by Penny Wylder
Finally, once the introductions are complete, Russ shows me the ropes. It’s pretty simple, really. Take a tray, serve the food in front of you, and pass it down the line to the next server.
“Make sure to smile at everyone, make conversation as they come through,” he adds. “Sometimes this is the only place that these people get to see a friendly face or be treated like a human being.”
Something about the way his voice dips at the end of that sentence makes me eye him funnily. His expression has gone a little shaded, as if he’s remembering something. But before I can ask about it, a bell rings somewhere, the main doors open, and our “customers” flood inside.
We spend the rest of the lunch shift serving everyone who comes along the line. I follow Russ’s lead and smile at everyone, laugh, crack jokes. Not going to lie, for a volunteer gig, it’s a lot of fun, if a little worrying to see how grateful people are to be spoken to or smiled at.
By the end of the shift, my arms ache from lifting all the trays. My heart aches too, but it’s a good kind of ache. I feel full, happy. Like I made an actual difference, for once. Maybe it’s just a tiny one, but still.
Russ loops an arm around my waist and kisses my temple as our shift wraps up. “So?” he murmurs against my hair, “how did it feel? You wanted to help people…”
“It felt great,” I reply, tilting my face up to smile at him. It takes me by surprise when he leans down to kiss me, in full view of everyone around us, all the other volunteers, everyone eating nearby, on the other side of the lunch line. I pull back a little sooner than I’d like to, in spite of how hot and soft his lips feel against mine. “Um… should we do that here?” I ask, unable to help the catch of nerves in my voice.
Russ chuckles softly under his breath. “As if your father would ever be caught dead anywhere near a place like this,” he points out, and I can’t help but laugh softly, too.
He has a point.
The other volunteers have helped themselves to small portions, and are clustered near a table in the kitchen, chatting. Russ grabs a tray for me, one for himself, and pulls out chairs near the end of the table. A few people smile over at us, but they seem to sense that it’s our first chance to be together in a while, so nobody moves closer or tries to strike up a conversation.
Which is good, because I have about a million things I want to talk to Russ about, now that we’re somewhere unsupervised. But the words all stick in my throat, get tangled up, until I finally just settle on asking. “So… you’ve been doing this for a while?”
“Every day I have off, ever since I started at the hospital.”
My eyebrows shoot upward, so high they nearly touch my hairline. “But… I’ve never heard you mention it. You and Dad have been friends for so long. How does he not know?”
“Because I never felt comfortable telling him. I figured if I mentioned it, he would start to ask why I do it, and I couldn’t have that.” Russ catches my eye, his gaze boring into me, through me. I feel like he can see straight through my shell and into my core, whenever he does that.
It makes me both nervous and excited, all at once. It also makes me want to do the same thing. Get through his outer shell, see the real Russ underneath. So I clear my throat gently. “Why do you do it?” I ask, my voice pitched low.
“Back when I was in med school with your father, I couldn’t afford a full-time job on top of my classes. I had a part-time gig, but it wasn’t enough to make rent, even in the crappy kind of multi-room dorms that your father was living in at the time. He had a little help from his parents to get on his feet—not a lot, mind you, but enough to make those rent payments. I didn’t.” Russ runs a hand through his hair, and the silver speckles in it catch the light, reflecting in the fluorescents in a way that makes me want to reach out and follow his lead. Trail my fingers through his dark, fine hair, and see how soft it feels today.
But I curl my hands around each other instead, to resist. Not while he’s telling me this. I want to hear the whole story, first.
“Anyway, I eventually got a housing grant from the department, after I came out top in the class. But before then…” He clears his throat. “Well, there were a couple of months where I had to rough it.”
My eyes go wide. I take another slow glance around the shelter, the realization slowly dawning on me. “You mean…”
He bows his head. “I was homeless for a little while, yes. It was the hardest period in my life, honestly.” His voice goes rough, and I can’t hold myself back anymore.
I reach out and gently cup his cheek. He turns to face me again, as I draw him toward me. I kiss him softly, my lips soft against his, the kiss slow and gentle. When I draw back, he’s smiling at me, ever so slightly.
“That’s not the usual reaction I get to this story,” he says quietly, and I laugh.
“Sorry. I just… I hate to think of you like that.” I bite my lower lip, and, unable to resist, I glance around the shelter at the others gathered here. How many of them have similar stories? How many just needed a little help to get on their feet again, and instead wound up here? “And my father didn’t help you back then? I thought you two were close.”
“He didn’t know,” Russ says, a little more harshly than he maybe intended.
My eyebrows rise.
“It was my own fault. I didn’t want to tell him.”
“Why not?” I ask softly.
“I was too proud to admit it. I always looked up to your father. And he has such strong opinions about who should get what kind of help. He’d made comments in the past, ones I never really thought too much about. Comments about how the homeless just needed to work harder and they could get back on their own two feet without help.”
My cheeks flare red. “That does sound like him,” I mumble. “I’m so sorry.”
