner here at my house?”
“That would be lovely,” I answered.
“There’s something else I’d like you to do, more of a favor, actually,” the doctor went on.
“Of course! What is it?”
“The high school has a career day for the seniors. Professionals from the community come in and talk about what they do, how they got interested in their work and the like. I’ve been doing it for years, and I thought it would be beneficial for you to tag along. ”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to come. My nephew’s a senior this year. ”
“That’s right,” Dr. Whitaker replied. “Such a fine boy, young Daniel. We’ll attend Career Day, I’ll give my little presentation, and then later in the week we can nail out the details of our partnership. How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful. ”
The night before Career Day, I laid out my seldom-used suit and polished my shoes. Then I took an hour or so to jot a few notes on index cards, just in case Dr. Whitaker asked me to add anything to his little spiel. He was a formal, precise man, and I didn’t want to be caught unaware. Katie, too, would be speaking, representing the world of restaurant management, and several other people I knew. It might turn out to be a really fun event.
The next morning as I drove into the high-school parking lot, my heart sank. Joe’s truck was there…apparently he’d been asked to speak at Career Day, too. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since our breakup.
“Go down to the teachers’ lounge. You remember the way, don’t you, Millie?” asked the secretary, who had been at Nauset High for decades.
As I walked down the hallway, I heard an undeniably angry (if somewhat muffled) voice coming from the janitor’s supply room. The door was closed, but I could recognize the voice easily. It was Katie. My footsteps slowed.
“…in the first place!” my friend was saying. Having been on the receiving end of that iron tone, I cringed for the recipient, freezing in the horrible thrill of someone else’s reaming.
“For God’s sake,” Katie continued, “you sit there night after night, crying into your beer, and for what? You make a good living, have a lot of people who like you, Joe—”
Joe!
“—but you’re wasting your life. You screw anything with a pulse, break hearts all over the place, just float through life without thinking of anyone but yourself. I’m not surprised Millie dumped you. She’s way out of your league. ”
Oh, my God.
“So there you have it, okay? You asked, I answered. Now stop whining, grow up and act your age. ”
Realizing their conversation, for lack of a better word, was ending, I leaped down the hall to the teachers’ lounge and yanked open the door. Several people were already assembled: Dr. Whitaker, Maeve McFarland, an attorney; Bobby and Sue Schultz, who ran the Atlantic Winds Motel; and my dad, sultan of sewage. I scampered over to the coffeepot and smiled breathlessly.
“Millie! Good morning,” Dr. W. said.
“Hello,” I answered. “Hi, Dad. ”
“Hi, punkin! Doc here and I were just talking about you. ” My dad placed a heavy arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.
The door opened, and Katie, looking like a tourism ad for Norway, came in, her face serene and lovely, blond hair swinging in a silken curtain over her shoulders. “Hi, Millie,” she purred. “Hi, everyone. ”
I went over to her side. “Why were you yelling at Joe?” I whispered.
“Oh, did you overhear that?” she asked blithely.
“Yes! I certainly did. Why, Katie?”
She smiled. “He asked for it. ”
“Did he?” Was anyone so foolish as to ask for the Wrath of Katie?
“Well, he wanted to know if I knew why you broke up with him. So I told him. ”
She looked as sated as if she’d just had a night of world-class sex, her cheeks slightly flushed and glowing, her eyes sparkling. “Did you have to enjoy it so much?” I asked.
“That Peter Pan routine is pathetic,” Katie murmured. “High time someone told him. ” She sighed contentedly and floated away. I turned around, bumping right into Joe.
“Hi, Joe,” I said, feeling my ears grow hot. “How are you?”
He didn’t look nearly as healthy as Katie. “Fine,” he answered.
“So, um, I guess you’re here for Career Day,” I said, feeling my stomach contract with discomfort.
“Yup. ” He continued to stare, unsmiling, a look that was foreign to his usually cheerful face.
“Okay! Well. Um, see you later. ” I scurried away like a cockroach. Apparently, Joe hadn’t gotten around to the “no hard feelings” stage. Or he was still shell-shocked from the Katie grenade that had just been la
unched.
At that moment, the door opened and in came Mrs. Deveau, who’d been principal when I was a student here. “We’re all set, people, if you’ll follow me,” she said. We made our way en masse to the auditorium. A number of my former teachers still taught here, and one or two waved as we passed through the halls.
“Hey, Millie,” Sam said, appearing at my side. “Representing the medical world today, are you?” He looked handsome in his uniform, brawnier with the radio and gun clipped to his belt. Downright…well, actually, quite…
“That’s right. And you’re discussing…what is it again that you do? Dog warden?” My banter was automatic because of the strange, hot…
Sam laughed, and my innards contracted in a warm squeeze. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Actually, most kids ask me about playing football in college. ” He smiled at me, his hazel eyes crinkling, and there it was again, that…that…
Okay, okay. Sam was a looker, I knew that. Sure I did. But suddenly, I seemed to be feeling…things. For my sister’s ex-husband. For the father of my nephew. Of course you love Sam, a voice in my head soothed. But only in a platonic way. Right. So why was adrenaline spurting into my bloodstream, urging me to flee? And why did he suddenly seem so…delicious? I shuddered at the mere thought. Sam, delicious? Oh, God, he was!
“Okay,” Mrs. Deveau said. “Why don’t we have you go first, Mr. Barnes, since you’ve done this before. Everyone gets ten minutes, give or take, and then the kids can ask questions. Are we all set?” She didn’t wait for an answer, in typical principal fashion, and led us onto the stage. The kids were already in the auditorium, shuffling and chatting, but they quieted as we filed on and sat in the chairs lined up for us.
I did not feel well. Was I sick? I wished I was! Do not feel this way, Millie. Isn’t life complicated enough? Dr. Whitaker sat on one side of me. Sam sat on the other, his leg brushing mine, causing my nerve endings to leap.
Oh, no. No. No. Sam was off-limits. Do Not Enter. No Trespassing.
My palms grew clammy, and I tried to wipe them discreetly on my skirt. Mrs. Deveau was giving the introduction. A cramp pierced my abdomen. Dr. Whitaker leaned in close to whisper something, but I only dimly heard him over the roar in my ears. “Okay, sure,” I whispered back when it seemed an answer was called for.
Oh, this was bad! My knees were humming and weak with terror, and my pulse must have been at least one hundred and twenty. Maybe more. Breathe deeply, Millie. I obeyed myself, causing Sam to glance at me.
“Nervous?” he whispered with a grin.
Oh, shit. This was not what I needed. This was awful.
“It’s not so bad,” he continued. I could smell his nice Sam smell, soap, starch from his uniform, shaving cream. Oh, please, please—
“…Howard Barnes,” Mrs. Deveau said. Dutiful applause rose from the kids.
“Hi, kids!” my father bellowed. “I’m Danny Nickerson’s grandfather, and I’m the owner of a septic service company…or, as I like to say, the King of Crap. ” Warming to his fecund subject, Dad launched into a lurid tale of a pipe erupting during a storm several years ago, causing sewage to flood our fair streets. The kids were hooked.
Concentrate on Dad. My carotid artery throbbed sickly in my neck as I stared straight ahead. God, these lights were hot! Was anyone else hot? My fellow panelists looked composed and relaxed. In the audience, I spotted Danny, sitting next to Bobby Canton. There was Kyle and another boy from the Lighthouse Dance.
“Your dad is so great,” Sam whispered. I didn’t turn my head, just nodded mutely, staring at my father’s gleaming bald spot. My stomach churned with acid, and a light sweat broke out on my forehead. Beside me, Dr. Whitaker chuckled at something my father said. The kids applauded.
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