Reformation: A Salvation Society Novel

by Chelle Sloan

  “I always volunteer on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I don’t have any family around here, and just because it’s a holiday, this place doesn’t close down. So I come in and do whatever needs to be done.”

  “You don’t do anything for Christmas?” I know it’s a personal question. I can’t help it. I suddenly want to know everything about this woman.

  She shakes her head. “My mom lives in Alabama, and well, I don’t go back there. Friends I teach with always invite me over to their houses on Christmas, but I always feel awkward going. I’d much rather be volunteering. It’s what I do every other day of the week, why not on a holiday?”

  “Every other day of the week? As in, you volunteer every day?” I don’t know if it’s my growing fatigue or the medication, but I couldn’t have heard her right. Who volunteers every day of the week?

  She nods. “That’s right. I’m involved with a lot of nonprofits and local programs. There’s the drug counseling center, the women’s shelter, and the Red Cross. I run the school’s blood drives. Oh, and I just started at the food bank. And if a student needs my help, I stay after school and tutor.”

  “That’s on top of your full-time job?” Charlie was right. This woman is a saint. “Aren’t you tired? I’m tired just listening to you talk about it.”

  “You can’t be tired if you’re always moving.”

  At that moment, my body betrays me, letting out a yawn that I swear lasts for twenty seconds.

  “You need to go to sleep,” she says, standing up to make her exit.

  I yawn again, wishing she could stay and talk to me all night, though I know she can’t. But before she leaves, there is something I need to tell her.

  “Thank you.”

  She gives me a confused look. “For what?”

  “For making my night better.”

  My words earn me a shy smile.

  “Good night, Garrett. And Merry Christmas.”

  “Good night, Paige. Merry Christmas.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Garrett

  One. More. Day.

  I’m on night eight of hospital life. I probably would have been out of here sooner if not for the holiday, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Jesse says I should be released tomorrow, but I’ve reached the point where I’m convinced I’ll be here forever.

  Doctors really are the worst patients.

  Mom and Mark have been here every day like clockwork. Annika has not. Mom quit asking about her after she realized she didn’t come to visit on Christmas Day. Though, she was skeptical and asked a few non-discreet questions when she saw a Christmas card next to an American flag on my bedside table that hadn’t been there before.

  I laugh as I pick up the miniature flag, courtesy of Paige. She brought it to me on Christmas morning after her shift, and just like the night before, our laughs couldn’t be contained. Except for this time, we definitely woke up Boomer. We talked for hours about everything and nothing. It was the perfect Christmas present.

  “You going to tell me what that flag means?” Boomer asks, noticing me gently waving it back and forth.

  “What fun would that be? You already see my ass when I go to the bathroom. We have to keep some mystery in this relationship.”

  “Yes, I do. And if I haven’t said it before, it’s quite the nice ass.”

  “Should I warn your wife you’ve been checking me out?”

  “Go for it. I’d love to hear that conversation.”

  I could have done a hell of a lot worse in terms of hospital roommates. We have bonded in the last twenty-four hours. Boomer is a few years younger than me, is also a runner despite a congenital heart defect that goes back to his childhood, and we both have a weakness for a good burger. His real name is Robert and I’ve learned that the only people who call him that are his doctors and his wife.

  “Did I hear you are getting out of here soon?” Boomer asks, turning as best as he can to face me.

  “Hopefully tomorrow. No offense. I’m tired of waking up next to you every day.”

  “None taken. You’re not exactly a treat to wake up to either.”

  “What about my nice ass?”

  “What about it?” Boomer’s wife, Kelly, asks as she walks into our room.

  “Your husband thinks I have a nice ass. I don’t know. He might be having inappropriate thoughts toward me. You should be worried.”

  She laughs before leaning in to give a kiss to her husband. “That’s fine. You can be his brofriend.”

  “Brofriend? What the fuck is that?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  She laughs, taking a seat between our beds. “It’s like a man crush, only you are in a man relationship. I have one with one of my female distributors. We go get pedicures every month, I wish I had her boobs, and she loves my taste in clothes. So, if you two could start something up, it would make me feel less guilty for having someone on the side.”

  Boomer reaches for her hand. “If it makes you feel any better, I love your boobs.”

  Kelly laughs, swatting his hand away. “Of course, you do. They are the only ones you’ve ever seen.”

  The easiness of their relationship is baffling, and frankly, I’m jealous of it. I found out that not only are they ridiculously in love, they were also high school sweethearts after years of claiming they were just friends.

  What would it be like to have a marriage like that—where you not only love the person, but that person is clearly your best friend? The ease these two have with each other is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  That’s not entirely true. I see it with Mark and Charlie and the men he served with and now works with at Cole Security. Until I met Boomer and Kelly, I thought it must have been a SEAL thing.

  Apparently, it’s not.

  I turn my tablet on, letting their conversation about what his doctors said and what his latest prognosis is fade into the background. It’s been years since I’ve read a book for pleasure. If I really thought about it, the last book I read was likely Lord of the Rings when I was twelve.

