What if I don’t want to go on a date? Does he think it’s a date?
I mentally slap myself. Calm down, Sophie.
Sounds awesome! Looking forward to coffee.
Me too. Which unit do you work on? I’ll wait for you by the front desk or something.
I bite my nail, contemplating. If I tell him where I work, the other staff will notice him. Because, quite frankly, he’s very noticeable. That sandy blond hair, those shimmering blue eyes, the perfect smile that makes his eyes crinkle, those pectorals…Ahem.
And, he’ll be especially noticed if he asks for me. Everyone on the unit knows I’m single. I’m not sure I can take all the attention and catcalls.
Ah, what the hell.
I tell him my unit number.
—
The rest of my day is a blur. I’m halfway through changing the pad of a bed-bound patient when I notice yellow and red discharge seeping through his coccyx dressing.
Neato.
I feel bad for Nils. He’s a skinny Dutch guy who was paralyzed from the chest down several months ago in a skiing accident. We try to reposition him every two hours, and off-load any bony areas with pillows, but it still doesn’t seem to stop him from getting sores. He’s only thirty-two years old.
“Nils, I just want to change your dressing. It’s starting to leak a bit.”
“Okay, Sophie,” he trills. For being so young and so broken, he’s quite cheerful. And, his accent is cute, so talking to him is fun.
I lay new gauze and saline on the bedside table and start taking the old dressing off.
“Is Inga coming by today?” I ask. He and his wife immigrated to Canada a couple of years ago and have a nine-month-old baby.
“Yes, and she’s bringing Henry,” he says happily.
Aww. Such a proud papa. I contemplate all the things he’ll never get to do with Henry. Never run after him, never teach him to ride a bike…
I push past the lump in my throat, and focus on work.
It takes me a while to get the old dressing off. It has been taped up like a Christmas present, and none of the edges are easy to grab.
At long last, it’s off and I can get a good idea if it’s healing or not.
It’s not.
The wound is very infected, with yellow, foul-smelling discharge. It looks deep. I think we’ll be able to see bone soon.
I go about cleaning and redressing it. It’s kind of tricky, as the new gauze I’ve packed inside tries to fall out as soon as I take my gloved hand away. Let’s just say, it’s a long time before I’m done.
Thankfully, Nils doesn’t feel any of this. Any other patient would’ve had sensation in this area, and would’ve needed some heavy-duty painkillers before I started prodding around.
“Thank you, Sophie,” he says when I finish.
“You’re welcome, Nils. Say hi to Inga and Henry for me.”
An hour later, I discover Nils lying on his side in bed, the dressing ripped apart.
“Nils, what happened here?”
“Dr. St. Luke was here, and wanted to see how I was healing.”
Ah, yes. St. Luke.
Dr. Ignatius St. Luke.
I call him St. Puke.
I sigh and hit the call button. “Hi, this is Sophie. Can I get some help in Nils’s room, please?”
—
As we near the end of our shift, some of the other staff and I melt into chairs around our unit’s front desk while the afternoon nurses take report. I think the last time I sat down was lunchtime, three hours ago.
I’d just asked a coworker what she has planned for the week when a deep, brusque voice startles me.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
Ugh. St. Puke.
He’s middle-aged, has curly brown hair, and has an intelligent, quiet air about him.
A few months ago, I was tempted to believe that he had a good side. It was Valentine’s Day, and I was at the front desk reviewing a chart when he settled into a chair near me and picked up our unit desk phone.
“Good morning, sweetheart. Happy Valentine’s Day,” I heard him say.
Aww, that’s a surprise! I had always pictured him living like a lonely hermit.
“I’ll be home later. Yes, I can pick the kids up from soccer. Okay, gotta go. Love you too.”
Huh. Go figure, St. Puke has a wife and kids. Maybe I shouldn’t refer to him as St. Puke in my head anymore? After all, he’s a human being too, worthy of respect just as much as anyone else…
“Sarah,” he snaps, forcing me out of my reverie.
“Actually, it’s Sophie,” I say.
He responds with a forced, tight smile. “Could you look at the vitals on Mr. Evans please.”
It sounds more like a command than a request.
“Sure.”
I’m not even sure why I’m doing this. He could easily look it up himself. But, a teeny, tiny part of me wants his approval, and to look like a team player. So I retrieve Mr. Evans’s chart.
“Has he been febrile?” St. Puke asks.
“Umm…”
Febrile, febrile.
What does “febrile” mean again? Come on, Sophie, you know this! It’s basic terminology.
He lifts his glasses to his forehead.
“You do know what ‘febrile’ means, don’t you?”
“Of course I do!” I say, my voice high and pinched. “It’s, umm…”
He sighs, snatches the chart from my hands, and silently reviews.
“Yes, he has been febrile.”
He leans toward me, looks right into my eyes, and whispers with great enunciation, “Febrile. F-E-B-R-I-L-E!”
I just want to crawl into a hole and die.
“It means, Sarah, that he’s had a fever.”
He snaps the chart shut, and frowns at me. “Maybe you and I should review my basic terminology textbook. I can explain the big words to you.”
