Can't Always Get What You Want

by Chelsey Krause

  “We’ve slowly built a client base over the years. It’s been tough going, because green, eco materials and building methods can be expensive. But, now that everyone is going green, we’re getting more attention than ever, and costs are going down.”

  I listen carefully while sipping my café mocha.

  Damn, this is good. (Sorry, Starbucks. Please forgive me.)

  “The contract is for a large eco-community. It’s so cool, Soph. The houses will be powered with solar and wind energy, and…”

  He tells me a lot more detail about the project, and I smile and nod along. He may as well be speaking Chinese. Note to self: look up bioswales when I get home.

  He leans on his forearms, inadvertently emphasizing his muscular upper body.

  “We found out today that we won the contract. We start breaking ground next month.”

  “That’s incredible!” I say.

  I reach over and give him a swift “friend” hug.

  Translation: only our shoulders touch. Pushing one’s boobs into a guy’s chest is most definitely out of the friend zone. Though, from the way he’s been looking at me all day, I don’t think he’d mind.

  “Well, now we have two things to celebrate this week,” I say.

  His eyebrows quirk up.

  “Narayan and Samira’s engagement, and your new contract,” I explain, listing them on my fingers.

  “Yeah, it’s been an eventful week for Nar,” Brett says.

  “We should do something to celebrate. Why don’t you all come over to my house for a barbecue tomorrow night?”

  “Can I grill the steaks?”

  Oh, he’s such a guy! At times, he reminds me of those perfect ads from the 1960s. Fit, blond, handsome…I can picture him in a striped apron, grilling steaks on a charcoal grill. Move over, Don Draper!

  “Only if you promise not to burn them,” I say smugly.

  “I’ll have you know that I am a grill master,” he retorts, imitating my smug tone.

  “So am I.”

  “Shall we have a little friendly competition then?” he asks.

  I smile while biting my lower lip.

  “You’re on.”

  —

  By this time it’s stopped raining, and I look at my watch. Turns out that we’ve been sitting here for three hours. How could the time have passed so quickly?

  I’ve texted Samira, and we’ve made plans to have a barbecue at my house tomorrow night.

  I’m more than a little excited.

  Apart from my weekly hang-outs with Samira and occasionally visiting my parents, my social life has been nonexistent. I work, sleep, clean the house, and work some more. I’m one feline friend away from being the lonely neighborhood cat lady.

  Brett slings his damp coat over his shoulder. “I need to run to Wal-Mart before I go home. Want to join me?”

  “Umm, I guess I could.”

  “I think it’s fair for both of us to see what we’re up against tomorrow. I’ll buy my ingredients, you buy yours, and we’ll compare,” he explains, a grin twitching the corners of his mouth.

  This could be interesting.

  “Sure, why not.”

  We get up to leave, and just like before, he opens the door for me.

  “You’re a real gentleman, aren’t you?”

  He shrugs, and follows me out to the parking lot.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It just seems like you have very good manners.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’m a gentleman or not, but I’ll tell my dad you said so. He’ll be thrilled.”

  I ask a bit about his family, and he tells me that he’s the baby. One brother and two sisters. They’re scattered all over the place due to work, but his parents still live in Edmonton. I can hear affection in his voice when he talks about his family.

  Seriously, is this guy for real? He just seems too perfect.

  There has to be a major flaw hiding somewhere. What other explanation could there be for him being single? Maybe he’s a commitment-phobe? A workaholic? Kicks puppies? Runs illegal gambling rings in his basement?

  I have no idea.

  And right now, I’m having too much fun to care.

  We amble over to Wal-Mart, and I start mentally ticking off the ingredients I’ll need.

  “Brett, do you want to play a game?”

  “A game?”

  “Ever hear of ‘Three Items from Wal-Mart’?”

  He shakes his head. “How does it work?”

  “You can only buy three items, and the goal is to freak out the cashier. The creepiest combination wins.”

  “What do we do about groceries?”

  “Well, since I don’t feel like shopping again tomorrow, let’s buy the groceries too, but save our three items for last.”

  Brett tilts his head to the side and gazes at me for a moment. His lips twitch into an amused smile.

  “I’m gonna creep the shit out of that cashier.”

  —

  We agree to meet at the front of the store in twenty minutes. Which items will he pick? A lot of people would be really unoriginal and buy condoms, lube, and some phallic object. I hope he’s more creative than that.

  I grab some steaks, corn on the cob, and salad greens. Now for the fun part: What three items should I choose?

  A creepy combo comes to mind, and I feel a burst of excitement. Will he think I’m weird, or just laugh? It occurs to me that this is a very good way to see if we have a similar sense of humor.

  I wander back to the checkouts, and see that Brett is already waiting for me. I notice once again his broad shoulders and impeccable posture. He turns his head to the side, displaying a full profile. My eyes trace over his square jaw and strong chin.

  Hmm…I can imagine myself running my tongue along his jawline.

  GAH! Friends zone, Sophie! Keep it in the friends zone!