  I used to love to read. More times than not, my head was buried in a book as a kid, which Mark would tease me about ruthlessly. I didn’t care. Science fiction, mystery, fantasy, it didn’t matter. I loved them all. Yes, I was a bit of a nerd.

  That was until I turned thirteen. And no, it wasn’t because I started noticing girls or the other things that happen to boys around that time. Even though I absolutely did. I broke my arm in an unfortunate accident that involved me, Mark, a tree, and a wayward remote control airplane. I was in a cast for almost three months.

  To me, that was about two months too long. It was then that I ditched the science fiction for every health and medical book I could find. I was determined to invent a way to heal bones faster, feeling that it was my duty to prevent any other child from having to suffer the torture I was going through. A cast in the middle of summer will do that to a kid.

  That summer was when I decided I wanted to become an orthopedic surgeon. Every medical book I read fascinated me more than the last one. Eventually, I didn’t just want to heal bones faster; I was going to find new ways for athletes to recover after ACL surgeries. Shoulder surgeries were going to be walks in the park. I was going to rewrite the medical journals.

  When I arrived at Harvard, I thought I had made it. That was until I didn’t get picked for a project I desperately wanted. Despite my 4.0, apparently I didn’t know the right people or have the right last name. The student who was picked had money, status, and his father was an alumnus. He also barely came to class, and I know for a fact he slept with every female medical student so they would do his homework.

  I was livid. I worked my ass off, and for what? For some guy who had the right last name to get picked over me? I decided that if I couldn’t beat them, I would join them.

  And that’s what I did. I pledged the right fraternities. I started hanging out with the crowd that would put me on the lists. It was a small price to pay when it came t
o my career.

  Or so I thought. That was how I met Michelle. That decision is what put me on the road to where I am now: in a hospital bed at forty-two years old after a blood clot almost killed me, about to go through a second divorce, and realizing that I haven’t done anything I wanted to do with my life.

  I didn’t care about money or prestige when I first got to college. I wanted my name in medical journals because of inventive surgeries, not on a “who’s who” list of doctors under fifty because I flirted with the editor. Even the clinic wasn’t opened for the right reasons. It was a tax write-off. Plain and simple.

  I sit straight up in my bed as if I was struck by a bolt of lightning. And like I couldn’t stop it, the questions about everything come rolling through my head all at once.

  Who am I?

  What have I become?

  If I had died, what would my obituary have said? How many lies would have been written to make me sound not horrible?

  Who would have come to my funeral?

  Holy fuck. I don’t want this life.

  I frantically flip on my light, not caring that at some point it became the middle of the night. I have no clue when Kelly left, or when I dozed off. All I know is that if I don’t get all of these thoughts out of my head right now, I’m going to explode.

  I reach for a notebook and pen on my tray and begin jotting down every random thought that comes through my head. Everything from notes about new techniques for knee surgeries to a reminder to brush up one more time on divorce laws in Virginia.

  “What the fuck?” Boomer says, sleep thick in his voice. “Dude. It’s four a.m. Even the nurses know to leave us alone at this time of the night.”

  “Sorry, man. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Boomer pulls the curtain back to find me furiously scribbling on a notepad. If he could have looked over my shoulder at that point he would have seen me writing the words, “Try to not be an asshole human.”

  “Are you writing your will? Oh shit, are you dying? If so, I think you should give me something. I am your brofriend, after all. Didn’t you say you had a BMW? I could take that for you. I’ll take real good care of her.”

  I ignore his comment, because at that moment I get an idea about ligament replacements. I scribble it down, not wanting to forget it. I’m on a fucking roll.

  “Garrett. Seriously. You’re freaking me out. What in the hell are you writing?”

  I stop at his words, looking back at the scribble on the pages. All ten sheets of them. Front and back.

  “All the ways I’m going to change medicine. And how I’m going to get a divorce,” I say matter-of-factly.

  He nods, pulling the curtain back. “Great. Can you do it without the light on? Oh, and if you’re changing medicine and all, can you get me a new heart? Thanks, brofriend.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Paige

  There is something different in the air on a race day, especially a charity run on a crisp January day. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but there is a sense of excitement. Even as a volunteer, I can feel it. A feeling that accomplishments and goals are going to happen today.

  Maybe it’s the whole “new year, new you” mentality everyone has as we just turned the calendar? Maybe it’s the runners who are anticipating the high they get from running three-point-one miles? Not that I would know. I’m not exactly what you would call a runner. Well, at least, not in that sense.

  I tried running once. A runner I met while volunteering kept talking about the feeling she got after completing a run. She said that I should give it a try. That it would be like nothing I’ve ever experienced. That the high will be one I start to crave on a daily basis.

  It’s better than sex, she said.

  You should try it, she said.

  I tried. I made it a quarter of a mile, my shins started to hurt and I wanted a donut. I also felt bad for her because she was obviously having really terrible sex. Not that I know what good sex is like, but if that is what she was comparing it to, then I’m good to never have it again.

  After realizing that I was destined for a life as a volunteer and not a runner, I’ve made sure to help out at as many races as I can. I can think of a lot worse ways to spend a Saturday morning.

