Can't Always Get What You Want

by Chelsey Krause

  “What don’t you get?” Nita asks.

  “The story was about animals. But then Pi said that there weren’t any animals, but people. Which is it?”

  “That’s the point, Dad,” Samira replies. “It’s up to you to decide which made the better story.”

  Ravi’s dark eyebrows pinch together.

  “Well, does that mean that Pi was Richard Parker? Was there no tiger on the boat? And what about the meerkat island?” He rises and shakes his head. “What a stupid movie.”

  He leaves the room, mumbling to himself about watching wrestling in the den.

  “Do you have any plans for Canada Day?” Samira asks as I gather my purse and shoes.

  “No. That’s next weekend, right?”

  “Yeah. Nar and I were thinking about going out to a bar, having a few drinks, and then watching the fireworks in the river valley. You and Brett should come along.”

  “Fireworks? Drinking? Sounds like a great combo. I’ll ask Brett what he’s doing, but I’m sure he’ll join us.”

  “Trust me, he’ll be there,” Samira says, giving me a secret smile. “He looks at you like a fat kid looks at cake.”

  I climb into my car and check my phone before I take off. There’s a text from Brett.

  How’s your day going?

  Aww, what a sweetheart. When did he send this…at 10:50 A.M.? I feel kind of guilty. I haven’t talked with him at all today. Maybe I can work this to my advantage. Yes. I am mysterious, cool, and way too busy with my glamorous life to notice texts from gorgeous hotties.

  Yes. That is me.

  Great, thanks! And yours?

  I start up my car, and hear my phone buzz. He always seems to text back right away. Is he the one waiting by the phone, while I’m the typical “dick” not calling him?

  How can it be great if I’m not there?

  Oh. My. Gosh. Is he text-flirting? What sort of witty response can I send back? Something playful and humorous, something that lets him think I have a quick mind.

  My mind draws a blank.

  Obviously, it would be much better if you were keeping me company ;) Want to hang out tonight?

  There. The wink smiley face is about as flirty as I can get tonight.

  Oh crap, did that sound like a booty call? Erm, booty text?

  On the drive home, my phone buzzes again. It takes all my willpower to not pull over to the side of the road and check it. As soon as I am parked in my driveway, I fish out my phone.

  Was that a booty text?

  I knew it, I knew it!

  If so, I’m incredibly flattered (and more than a little tempted). Unfortunately, I can’t. Big day tomorrow with our new contract. This summer is going to be insane. Heading to bed soon. I’ll dream of you.

  He’ll dream of me?

  Pleasant dreams, I hope.

  Of course they will be. You’ll be in them.

  Oh! I’d better ask him about next weekend.

  Do you have any plans for Canada Day? Sam and Narayan have invited us to join them for drinks and fireworks.

  Sure. Count me in. Goodnight, beautiful. xx

  Brett’s words envelop me like a warm blanket as I climb into bed. I drift off with a smile on my face, and, for the first time in a week, sleep soundly.

  Chapter 11

  Honky Tonk Women

  I just tried to unlock my front door with my car remote.

  I think I may need a nap.

  Stupid understaffed night shifts. This is a whole new level of fatigue.

  Hopefully I won’t nod off during the Canada Day celebrations today. I’ve been looking forward to hanging out with my friends all week. Well, especially with Brett. He and Narayan have been really busy with their new contract. Save for a few texts, we haven’t hung out at all.

  That means that I need to dress nicely tonight (which loosely translates as “hot”). Normally, I quite like dressing up. Wearing scrubs all the time means I don’t often get the opportunity. It is one of the many reasons I hate my job. It’s hard to be a fashionista when you are required to wear a single color from head to toe (à la an Easter egg), or sport the latest SpongeBob print.

  Oops. What? No. I love my job, I love my job.

  Right. Now what do I wear tonight to knock his socks off?

  Okay, let’s see. The little black dress makes my boobs look great, but perhaps it’s a bit formal. Maybe I should just wrap the Canadian flag around me, toga style? That ought to get his motor running. On second thought, no. Patriotism shouldn’t be slutty.

