by Hunter Rose
10
Scarlet
Four Years Later…
“Kinsey, are you ready?”
“No, mama,” comes the tiny voice from the back room.
“Hurry up, please,” I call. “We need to go soon.”
“Okay mama.”
I smile as I hear the pitter patter of little feet running from the bathroom to her bedroom echoing through the house. Kinsey’s just over three years old now and is the light of my life. She’s small and delicate, with long strawberry blonde hair and my green eyes. But for being as young as she is, she’s a stubborn girl. She’s got a strong personality and can be incredibly strong willed.
And when she gets like that, when she gets that set to her jaw and defiant lift to her chin, I can see shades of her father in her. As much as I love my girl – and I love her with everything in me – whenever I think of Roman, I can’t help but get a little sad.
I could have found him if I’d wanted to. Mike had actually offered to use his contacts to get Roman’s personal information, as well as let his superiors know. When it comes to paying child support, the military doesn’t play around. I also could have just asked Zeke for a home address or a number. I know they’ve been close since they were kids, so it wouldn’t have taken much for Zeke to get me the information.
But the fact of the matter is that I decided I don’t want anything to do with him. He ghosted me back in Syria all that time ago and hurt me in ways I still feel to this day. It’s not always easy – in fact, it’s sometimes downright hard – but I make enough to raise my daughter on my own. I don’t want or need his money. And I certainly don’t want Roman fucking Wheeler in my life or anywhere near my daughter. He doesn’t deserve the privilege.
The front door opens, and my roommate Megan stumbles in singing a song – badly. She’s wearing the same black dress she’d put on when she popped by the condo and headed out yesterday. She’s a good friend, my co-worker, and I call her my roommate but in reality, she’s my landlord – Kinsey and I rent a room in the condo she owns. But Megan stays at her boyfriend’s place most nights, so my daughter and I usually have the place to ourselves.
Her hair is a mess, her makeup is even worse, and she still reeks of booze. When she leans against the center island in the kitchen, she flashes me a goofy, lopsided grin. Her eyes are bloodshot, and I doubt she got any sleep last night – she’s a bit of a party girl. I love her to death, but the fact that she parties as much as she does makes me glad she’s gone most nights.
“Coffee?” I offer.
She nods enthusiastically. “Yes, please.”
I laugh as I pour her a cup and add the cream and sugar. After stirring it up, I slide the cup across the counter to her. She takes a swallow of the dark brew and smiles as she sets the mug back down.
“Bless you,” she says.
“Good time last night?”
“The concert was amazing,” she gushes. “TJ even managed to swing backstage passes. We got to meet with the band and everything. It was so cool.”
“That’s awesome, Megs,” I respond. “I’m glad you had a good time.”
“Megan!” Kinsey squeals.
Small footsteps come thumping up the hallway and my little girl throws her arms around Megan’s waist. Megan laughs and pulls Kinsey into a tight embrace.
“How are you, munchkin?”
Megan picks Kinsey up and spins her around, making my little girl laugh with joy. Kinsey and Megan have a big sister and little sister kind of relationship, and it never fails to warm my heart. I’m glad that they get on so well. It makes things a lot easier.
Kinsey leans close to Megan and inhales deeply, then scrunches up her nose. “You stinky, Megan.”
Megan laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, but I’m absolutely mortified.
“Kinsey,” I scold her. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Megan leans close to Kinsey. “You’re not wrong, kiddo,” she whispers. “I am pretty stinky.”
She puts Kinsey down and takes a long swallow of her coffee. I tell Kinsey to grab her bag and get ready to go. I have to get her to day care before I head to the hospital.
“You working tonight?” I ask.
Megan nods. “Yeah, I’ve got swing tonight,” she tells me. “I figure I’ll take a shower and get some sleep.”
“Probably a good idea,” I laugh. “You are kinda stinky.”
Megan cackles and playfully slaps me on the shoulder. She finishes off her coffee and sets the mug in the sink before heading down the hallway toward her bedroom in the back of the condo.
“Have a good day at the hospital,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Get some rest.”
Her door closes, and a moment later, Kinsey rushes out, her little backpack slung over her shoulders. I pour some coffee into my travel mug and fix it up the way I like it before snapping the lid on. That done, I gather my things and head out with my little girl in tow, ready to start another day.
“How are you, baby?” he asks.
“Tired, but good.”
Tyson leans forward and plants a kiss on my cheek. I take a seat in the booth across from him and smile. We’re down at the pub around the corner from my condo. I may not necessarily be the party girl Megan is, but I enjoy having a glass of wine now and then. And since I don’t have to pick Kinsey up from the babysitter’s until six, every once in a while, Tyson and I sneak out to enjoy some time together at happy hour.
I met Tyson at a flea market shortly after I returned home from Syria. I was having some trouble, so he helped me pick out a crib, a stroller, and a few other things I needed for Kinsey. We went out to lunch after the flea market and we’ve been running around together ever since. He’s a teacher at a local private school – it’s posh and caters to L.A.’s wealthy families – and my best friend on the planet. He never hesitates to give it to me straight and pulls no punches – if I’m acting like an idiot, he’s never afraid to say so. It’s something I appreciate about him more than I can say – even if it does sting every now and then. But we all need one of those truth tellers in our lives. Tyson is just about perfect in every way.