  His expression appears serious and guarded. Is this the side of Brett that Samira told me about? As if he can feel my eyes boring into him, he starts looking around and finds me. The serious expression on his face melts into a cocky smile.

  A smile that says, “Oh, I’ve so got this.”

  “You look pleased with yourself,” I say. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Inside his basket are steaks, bell peppers, pineapple juice, and some jumbo shrimp.

  I snort with laughter and cover my mouth when I see his three items:

  Mousetraps, BBQ sauce, and a package of bamboo skewers.

  “That’s nasty,” I say.

  He jerks his chin at my grocery basket.

  “What’d you find, missy?”

  I show him the basket in my hand. His expression turns from curious to disgusted in about two seconds.

  “That’s messed up,” he chokes out. “What do you plan on doing with the breast pump?”

  In the basket, besides my groceries, are a breast pump, plastic cups, and a package of Oreos. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. I won’t need to do crunches for a week if I keep this up.

  “I’ll just return it unopened,” I say once I catch my breath. “Or give it away. There is an endless parade of baby showers at work, since the nurses are constantly getting pregnant. I’m starting to think they put something in the water.”

  He shoots me an assessing look, but then bursts out laughing.

  “You’re so weird,” he says.

  —

  “I can’t believe you won!” I whine in the parking lot.

  The cashier actually gagged when she encountered Brett’s rodent BBQ supplies. My three items barely received a cursory glance.

  “Stick with me kid, and you’ll learn a thing or two,” he says, nudging me in the ribs. He walks me to my car, and I stand there shuffling, fiddling with my keys.

  “So…see you tomorrow night, then?”

  “You bet. Good night, Soph.”

  Chapter 6

  Brown Sugar

  This is my last shift for a few days, and I’m looking fo
rward to some time off. When I have a free moment, I pop in on Larry and Lorna. They’re watching an old western on TV, and don’t notice me right away.

  “Hi there,” I say quietly.

  “How’s my favorite nurse?” booms Larry.

  “I bet he says that to everyone.”

  “He’s always been such a flirt,” Lorna replies, smirking.

  “I’m good, Larry,” I say. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Like shit, kiddo. But, watching ol’ Duke up there sure puts me in a better mood.” His gravelly voice sounds like it would really suit a western movie.

  I glance at the TV, and see John Wayne sauntering across the screen.

  “He’d watch westerns all day if he could. And hockey,” Lorna says, shaking her head.

  I note that his morphine drip is almost empty.

  “How’s the pain today, Larry? How would you rate it on a scale of one to ten?”

  He scrunches his nose up and raises his hands in an evaluating gesture.

  “Meh, it’s about a three or four, I guess.”

  That’s way better than it has been. Larry’s pain was really hard to control earlier this week, but the docs finally prescribed a sliding scale for him, so we can adjust the dose as needed.

  “It looks like your morphine is about to run out, so I’ll go fill another bag for you.”

  “What’s that stuff made out of, anyway?” Larry asks.

  “Opium,” I say, while taking his pulse. I hold on a few seconds longer so I can count his breaths. Sometimes toward the end, people begin to breathe really quickly, and often feel short of breath. Morphine slows their breathing rate down, and helps them relax. We just need to make sure that they don’t slow down too much.

  “Opium, huh. Hear that, Lorna? I’ve been kicking the gong around, and I didn’t even know it!”

  “Be right back,” I say.

  While I’m in the med room, the charge nurse approaches me.

  “You work occasionally in ER, right?

  “Yeah, I do. What’s up?”

  “They’re completely screwed. They’re short-staffed, and up to their eyeballs in blood and broken bones. A car crash or something. They asked if we had any staff we could send down to help.”

  “Sure, I’ll go. Just let me hang this morphine first.”

  Before I leave, I peek in on all my patients, transfer their care to another nurse, and finish charting. Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in our hospital’s stressed emergency room.

  The place is a disaster, with people crying everywhere and harried nurses scrambling around. What did I sign myself up for?

  “Oh thank God!” yells out Margo, the ER’s charge nurse, when she sees me.

  “Looks terrible down here.”

  “You have no idea. There was a massive car accident on the QE2.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not totally sure, but it sounds like someone had a seizure while driving on the highway. At least a ten-car pileup.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Half of the people were sent to one hospital and the other half were sent here. Give me a minute and I’ll figure out where to put you.”

  My first job is to assess a twenty-six-year-old male who was a passenger in one of the vehicles in the pileup. I locate his bed, draw back the curtain, sit down in a chair beside him, and look up.

  And wish I hadn’t.

  In front of me is an attractive young man with dark overgrown hair, olive skin, and long, lean limbs. Both arms are covered in full-sleeve tattoos, and when he looks up at me, I see incredibly beautiful pale green eyes.

  “Umm, just a second,” I say, my voice shaking.

  I stand and roughly drag the curtain closed. I can feel my body vibrating, and run into a near hallway. Pressing my back against the wall, I slowly slide down, holding my face in my hands. My heart is racing; my body feels hot and cold all over at the same time.

  Is my throat closing up? I have the sensation that I’m drowning. I rub my hands over my face and feel a cold sweat breaking out on my skin.