  I flip through the contents of my wardrobe, becoming frustrated. If only my Pinterest wardrobe were real.

  A light, long-sleeved denim shirt catches my attention. I push up the sleeves, pair it with a cream-colored lace skirt, and top it off with leather sandals and a braided leather belt. Country chic. Yes. This will do. Fun, flirty, and it shows off my killer legs. Eat your heart out, Brett.

  We’re meeting downtown for drinks and dinner first. The sun is oppressively hot, and I am starting to regret my wardrobe choice a teeny, tiny bit. My look, which originally was cute, country chic, is now sweaty, city freak. My hair is hanging limply, my thighs are starting to rub together (eww), and despite using antiperspirant, I’m paranoid that sweat circles will show under my arms.

  Thankfully, the bar is air-conditioned. Casting all thoughts of sweaty legs and armpits aside, I allow my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. I see my friends sitting on the left-hand side of the room, close to the stage. Posters announcing “Karaoke To-nite!” are taped to every available inch of wall space.

  Samira and Narayan are cuddled up together on the side closest to the wall, while Brett is on the right, reclined with an easy, confident casualness that I’d thought only Dolce & Gabbana models possessed.

  Damn, has he always been this handsome? A week without seeing him has made me forget a little. Muscular, blond, and that lovely square jawline and cleft chin. Mmm.

  “Hey, you,” I say, leaning down to give him a friends hug. We haven’t “officially” said we’re anything other than friends, so I’m trying to play it cool. “Long time no see.”

  He grins and takes a subtly appreciative glance at my tanned legs.

  Country chic: 1.

  Sweaty freak: 0.

  Perhaps I look better than I thought? Either that, or he’s just that into me. Or, after a two-year dating sabbatical, he’s getting desperate and willing to look past limp hair and a few pit stains.

  He pulls my chair out for me, and I mentally make a note to send his parents a thank-you card for raising their son so well. A pitcher of beer takes center stage on our table.

  He casts a furtive glance my way, and hesitates to fill the empty glass in front of me. What’s he waiting for? Oh no, he’s probably thinking about my foolish wine bender last week. I cringe when I recall him asking Samira if I drank like that often.

  “Don’t look so worried, last week was just a one-time thing,” I say, laughing.

  Oh yeah? What if you run into Aaron’s look-alike again?

  Oh shut up, snarky inner voice.

  “I don’t know, you were a rather charming drunk,” he says.

  We settle into conversation about our week. Narayan and Brett have been predictably busy with their new contract. A whirl of doing business deals, drafting blueprints, and hiring more staff.

  Yeech. On days I wonder if nursing is “my thing,” I should remember that it could be worse. I could be a boss somewhere, or planning entire communities from scratch.

  Not for all the shoes in Italy, thank you very much.

  At one point, conversation halts. Samira is only too eager to jump in.

  “Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for…” she exclaims, while drumming the tabletop. I know where she’s going, so I join in.

  “…Shriek of the Week!”

  Narayan covers his eyes with his hand.

  “Shriek of the Week?” Brett asks.

  “It’s something Sam and I do,” I say. “W
e started it in high school, where we’d share the strangest thing that happened to us that week. The goal is to make your friend shriek in horror or laughter. You’re going for the best reaction possible. The only rule is that the story can’t be made up, it has to be real.”

  Samira points at me. “You go first.”

  I’m mentally scanning the events of the past week, when Brett speaks.

  “What’s your problem, Nar? Don’t you like this game?” he teases, nodding in Narayan’s direction. Narayan raises his head from his hand.

  “Oh, just you wait. The stories have gotten much worse since they became nurses.”

  “Okay, I’ve got one,” I say. “So I’m at work, checking on my patients before I go home for the night. The hallway lights had been dimmed, so I couldn’t see very well.”

  I pause and look around the table. Everyone is listening intently.

  “I was checking on my last patient, when I saw that he was moving around in bed quite a bit. I asked if he was okay, and he stopped moving. I assumed that perhaps he was just repositioning himself in bed, and so I went to leave. I said, ‘Good night,’ and that’s when I heard it, like wet balloons rubbing together.”