He’s also as gay as the day is long, so we never have to worry about any romantic entanglements between us – which suits me just fine.
“How was your day?” he asks.
I lean back in the booth and pick up the glass of wine that was already waiting for me when I sat down. I take a drink and relish the taste of the full-bodied cabernet on my tongue. Tyson sips from his glass of white wine, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
“It was exhausting,” I tell him. “But not too bad overall. How about you?”
He smiles. “Oh, you know, just another day imparting my vast wealth of knowledge to the eager minds of today’s youth, who are eternally grateful for the opportunity to learn from me.”
I laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Oh honey, these kids are cretins,” he gasps. “Spoiled, entitled, rich little cretins. They’re the worst.”
“Awwww,” I grin. “I’m sorry.”
He laughs. “Most of them aren’t that bad,” he smiles. “There’s a few, though, that really get under my skin.”
“Kind of makes you long for the days of corporal punishment, huh?”
“Your lips to God’s ear, honey.”
The waitress drops off a plate of mini tacos and beef sliders. She gives Tyson a sultry smile and heads off. She’s been flirting with him as long as we’ve been coming into the pub, obviously not catching onto the fact that he’s gay. It’s not hard to understand her attraction to him – Tyson is about six feet tall and has a lean, taut body. He’s got black hair, dark, soulful eyes and very fashionable stubble on his face. He’s also very well dressed, well put together, and incredibly fastidious about his appearance. It shocks me that our waitress hasn’t picked up on the fact that he’s gay.
He’s a beautiful man, there’s no denying it. Unfortunately for our waitress
, she doesn’t have the right equipment, and Tyson’s not interested in her. But he plays along with her crush and flirts back occasionally, since she usually gives us a drink or an appetizer on the house because of it. Can’t argue with a good deal, right?
We spend the next half hour or so catching up on what’s going on with each other. It’s been less than a week since the last time we got together, but we’ve both got a lot of things going on in our lives. Or at least, he does. Ninety-nine percent of what’s going on in my life is either Kinsey or Kinsey-related. Which is why I enjoy hearing about Tyson’s adventures – I’m living vicariously through him. And he’s always out doing something fun. There’s a part of me that envies his ability to go off and have adventures at the drop of a hat. But I wouldn’t trade Kinsey for anything in this world or any other.
“So? Any news on the boyfriend front?” He finally gets around to asking the question I know he’s been dying to ask ever since I sat down – the question he asks me every time we get together.
I laugh and shake my head. “Nothing new since the last time you asked me – like yesterday.”
“It was almost a week ago, thank you very much,” he insists. “And you never know. Life, as they say, comes at you quickly.”
“Well, rest assured, nothing has come at me – quickly or otherwise,” I shrug. “And I’m not looking for it to, either.”
He sips his wine and gently sets his glass back down on the table. “Baby, I only want to see you happy.”
I shrug and take a bite of one of the sliders. “I’ve got you and Kinsey,” I respond. “I’m plenty happy. What more could I possibly need?”
He sighs dramatically. “Let me rephrase that, you’re too amazing to be alone, so what are we doing on that front?”
I drain the last of my wine and laugh. “Well, I appreciate your endorsement,” I giggle. “But I’m not looking for anything on that front.”
“And why not?”
I arch my eyebrow at him. “Because I don’t need a man in my life to be complete or happy?”
He shrugs. “Okay, fine. Good point,” he admits. “But still, don’t you think –”
“No,” I cut him off. “No, I don’t think that. Not at all. Thinking that is how I ended up a single mom.”
He laughs. “But you’re the single mom of a pretty incredible little girl.”
I raise my glass and tap it against his. “That I am. She’s a big bright spot in my life,” I tell him, then grab his hand and squeeze it. “Just like you.”
“And you’re a bright spot in my life, honey,” he says. “But sometimes I can see how lonely you are. Oh, you do a good job of covering it up. Hiding it. But every now and then, I can see it in your eyes. Sometimes you just look – sad.”
I frown and sit back in my seat. He’s not wrong. Not entirely. There are times when I’m with Kinsey, or even with Tyson, that I feel so completely fulfilled. So completely happy. And there are other times when I feel that aching void inside of me. After I rotated back home, I dated a few different guys. But none of them ever made me feel the way Roman had. Not even close. There was always something missing.
Tyson is looking at me, dissecting me with his mind and laying me entirely bare in the way only he can. It’s like he has some sixth sense when it comes to me and knows what I’m thinking or feeling at any given time.
He purses his lips. “But woman can not live by three-year-old girl or gay man alone – regardless of how fabulous we both are,” he laughs wryly. “You need playmates your own age.”
I laugh. “Not really focused on that right now,” I insist. “I’m trying to focus on my career and I’m considering going back to get a degree that will allow me to be a Nurse Practitioner. I’ve got a lot going on.”
Tyson’s smile brightens his face. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he backs off. “I’ll stop asking you about it. For now, anyway.”
“I appreciate it.”