He stands before I can say anything (not that I could—I’m frozen to my chair) and marches away.
—
I subtly shake my head, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
“Good afternoon, Dr. St. Luke,” replies our unit clerk.
“Well,” he says, after taking good, pointed looks at all of us, waiting to go home. “It seems that we have too much time on our hands.” He motions to us to sit down.
Bastard.
I get up when he’s not looking and walk to the end of the unit.
All the way down, I take deep, calming breaths and try to focus on the positive. Like, seeing Brett soon. I’m in the middle of fantasizing about his biceps just begging to be freed from the confines of his T-shirt when I notice a woman crying on the couch we keep in the common area.
It’s Larry’s wife, Lorna. They really are cute together. Larry and Lorna, until death do us part. Only for them, death is coming all too soon. Stupid cancer.
I approach quietly. “Hi, Lorna.”
She looks up at me, her face pink and puffy. I sit down beside her on the couch.
Lorna rubs at her nose. “Sorry for blubbering.”
“No need to apologize,” I say. “You love him.”
Her eyes well up with fresh tears, and she nods vigorously.
“Do you want to talk about Larry? Share some memories, maybe?”
She seems surprised at first that I’d want to know, but it doesn’t take her long to get into it. She tells me about their first date (she threw up twice due to the flu, but it must’ve been love because he asked her out again the next day), their wedding, their vacations, their kids, their hopes and dreams, their struggles.
She smiles at some memories, cries at others.
She eventually talks about Larry being sick.
“I just wish this wasn’t happening. Sometimes I feel like it’s a dream, like I’ll wake up and it will all just be a horrible, terrible nightmare.”
A shiver passes through me.
I know the feeling.
We visit for a while, and I glance
at my watch. I was supposed to meet Brett half an hour ago! I give Lorna a hug and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. The unit clerk calls out to me as I pass the front desk.
“A tall, blond piece of man candy was here looking for you,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
“Do you know where he went?”
“He said he’d wait for you in the cafeteria.”
—
I reach the cafeteria and spot him reading a weather-beaten magazine.
“Those are probably the dirtiest things in the hospital,” I say.
He looks up and smirks at me. And then, realizing that I meant the magazines, he grimaces and drops the magazine like it’s on fire.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I say. “I lost track of time.”
He shakes his head. “No need. In fact, it was nice to catch up on my reading. I’m behind in my issues of”—he glances at the discarded magazine—“Good Housekeeping.”
He stands up and offers me his elbow. “Shall we?”
I gratefully take it, and away we go.
Standing this close to him, I can smell him. And he smells really, really good. A mixture of cologne, sweat, wood chips, and something else I can’t place.
My brain tells me it’s probably pheromones.
My inner sexpot doesn’t care if it’s pheromones or not, just knows that he smells sexy as all getup. I’m feeling a little dizzy and weak in the knees.
I hope I can walk across the parking lot without tripping.
Chapter 5
Gimme Shelter
Brett and I are about five steps out of the hospital when the sky opens up, hurling sheets of rain onto us. He takes off his windbreaker and holds it above my head as we race through the parking lot. I can feel the water squishing in between my toes with each step.
We finally reach the cover of that most beloved, glorious Canadian coffee house called Tim Hortons (just say the words “double-double” to a Canadian sometime—she’ll love you on the spot), and Brett reaches for the door and holds it open for me.
“Thank you,” I say, and step inside. The warmth of the room feels good on my chilled skin, the aroma of fresh coffee tickling my nose.
“Ugh,” I say, taking in my wet scrubs and sopping shoes, “I feel like a drowned rat.”
I look over at him and wish I could take my words back. If my clothes are wet, then his are drenched. He looks as though someone has pushed him into a pool.
“You should’ve kept your coat on. At least one of us would be dry.”
He laughs my comment off. “I don’t think it would’ve helped much. How about you grab us a table?”
I’ve just found a quiet table in the corner when I hear him call out.
“Hey Soph?”
“Yeah?”
I love that he calls me Soph already. Is that weird?
“What can I get you?”
Oh, right. I haven’t ordered anything. Hmm, what to order? I haven’t actually been in a Tim Hortons for years. Laugh at me all you want, but this Canadian girl loves her Starbucks.
“Just get me whatever,” I say.
From my table in the corner, I have a full view of Brett ordering at the front counter. He’s wearing the same hot pair of jeans he wore on Saturday and a thin, dark gray T-shirt layered over an undershirt. The bulging biceps and toned pectorals that his white shirt hinted at the other day are now on full display. I finally appreciate why guys like wet T-shirt contests.
Brett approaches the table with three cups. I’d struggle to hold three hot beverages at once, but his large hands seem to handle it well.
“Three?”
“I figured you haven’t set foot in a Tim Hortons for years. They’ve expanded their menu quite a bit, and I couldn’t decide whether you’d like a chai tea latte or a café mocha. So, I ordered both.”
He gives me a shy smile, and shrugs.
“Thanks, they both sound great,” I say.
I have no idea what a café mocha is.
He flashes me a satisfied look, and takes a sip from his drink. Black coffee, by the looks of it. If he were anyone else, I’d be tempted to tease him about the “boring” beverage choice. But on him, it just seems classy and masculine.