  Everyone looks puzzled.

  “Naturally, I was curious and starting to get a little weirded out, so I turned the light on. And hanging out of his mouth was…”

  I pause for effect.

  “…his catheter.”

  Samira lets out a shriek. Hurrah! Victory is mine!

  “He’d ripped it out, and was chewing on it. The balloon that’s supposed to hold the catheter in place was still in his bladder, so we had to send him for surgery to remove it. There was some blood on the bedsheets, and you could see a small bit of tube coming out of his penis.”

  I shoot a triumphant look at my comrades. “And that is my Shriek of the Week.”

  Brett looks more horrified than curious. Was that too weird of a story to tell over drinks? Oh well, too late now. I suppose if he’s going to like me for me, then I’d better act like myself.

  “Okay, okay, that was pretty shriek-worthy. But, I’ve got an even worse one!” Samira brags.

  Narayan scrunches up his nose, as if he can already tell what’s coming.

  “We have a little boy on our unit with a new colostomy. He’s three years old, and the sweetest little guy you’ve ever seen. Anyway, since he’s going home this week, we’d been teaching his parents how to change the wafer, clean the stoma, empty the collection bags, and so on.”

  Samira pauses, while Narayan cringes.

  “Yesterday, I went in to feed him lunch, and noticed the air smelled a bit, umm, ripe,” she says, trying not to laugh. “He looked a little suspicious, lying there in bed with the sheet up near his neck. I drew back the sheet and saw that he’d taken his ostomy clip off. He must have been watching me teach his parents how to do that. He innocently looked up at me and said, ‘Look! Play-Doh!’ ”

  “Eww!” I shriek, while grimacing. “Okay, you win that round.”

  “Can anyone play?” Brett asks.

  “Can you top Play-Doh poop?” Samira mocks.

  “I caught an employee on his phone at work.”

  Samira and I stare at him. “Well, that’s not too bad.”

  “He was watching clown porn.”

  There’s an awkward moment of silence before Samira and I shriek loud enough to attract the attention of the entire bar.

  “I think Brett wins this round,” I say, still giggling over the idea of clown porn. “That is, unless you want to share anything, Narayan?”

  He silently shakes his head, and frowns at us with mock scorn. It’s not very effective, though. He’s half smiling, which leads me to believe that despite his protests, he actually likes our weird antics.

  “That’s enough beer for me,” I say, standing up. “I’m going to get some water from the bar. Do you want me to get you anything?” I ask the entire table.

  Samira and Narayan say no, but Brett stands up beside me. “I’ll come with you.”

  We head toward the bar together, standing quite close. Our arms and hands brush with gentle contact every so often. That glass of water is sounding better and better. I need to cool off.

  Flagging down the nearest bartender, I ask for a pitcher of water. It’s very busy because of Canada Day, so it takes him a minute to fully turn his attention to me. Once I catch his eye, he slips into a salacious grin.

  “Can I get a pitcher of water, please?” I ask.

  “You want water? We’re having a wet T-shirt contest later. Why don’t you stick around for that, and I’ll give you your water then?” he says loudly.

  The bartender winks, and sways a bit on his feet.

  “Mmm. That little white tank top you’ve got on under your shirt will be just fine.”

  I can feel Brett radiating tension beside me.

  “I’ll pass. Just get me my water, and I’ll be on my way,” I say.

  He shrugs and mumbles something that sounds like, “Bitch.”

  Brett leans across the bar. “Excuse me?”

  The bartender raises his hands. “Take it easy. I’m just having a little fun,” he slurs.

  Brett’s arms are crossed, and an annoyed scowl is distorting his normally cheerful face.

  Is he jealous? Or just looking out for a friend? It’s hard to tell.

  Seconds later, we have a pitcher of ice water in front of us. Brett spits out a cursory thank you, and escorts me and our water back to the table.

  “I can take care of myself, you know,” I tease, and flex my pitiful excuse of a biceps.

  The frown melts from his face. “I bet you can.”