  Is this what a panic attack feels like?

  Don’t cry at work, don’t cry at work.

  Okay, Sophie, don’t freak out. What can you do about this?

  My mind races, looking for a solution. Anything but having to be around that young man again.

  I force my wobbly legs to walk over to the unit desk.

  “Margo, can I have another assignment?” I can feel my voice crack.

  “What for?”

  “I just don’t think I can do this.”

  Margo frowns. “I’ve got forty people waiting for triage, and any minute now the guy in bed one is going to code. Suck it up, princess.”

  Well, so much for that.

  Okay. Deep breaths. You can do this. Just try not to look at him.

  I walk back to my section of the ER and try to assume a confidence that I don’t feel.

  Opening the curtain for the second time, I feel a little more prepared about what my eyes are about to see. Maybe it was a trick of my imagination?

  Oh God…no, it wasn’t.

  He looks up at me with a faint smile, and tries to sit up.

  He looks so much like…

  I can’t do this, I just can’t do this.

  “Hello,” he says.

  Well, at least his voice is different. And his tattoos are different.

  “Hi, my name is Sophie,” I manage. “I’ll be taking care of you this afternoon.”

  “Travis,” he says, and gestures to shake my hand.

  I am so thankful he doesn’t have the same name.

  I’m sure I would’ve died on the spot.

  “So, Travis, can you tell me about what happened today?”

  “Yeah, me and my buddy were driving home from work, and out of nowhere the cars in front of us started going sideways—some were flipping over. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”

  His voice cracks and his shoulders tremble, and I wonder if he’s close to crying, or going into shock.

  “That must’ve been awful to see.”

  Travis nods his head, and stares at his lap.

  “Do you want a warm blanket to wrap around your shoulders?”

  “Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

  I return a few minutes later and hand him a blanket. The resemblance is uncanny. I can’t quite believe it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that this was…

  I manage to keep my emotions in check, so long as I don’t directly look at him. As soon as I make eye contact, I start to crumble.

  “Do you have pain anywhere?” I ask.

  “Yeah, around here,” he says, motioning to his ribs.

  He lifts up his shirt. Large purple splotches are already forming. I gently touch each side of his chest and rib cage, comparing how each side feels. His appearance affects me so much that I physically ache touching him. I’m certain that my heart is shattering into a million pieces, all over again. And are those tears in my eyes?

  “Are you okay?”

  “What? Oh…umm, yes. I’m just really sensitive. I hate seeing people in pain.”

  He regards me suspiciously for a moment.

  “How bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten? And are you having trouble breathing at all?”

  “Umm, I guess about an eight? And it hurts to take a deep breath. But otherwise, I’m breathing fine.”

  I consult his chart, looking for the doctor’s orders.

  An X-ray requisition, trauma blood panel, and prescription for pain meds.

  “Okay. I’ll get you something for pain, and then we’ll go for some X rays.”

  I smile pleasantly at him, walk away with an air of assurance (a total sham, of course, though I’m rather pleased with my acting skills), and go about my work.

  —

  That was the longest four hours of my life.

  The shift is over. I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot, staring blankly through the wind
shield.

  Travis ended up having two fractured ribs, but is otherwise healthy. He was one of the few who had minor injuries from the car crash today. A lot of people were much, much worse.

  I finally allow myself to think about my emotional collapse, or whatever that was. Am I still that fragile, five years after it all happened?

  I remember it every day, but I only think about it abstractly. Focusing too much on him just hurts too much. In fact, I haven’t properly thought about him in years.

  Even the good things, I’ve pushed to the back of my mind.

  But they’re always there, like quiet background music.

  Do I dare think about him?

  Six Years Ago…

  August 27, 2008

  It’s a bright, sunny day and Samira and I are walking around campus, getting a feel for where our classes will be.

  She is going to be a nurse. Not much of a surprise there—it’s all she’s ever wanted. I, however, am not exactly sure of who I am yet, or what I want.

  Thank God for general studies.

  Samira and I buy our books and lug them around in our massive backpacks.

  “I wish we would have done a trip to the bookstore last,” I complain.

  “Yeah, not the best idea I’ve ever had,” she admits. “But on the bright side, it means we’re getting a free workout. Just think about how ripped our arms will be after carrying these things around all year.”

  “I’ll buy luggage on wheels before I do that,” I say, laughing.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot five women standing in a row, wearing bright skirts and coin hip scarves. A crowd has gathered around them.

  As we approach the crowd, loud Middle Eastern music starts playing. The words and rhythms are hypnotic, and I find myself swaying to the music.

  It turns out that the group of women are part of a dance troupe, advertising their skills in hopes of enrolling more people in their class. Their strategy seems to be working. All around me, I hear women saying, “I wish I could move like that!” and men saying, “That’s hot.”

  The troupe leader starts beckoning to the crowd, asking for audience participation. Everyone suddenly seems shy, and she eventually notices me, still swaying to the music.

  Me? I don’t know any of the moves! How do they expect me to dance along with them?

  Ah, what the hell.