The only way to prove that you’re a good sport is to lose.
–Ernie Banks
Bethany
I found a job. It’s not the best job in the world. The pay is shit. I’ll make enough to cover rent and little else. But it’s something. At least I can get Mom into rehab for the next six months. I’ll worry about how to pay for it later.
It’s a beautiful day outside, the first real nice spring day in April, and I’m using the opportunity to stain my new door. The window is open, letting in the sun and air.
I’m sitting on the floor inside my apartment, getting the bottom panel, when there’s a gentle knock on my doorframe.
It’s probably Steven. He’s bringing me some pamphlets on some rare bird found in Central Park, the Kirtland’s warbler. We’ve gotten closer since the whole thing with Natalie. We can both use a friend.
“Did you already find the . . . ?”
My voice trails off when I see who’s standing in the doorway.
Mr. Crawford.
He looks completely out of place in his expensive suit and his slicked-back hair. He makes the walls look even grungier than normal.
My mouth is agape with shock.
I click it shut.
“You want to come in?”
“Want is a strong word.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Come on in.”
He steps into the apartment.
I watch while he eyes the stained carpet and shabby drapes.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.” Awkward pause. “I just wanted a minute of your time.”
In the living room, I sit on the edge of the couch.
He’s still standing in the small entry and I motion for him to take a seat on the chair opposite. He eyes it like it might bite his balls off before sitting gingerly on the cushion, crouched like he’s ready to bolt at any second.
His face is drawn, his mouth curved into a frown.
“Mr. Crawford?” I prompt after a long moment of silence.
“I want to offer you a job.”
I couldn’t be more shocked if he had offered me a lap dance. “A job? My old job?”
“Not quite.” Another pregnant pause while I wonder if I’m dreaming. “I want to offer you Marc’s job.”
I laugh. Man’s got jokes.
He doesn’t join me.
I blink. “You’re not kidding?”
“Brent was right. You know what to do better than anyone else there. You care about the help . . . I mean, employees.” He draws in a breath and releases it, some of the tension leaving his body. “Plus I need help finding my own replacement. I’m retiring. You won’t even have to deal with me anymore.”
“Is this one of those prank shows?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not a prank.” He rattles off a starting salary and benefits package.
I almost pee my pants.
“Come to the office tomorrow morning and we can negotiate your contract and go over expectations.”
He stands and steps toward the doorway.
That’s it?
“Wait.” I stand in a panic.
He stops just in front of the doorway.
“Have you talked to him?”
He shakes his head.
“The surgery is next week.”
“I know. He won’t talk to me. And he’s right to be angry. I lost both my boys because of my own stubbornness. Don’t make the same choices I did.”
“He loves you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be so upset. He just wants to know you care about him more than the business. You should tell him.”
“Maybe I will.”
With one last nod, he leaves.
I sink back down to the couch.
A job? A freaking major job. Do I want it? I might be good at it. Like, really good. And the first month’s salary alone will pay for Mom’s rehab. And a new place to live. A nice place with new furniture and clean walls.
Can this really be happening? I don’t know whether to laugh or crap my pants.
Only one thing would make it perfect.
I pick up my cell phone and scroll through my contacts. My thumb hovers over Brent’s name. Brent Hottie McHotpants.
Maybe he’ll tell me to get lost, but then I’ll know and I can move on.
No chickening out now. I push the call button, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Disappointment floods through me.
I’m sure he’s busy, what with everything going on and surgery coming up.
I’ll try him again later.
Later never happens. Between signing up for the new job—haggling with Mr. Crawford for something that actually involves a little work–life balance—and getting Mom into the rehab center, I don’t have a moment to breathe until a week later.
Mr. Crawford and I are working late one night going over résumés in the conference room together when he drops it on me.
“The surgery is tomorrow morning.”
Surprised, I look up from the paper in my hands to find him watching me from the other side of the mahogany table. “Are you going?”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
His chin drops into his chest. “You should go. I’ll cover things here.”
“Are you—?”
He clears his throat. “What did you think about the third quarter sales reports from last year?”
I know he’s avoiding the topic. But it’s progress that he brought it up at all.
We don’t talk about it again until we’re leaving for the evening.
“So I’ll see you Thursday?” he asks, brows lifted.
Tomorrow is Wednesday.
“Thursday,” I agree.