I dig through my wallet to pay him back, but he just shakes his head. He seems old-fashioned. The sort of guy who reaches for the bill first, who opens doors for people, who shovels snow for his grandma.
“Well, it’s no Starbucks, but I’m pleasantly surprised,” I say after taking a sip from both drinks. “Next time we go out, I’ll have to take you there. You know, just to keep it even. We can bring along our laptops and write novels like the rest of the in crowd.”
“Next time?” he asks, giving me a seductive smile.
Oh boy…my body has warmed right up. Rain? What rain?
He laughs. “We can do that. But Timmies is my favorite. Starbucks is just too…I don’t know, girlie. I feel like I need a manicure and degree in Italian just to order a coffee.”
“Real men don’t let little things like trendy interiors and Italian words scare them off,” I tease.
“You don’t think I’m manly enough?”
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” I say. “You’ll just have to prove it sometime. Only a real man can do things like confidently order a venti caramel macchiato…or sing ABBA songs.”
“ABBA?” he says, laughing. “And what the hell is a macchiato?”
—
To my surprise and utter disappointment, our clothes dry quickly.
Damn. I was rather enjoying the show.
The question occupying every second thought is, “Why doesn’t this guy have a girlfriend?” He’s young, handsome, successful, funny, smart, courteous, etc. Why hasn’t some lucky girl snapped him up yet?
Maybe I can be that lucky girl?
I’m suddenly aware that the block of ice beating in my chest has started to melt.
I’d better be careful.
I’m not even sure I want this.
And yet here I am, on my second date in three days with a gorgeous man whom I can picture going on romantic picnics with…and afterward, ravishing him on the picnic blanket for good measure.
I’m so glad he can’t see my thoughts.
Is he mentally ravishing me somewhere as well? Maybe at one of his work sites, wearing Carhartt overalls, a hard hat, and a tight white T-shirt. Ooh, and now he’s got me pushed up against a wall…
“Sophie?”
Whoops, got a little carried away there.
“You just broke off mid-sentence. You were saying?”
Ah yes. What was I just talking about?
I’m totally embarrassed at the naughty turn my thoughts have taken, so I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
Oh dear Lord, I cannot believe I just asked that. Talk about pressure. He looks taken aback by my outburst, but recovers quickly.
“I guess I haven’t met the right one yet,” he says with a shrug.
“Besides,” he continues, “I could ask the same about you. Why isn’t the lovely Sophie seeing anyone?”
He thinks I’m lovely? Oh, Sophie, stop grinning like an idiot.
Okay, think. What do I say to that?
That I never met the right one? Because that would be a total, outright lie. I did meet the right one, and now he’s gone forever.
“I’m still looking. My last boyfriend was a total disaster.”
“A disaster?”
I fill Brett in on Barbie Joel.
“That’s just…well, fucked up,” he says.
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” I laugh. “What about you? What’s your dating life been like?”
Brett fidgets a bit in his chair, and pulls his mouth to the side.
“I haven’t dated anyone in about two years.”
Whoa! I did not see that one coming. How could someone this gorgeous and lovable manage to stay single for two whole years?
> “I used to date. A lot, actually. It was fun for a while, but I don’t know, I just found it so…” He looks around the room, grasping for the right word.
“Unfulfilling. Like a giant waste of time, going from one pointless relationship to the next, often with women I wasn’t really interested in. So, one day I decided that enough was enough.”
He looks at me intensely, gauging my reaction.
I feel my stomach plummet to the floor. Does he think that I’m a big waste of time?
Brett must see the confused look on my face. Leaning forward, he gently grabs both my hands. I feel my heart leap in my chest.
“Soph, I didn’t mean that I thought this was pointless. Not at all.” His tone is urgent. “I’m sorry, I thought I was making myself clear.”
Clear as mud, I think to myself.
“I like you. A lot.”
Oh? Maybe I wasn’t as off base as I thought.
“I really like you too,” I say.
The smile he gives me is blinding. And he’s still holding both of my hands. They look so small and pale in his calloused, tanned ones.
“I said I didn’t want to see anyone I wasn’t interested in. And, well, you’re interesting.”
That’s the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.
“I know we’ve just met, so why don’t we take it slow, try the friends thing for a while, and see where it goes?”
“I’d really like that,” I say.
Okay. So we’ve established that we like each other.
I feel his hands still holding mine. Friends don’t hold hands, do they?
I pull my hands away and reach for my coffee.
Now what?
“Hey, I just remembered the text you sent me earlier today. What sort of new contract did you bid on?”
He leans forward, as if he’s telling me some great secret.
“Until now,” he continues, “Narayan and I have only had small residential contracts, usually only a handful of houses. Our focus has been to work with eco-friendly or reclaimed materials, and recycle things rather than send them to a landfill.”
He pauses, I think to see if I’m bored.
I’m riveted. His joy is bubbling over, and I can’t wait to hear about the big deal he’s landed. For someone who doesn’t open up to people easily (at least, according to Samira), he seems to have no problem talking to me.
Can't Always Get What You Want Page 4