Russ shakes his head. “Don’t be. There were other people who helped me out—though nobody I knew from my regular life. I was too proud to admit to anyone what was going on. Not the teachers at school, not my friends, not even my best friend, your dad… But shelters like these, where I was able to get a meal, get my feet back under myself? They were a godsend. At the time, I swore that once I was back in a position to do so, I’d help out. Give back the same way people paid things forward to me.” He gestures behind himself at the kitchen. “So, now I volunteer here every spare chance I get.”
My heart feels so full it could burst. “Russ…” I rest a hand on his on the table. He turns his palm around to lace his fingers through mine.
“Don’t be too impressed.” He laughs. “I also enjoy it here. It’s fun.”
“I agree.” I smile. “It feels good to help others. It makes you feel like your life has meaning, like you’re doing something important, right?”
“Exactly.” His eyes dance with amusement when they meet mine.
The words just slip out of me. I can’t help it anymore. “That’s what I want to do. But not here at home. I want to join Doctors Without Borders. Go to the places where medical help is needed the most, and just… do what I spent all those years in school learning how to do. Save lives.”
He squeezes my hand gently in his. “So why haven’t you applied yet?” He tilts his head and eyes me curiously.
Like it’s that easy. Like achieving my dreams is that simple. “I… can’t. Dad won’t let me.”
But Russ is already shaking his head. “That’s an excuse, Maggie.”
“No, it isn’t,” I protest. “Dad paid for my nursing school. He says I need to earn back enough money to pay him back for it, by working at his hospital, where he wants me. Otherwise he’ll blacklist me in the rest of the industry.”
“You think he could really do that?” Russ lifts an eyebrow. “He has pull around the medical establishment, sure, but enough to get you blackballed from every single establishment or company you might possibly try to work for, anywhere in the world?” Russ shakes his head. “Don’t give your father that much credit, Maggie.”
“What abou
t the school bills, though?”
“If he already paid them, the bill collectors can’t come after you for it. You could offer to pay him back, set up an agreement. If he hasn’t already paid them off, then you could just assume control of the payments yourself. It would be hard to do, on a starting salary, I know, but—”
“Worth it,” I interrupt. “Yeah. I guess I could…”
He squeezes my hand again, and tugs on my arm gently until I finally look up at him. “So?” he asks, his voice softer now.
“So what?” My eyes track his. Drop to his lips. To his mouth, just inches away from mine. It’s hard to stay focused on practical things like career discussions when Russ is right in front of me. Staring at me like this. In a way that makes me suddenly wish we were alone, somewhere private. Not seated at a table with half a dozen witnesses, probably wondering who this young thing Russ brought in is.
My cheeks flush at the thought, and I drive it away. Not the time to worry about that.
“So, what’s the real excuse?” Russ’s grin looks almost sly now. “Besides your father. What’s the real reason you haven’t pursued your dreams?”
I open my mouth. Close it again. Then I press my lips together tightly, thinking. He’s right. There are ways around my father’s control. Big, dangerous steps that I could take. But they scare me. Why do they scare me?
“Because I might fail,” I murmur. “It’s such a big risk. Taking on that debt, and going out there into the world with no backup plan. No family at home to fall back on. Going somewhere I’ve never been, with people I don’t know yet… It’s terrifying.”
“It is a huge risk.” He nods, never letting go of my hand. Never taking his eyes from mine. “That’s what makes it worth it, Maggie. The risk motivates you to reach for higher things than you might have otherwise. Yes, there’s farther to fall if you take that leap… but you’ll never learn to fly if you don’t.”
With that, he squeezes my hand one last time and peels away from the table. I look up with a start to realize that half an hour has passed. The other volunteers have started to clean up already. One of the women tosses me an apron, along with an approving wink.
My cheeks flush, but she senses my embarrassment and leans in quickly. “Don’t worry, we all approve,” she murmurs. “We’ve been wanting Russ to find someone as nice as him for years.”
“I don’t know if I’m that nice,” I admit with a smile, as I watch him across the other side of the kitchen, hauling some of the larger pans to be washed out in the sinks. But she just pats me on the back, undeterred.
“He cares about you,” she says. “A lot. And I can see you feel the same way about him. You two will make it work. Love always finds a way.”
Love? I almost blurt. But the woman’s already moving on, scurrying across the room to start to work on another set of dishes that need washed. My face feels like it could start a small forest fire at this point, it’s so bright red. Still, I can’t help but cast another glance in Russ’s direction, my heart hammering in my chest.
Love. Fuck. Could it really be? But I don’t remember the last time I felt this way about a guy. I don’t think I ever have. And the fact that Russ brought me here, today, and showed me this side of his life, after years of keeping it hidden from my father, and from all of his other friends… This has to mean something.
Could this be more than just a fling? I wonder. Could I actually love him?
And if so… am I completely fucked?
8
You’re off tonight, right? Russ’s text appears in my phone while I’m in Dad’s car, listening to Dad rant about some obscure argument going on right now between one board member and another. Much as Dad does drive me crazy, I don’t envy his job. He’s constantly dealing with people like that, who have more money than common sense, as he likes to complain. From what I’ve paid attention to of the current rant, I do have to agree that it sounds ridiculous.