  We’ve barely sat down when someone on stage announces that it’s time for the karaoke night to begin.

  Samira slams the rest of her beer, and announces that we “absolutely need” to sing a duet.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say.

  Samira forces out her lower lip. “Please…”

  I cross my arms and smirk at her. “On one condition.”

  She raises her hopeful brown eyes to mine.

  “I get to choose the song.”

  Her beaming smile falters, but she recovers quickly. “Deal. But I get to choose where we go for supper.”

  “Fine.”

  We walk up together, with Brett and Narayan cheering us on from our table. I select the song, and take my place beside Samira. The bright lights and packed bar are making me feel really warm. Threats of unwelcome sweat stains intrude upon my thoughts.

  “You so owe me,” I hiss under my breath.

  The music to “Summer Nights” from Grease comes over the speakers.

  “No!” Samira cries.

  Ignoring her protests, I claim a microphone.

  “As punishment for making me come up here, you have to sing Danny’s lyrics.”

  Samira keeps grumbling, and I remind her that I didn’t want to sing her usual pick, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” The crowd tends to get a little pissy when a song lasts for eight minutes.

  Samira is trying to sing deep like a boy, and is failing miserably. As I sing, I glance out at the crowd and immediately lock eyes with Brett. He’s smiling widely. I have no idea what Narayan is doing. I can’t take my eyes off a certain pair of blue ones.

  We finish the song to a loud round of applause and cheering.

  “Good job, ladies,” Narayan praises us, rewarding Samira with a kiss on the lips. “You have such a lovely voice, Sammy. Even if you did sound like a guy who was kicked in the nads.” He keeps on kissing her, cooing into her ear. They’re so lovey-dovey, sometimes it’s embarrassing.

  I look away in a feeble attempt to give them privacy, and notice Brett staring at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Just thinking,” he says, and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

  We’ve been sitting at our table, enjoying the good, the bad, and the ugly karaoke singers, when Samira announces that she’s hungry. “I v
ote for Julio’s Barrio. It’s not too far down the street.”

  I nod, and get up to leave. Brett gently touches my shoulder.

  “Just a minute,” he says. He flashes me a smile and walks over to the stage.

  “What is he doing?!” Narayan chokes out.

  I shrug. “This isn’t normal behavior for him, then?”

  “Definitely not. Brett normally doesn’t like drawing attention to himself.”

  We all wait. And then the music starts. Samira and I strain our ears trying to decipher the first few notes.

  Samira looks at me in surprised alarm. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Is that an ABBA song?” Narayan yells at the stage.

  Brett covers the microphone and yells back, “Only a real man can sing ABBA.” He smiles, and looks pointedly at me.

  Why does that twig my memory for some reason? Oh! Our coffee date! I’d said that only real men can sing ABBA without its threatening their masculinity. It was a completely flippant comment, meant to be funny. I had no idea he’d take it so seriously.

  Brett hollers out the lyrics, strutting around the stage, really hamming it up. The crowd is nicely drunk at this point, and cheer for their favorite new star.

  Brett manages to get through half the song before a rush of self-consciousness takes over. He abruptly stops singing, takes a quick bow to his adoring public, and walks back to our table.

  “Supper time?” he asks. His face is calm and confident, giving nothing away. We follow him out of the restaurant.

  “That is the gayest song you could have picked,” Narayan says, shaking his head.

  “Wrong. The gayest song I could have picked was ‘It’s Raining Men.’ Or ‘Dancing Queen,’ ” Brett counters, while laughing.

  “Well, I think he was brilliant!” Samira says.

  “Thanks, Sammy. What’d you think, Soph?”

  I look at him. A sweet, shy smile plays on his lips, and his eyes are filled with some intangible emotion.

  “Umm,” I stammer, working around my mouth, which has suddenly gone dry. “I think you managed to make Fernando very manly.”

  He looks thoroughly pleased, and slips his hand into mine.

  We’re holding hands.

  Am I allowed to be excited about this? I’m twenty-four years old. Surely this small gesture of affection shouldn’t send my head into a free fall.