  Plus, the volunteers get donuts. And don’t have to run.

  “Oh, Paige, thank God you are here,” Christina, the event coordinator, says as I’m mid-bite of my cream-filled morning treat. By the tone of her voice, I know she’s about to tell me the latest crisis of race day. Christina isn’t usually dramatic, but when it comes to race day, everything is a five-alarm fire.

  “Is everything OK?” I ask after swallowing. Dang, this is a good donut.

  “Oh, you know how it is. College kids sign up for volunteer hours, then get too drunk the night before and call off the morning of the race. So we’re short-handed. It’s awful. What are we going to do?”

  I sigh, making my way to the registration table. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

  “It’s fine. I can run two sections of registration. Is there anyone to grab their swag bags? That’s usually where I get held up at. And you know runners get crabby when they don’t get their free T-shirt.”

  “It’s the only reason we sign up. Don’t mess with runners and their free T-shirts,” a deep, familiar voice says from behind me. I look at Christina, who is currently trying to pick her jaw up from the ground. That’s when I know that the voice belongs to Garrett Dixon.

  I turn to face him and am almost startled by his appearance. I don’t know how it happens, but the man seems to get more attractive every time I see him.

  The first night I blamed it on the shock of meeting him. In no way, shape, or form was I expecting to see someone as physically attractive as him at a kindergarten Christmas program.

  The second time at the hospital he might have been in a weakened state, but talking to him and learning about the man on the inside added a level of attraction that I hated myself for feeling. I had to repeatedly tell myself that he was married and that I don’t date even the non-married ones about a thousand times on my drive home that night. Though that didn’t stop me from picking up the Christmas card and American flag for him. Or talking for hours with him the next day.

  But today? I don’t know if it’s the early morning sun that is lighting up his face, or the smile that I can tell is completely genuine, but this version of Garrett might be the sexiest I’ve ever met.

  And he’s married.

  And way too old for you.

  And Cullen’s uncle.

  And you don’t date.

  Mind out of the gutter, Paige!

  I give my head a shake, hopefully getting my bearings back before I speak. “Is that why you’re here? The free T-shirt? Or maybe it’s to run a few bad lines to a new crowd?”

  He gives me a smile that does funny things to my insides. “Do volunteers get free T-shirts? Because if so, then yes. I was hoping I could volunteer my services today.”

  “Yes! Yes, they do!” Christina shouts as she grabs his arm, dragging him to where I’ll be registering runners. “You can get a T-shirt. And we have donuts. And whatever else you would like!”

  I laugh at her reaction. Honestly, I can’t blame her. Garrett Dixon makes me do, and feel, weird things too.

  “Since you seem to know Paige, you can help her. Registration is starting in a few minutes, so just do whatever she needs you to do. I’ll go get your shirt. Extra-large, right? You seem like an extra-large. Oh my, that didn’t come out right at all. But extra-large, right? I’ll be back. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  She gives Garrett a big hug before running away to find him an extra-large shirt. And hopefully a sedative for herself.

  “I’ve never seen her like that,” I say, taking my seat and organizing the sheets as I prepare for the runners to check in.

  “What can I say? I have an effect on the ladies.”

  That earns him an
eye roll. “There he is! And here I thought a stay at the hospital made you forget your bad lines.”

  “It’s going to take a lot more than a near-fatal blood clot for me to abandon those gems. Now, tell me what you want me to do. My services are all yours.”

  Hoping that there wasn’t an innuendo laced through that last statement, I explain that I’ll be shouting out names to him, and he’ll be grabbing their premade swag bags, which includes the complimentary T-shirt.

  I have a million questions to ask Garrett. Why is he here? He doesn’t strike me as a volunteer-at- seven-a.m. kind of guy. Is he feeling better? What is his prognosis? Is he allowed to be eating the donut he’s currently inhaling like it’s the last one?

  Unfortunately, I can’t ask any of those questions because every runner comes over to our table at once, meaning we are moving nonstop for the next hour. Not that I was worried, but Garrett is a huge help. He didn’t blink twice when I called out names to him, and even by the end, he was helping me with the second list of runners that I inherited because of the no-show, drunk college kids. As he handed out the bags to the runners, leaning next to me, I couldn’t help but smell a hint of his cologne. I’m pretty sure it’s straight from a Bath & Body Works candle, and I’m going to go buy one immediately.

  I also noticed that his left hand now is not donning a gold band like it was before.

  “Is that it?” Garrett asks, snapping me from ogling at his forearms, which is where my vision went after I was done noticing his lack of a wedding ring. I never knew what Cassie meant by the phrase arm porn until now.

  I look around and notice that all the runners have made their way to the starting line. “Yeah, that’s it. Working registration is the best because you’re in and out. It’s crazy for about an hour, but then you are done for the day.”

  He gives me a questioning look. “Done? That’s it?”

  I nod. “Yeah. That’s it. Unless you want to stay after the race and hand out bananas. Normally the late volunteer stragglers arrive for that.”