Mostly, though, I just want to get home so I can reply to Russ’s text. My heart skips a beat as I side-eye Dad, wondering if I can get away with texting while he’s talking. I slide my phone out from where I’ve tucked it under my thigh and run my thumb over the unlock button. I’m just pulling open Russ’s text thread when Dad shoots me a pointed look.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course.” I shove my phone back under my leg. “Rich people having dumb arguments that will affect real people’s lives down the line. As usual.”
Dad snorts. But he doesn’t disagree, which is at least a start. “I haven’t heard any complaints about you lately,” he says after a while, musingly.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Did you have many before?” I can’t resist asking.
“Only from your coworkers, complaints that your schedule was too light, like you told me.”
My face flushes. People actually officially complained about that, too? I knew they were annoyed at me, but damn. I shift in my seat and glare out my window. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”
Dad just grunts noncommittally under his breath. Figures. He’s big on me having to take blame for all of my actions, but god forbid anyone ask him to do the same. After a few more lane changes, Dad changes the subject, talking about some of the new hires in the surgical wing. Still, it makes me wonder.
Is he finally thinking about reinstating me fully? He’s given me a few more patients along the way, but I’d need to almost double my rounds to have a full roster. At the moment, the small workload has made it easy for me to sneak away and visit Russ more often, true. But I’d rather just be allowed to do my actual job here, since Dad is obsessed with making sure I stay in this city and in this position anyway.
Russ’s words echo in my mind, not for the first time since he said them. What’s the real reason you haven’t pursued your dreams? He’s right. Dad’s disapproval is an excuse. Indebted to him or not, I am a grown ass adult. I can do what I want, with or without his say-so.
When am I going to just bite the bullet and do what I’ve been longing to for years? There will be consequences. Blowback. But still…
I swallow around a lump in my throat and mumble something in response to Dad’s complaints. All the while, I fix my gaze out the window, focused on the road ahead. On home.
I’m not going to change my whole life today. If I’m going to do this, I need a plan in place. I need to have my ducks in order and know exactly how I’m going to tackle the issue.
In the meantime, there’s a whole other terrible idea waiting for me on the other end of that text message. I’ve seen Russ a couple times since the soup kitchen day, but just for quickies here and there—a hot and dirty make out session in the supply closet before someone walked way too close and startled us into leaving before we could finish. Then our meetup in the on call room late last night, where Russ pinned me against the wall and knelt to go down on me, practically almost before I’d even shut the door behind us.
But we haven’t had any quality time since the soup kitchen. We haven’t had a chance to actually talk, and my whole body is craving that. The opportunity to be near him. To touch him without worrying someone will interrupt in another instant. To savor our time together instead of hurrying through it.
By the time Dad finally pulls into the driveway at home, it feels like my entire body is itching with anticipation. I practically fly out of the door the second Dad parks, so quickly that he actually calls after me. “Where’s the fire?”
“Forgot I’m supposed to meet a friend later,” I call back, already halfway up the front steps into the house. Once in my bedroom, safely hidden from prying eyes, I open my texts again. Yes, I’m free tonight. What did you have in mind?
Meet me here? Russ replies almost instantly—of course, since he doesn’t need to sneak around and hide from parental figures in order to text me. Along with his text, he sends a link to a google map page.
Another soup kitchen? I reply, with a winking emoji to show him I’m up for it. Because w
e did have fun last time, and Russ was right. Helping other people helped me, too.
Not quite, he says, however, an instant later. Wear that little black dress you wore at the friendsgiving party last year, he adds, which makes me full-body blush all the way from head to toe. I know exactly which dress he means, but this is a reminder that Russ was noticing me, remembering things like the dresses I wore, for just as long as I’d been thinking about him.
If I shut my eyes, I can still picture what he wore that night. My parents threw their annual friendsgiving party, the same way they did every year, a week before Thanksgiving itself. Russ showed up in a three piece suit, all black, the kind of formalwear that took my breath away on anyone even remotely cute, let alone an older man as hot as Russ. My mom had even teased him for taking the party so seriously—though he was quick to point out (correctly) that the invitation did mention formal clothing.
I wonder if he’ll be going that level of dressed up for wherever this direction link leads us. I reply to let him know I’ll see him soon, and then I get to work. I do still have that little black dress, but I’ve acquired an even cuter one, recently, from a cute vintage shop by my old apartment downtown. It’s simple yet elegant, an A-line dress with a slightly flared hem, and a scoop-neck top. I pair it with sparkling high heels—not actually high, but just a few inches to give my calves the definition heels always add. They’re still low enough I can walk in them, which is the main thing in this city.
To top it off, I do my hair half up, half down, fluffing it out to make the waves curl with a little more definition. I keep my makeup simple, except for some ruby red lipstick. Red lips are great, because they mask anything else that might be going on with your face. Everyone is too busy staring at the cute lips to notice if you have a blemish on the side of your nose or anything.