“This guy over in Syria – Roman, was it? – he seems to have really done a number on you, Scarlet,” he says. “I don’t mean to bring it up again, but I really think the past is weighing you down. You need to let that shit go, honey.”
“What?” I feign horror. “I haven’t thought about him in a really long time.”
His laughter is deep and rich. “No need to lie to me, baby,” he says. “I’ve suffered plenty of heartbreak in my life. I know that boy goes through your mind at least once a day.”
I bite my bottom lip and look away. I don’t want to tell him that despite everything that happened, that no matter how angry and hurt I am about it, I still think of Roman often. And way more often than I care to say, at that. It’s a dirty little secret I don’t want to admit to anybody, least of all myself. And yet, it’s true. No matter how hard I deny it, there’s just no escaping it. For whatever reason, Roman has been indelibly etched into my heart and thoughts – and I hate myself for it.
“Be that as it may, I’m just not ready to date,” I finally announce. “I need to focus on my daughter and the last thing I need to do is march a parade of men through her life.”
Tyson winks at me. “I wouldn’t mind a parade of men marching through my life.”
I laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind for Christmas or something.”
“Oh, please do.”
The waitress drops off another round of wine for us and looks longingly at Tyson, who gives her a warm smile and a wink. She blushes, then bounds off. I have no doubt she’ll be floating on clouds for the rest of the day.
“Too bad you don’t like girls,” I chide him. “I have a feeling she’d do just about anything you asked.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Pity, that. She is a very pretty girl.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Why haven’t you hitched your wagon to some fabulously sexy man?”
“I like to have options. I mean, life is a big buffet,” he smiles wide, “and I’d like to taste a little of everything before I settle down and start ordering the same thing off the menu night after night.”
I laugh. “You are incorrigible.”
In some ways, Tyson reminds me a lot of Andrea. They are both brave, bold, and so cavalier about things. Those were qualities I didn’t have before I even went to Syria, and now in my post-Roman world, I seem to have even fewer of them. I’m unwilling to stick my neck out and take risks anymore. And when a man shows the slightest bit of interest in me, I slap him down instantly. After my experiences with Roman, I’ve become even more risk averse than I was before.
“Just promise me one thing,” Tyson says.
“What is it?”
“That you don’t close yourself off forever?” he asks gently. “You’re still young, honey. You’re young, beautiful, and have far more road ahead of you than behind you. You deserve to be happy and in love. Four years is too long for you to be alone, baby. Way too long.”
A weak smile touches my lips. I’m not sure that happiness and love, aside from what I have with Tyson and my baby girl, are in the cards for me. Growing up, I was never particularly lucky in the relationship department – Roman was just the last example to reinforce that idea. But I want to end the conversation I’m so tired of having, so I just nod.
“I’ll do my best. I promise,” I reply softly.
11
Roman
“Nice work in there, Doctor Wheeler.”
“Thanks,” I respond. “You were pretty good in there yourself.”
I finish up at the sink and dry my hands off, giving my nurse a smile. Marisol Ortega stands beside me, washing her hands after our surgery. We’d gotten a nineteen-year-old kid who’d just been in a motorcycle accident on our table. Things didn’t look great for him. We initially thought we were going to have to remove a leg that had been pulverized in the wreck. It was what Marisol had initially suggested and it made sense. It probably would have been the smartest and most efficient thing to do, and nobody would have blamed me for it.
But for whatever reason, I opted to try
to save it first. I didn’t want to accept what everybody else in the operating suite thought was inevitable. It was a long, slow, and painstaking process, but we did it. There might be some lingering nerve damage we couldn’t have anticipated, but we managed to save his leg.
“Where did you learn those techniques?” she asks. “I’ve never seen them before.”
I shrug. “I had to learn to adapt on the fly when I was in the service.”
If there’s one good thing that came out of the time I spent working in all of those backwater places the brass stuck me in to close out my tour, it’s that I had to learn to adapt. To improvise. To make do in less than ideal circumstances and make the best of bad situations. And honestly speaking, I think having to work in the conditions I worked in made me a better doctor.
Because of the borderline primitive conditions, I had to learn new surgical techniques out of necessity. They’re techniques that doctors in a more civilized place, who have every technological advantage at their disposal, might not approve of – hell, they’re techniques they might not even think of – but techniques that have proven to be effective.
So while it may have sucked at the time, and while I may have resented having to work in those places, I have to credit that time spent with making me a better surgeon.
She nods. “So listen, some of us are heading over to Grady’s for a drink. I was hoping you’d join us?”
I give her a smile. “I appreciate the invite, but I’ve already got some plans.”
Her smile falters slightly, but she recovers quickly. “Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, next time,” I reply, even though we both know it’s a lie.
She grabs a towel and dries off her hands, then exits the room without another word. Marisol has been trying to get me to go for drinks with her for a long while now. Her crush on me is obvious. I always try to deflect or shut it down. I always tell myself that getting together with a co-worker is a bad idea and a complication I don’t need in my life. I tell myself that the resulting awkwardness and tension if things go sideways just isn’t worth it. I tell myself lots of things and make up lots of excuses for not getting involved with people at the hospital.