It’s kind of like Mr. Crawford has been replaced by an alien. Not the same person I used to work for. Although he still makes sexist comments occasionally, and the staff is still terrified of him, he doesn’t fire me every day and he stops himself when he realizes he’s done something offensive. He’s more subdued. Quiet, almost.
Bright and early the next morning, I show up at Mount Sinai and find the waiting room for surgical procedures. It’s so early, there’s hardly anyone there. Except one familiar couple.
“Gwen?”
“You made it!” She immediately wraps me in a hug before pulling back. “How are you? How is the apartment? Brent told us about all the madness. I can’t even believe how much we’ve missed since we’ve been gone.”
She moves back so Marc can give me a side hug.
“How is he?” I ask. I can’t answer questions until I know.
“We haven’t heard anything yet. They said it would take about four hours.”
I nod, but I knew they wouldn’t have info on the surgery yet. That’s not what I was asking.
Gwen takes my arm and leads me to the seats they were occupying in the corner of the light blue waiting room. “He was nervous and I think he hoped you would be here before he went in.”
“I didn’t know what time. I tried to call him. I didn’t know you guys were back.”
She nods. “His phone has been off. Too much press and things going on, it was stressing him out more. He thought if you wanted to see him, you would show up at the apartment.”
“I would have but . . . Mr. Crawford hired me to take over your old job.” I nod to Marc. “He’s retiring.”
“Wait. My dad?” Marc interjects.
“Yeah.”
“Dad is retiring? Are you sure?”
“Positive. He’s really changed, Marc. I think everything that happened with you and now Brent woke him up.”
“From the coma he’s been in for the last thirty years,” he mutters.
Gwen nudges him with her arm. “We should call him.”
“You should,” I say. “He thinks you all hate him.”
Marc’s mouth tilts and he nods. “Well, we kinda do.”
“Maybe it’s time to start over,” Gwen says.
He kisses the side of her head. “You’re the angel on my shoulder.”
“Always.”
Ugh they’re so cute I want to barf.
I update them on everything from my viewpoint—since they probably already heard most of it from Brent—while they were gone, skimming over some of the more personal details involving Brent and I, but it’s clear they already have an inkling.
After I answer their multitude of questions, Gwen tells me all about their time in Europe and the pics she got of some indigenous culture in Pakistan. By the time we’ve exhausted nearly everything we could possibly talk about, over an hour has passed but we still have time to wait.
As time ticks on, I get more and more anxious about how the surgery is going until I think I’m going to scream.
Finally, the surgeon emerges. She’s all professional and unsmiling and fear pierces me. What if something horrible happened? But when we stand to greet her, her mouth finally moves into a small upward tilt.
“Everything went well. He’s in the CV-ICU and they’re removing the ventilation now. He’s still under sedation but should be more awake soon. He won’t be completely aware, but I know he would like to see a familiar face. Only one person can go back now.”
My heart sinks. Marc should go. He’s his brother. I’m just a friend. Barely that.
Marc nudges me. “She should be there.”
“And you are?” the surgeon asks.
“Bethany,” I say, glancing back at Marc in confusion.
“His fiancée,” Gwen says.
My mouth pops open. “I’m—”
“You should take her back now just in case.” Marc pushes me again and I shoot him a look.
The surgeon doesn’t seem to notice the interaction, thankfully. “Right this way.”
We’re buzzed through a set of doors and then she leads me down a winding maze of turns and corridors to the room.
She leaves me in the white-walled room with Brent and a nurse who is pushing buttons on the machine next to the bed.
He’s awake, gaze lowered, but his head lifts and when he sees me, he smiles. “Hey.”
He’s okay. I can see he’s okay and he’s going to be fine even though there are wires attached to him and a large bumpy bandage over his chest, but my eyes still fill with tears.
I move to the bed and grasp his hand.
His eyes are glazed, movements slow. His head trails down to our clasped hands and then back to my face.
He smiles sleepily. “You’re an angel.”
I chuckle. “Hardly.”
“Sexy angel. Are you here for me?”
“Yes. I’m here for you.”
“I’m so lucky. You’re so beautiful. Who are you?”
The nurse laughs. “He’s still pretty out of it.”
“I can tell,” I say.
“He might fall in and out of sleep for a bit. There’s some water here if he gets thirsty. I’ll be back to check on him in about thirty minutes. Push the button if he needs anything.”
“Thank you.”
She leaves and when I turn back to Brent, he’s gazing at me with a light in his eyes.
“You’re so stoned.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That seems right.” He stares down at our hands, rubbing the tops of my fingers with his thumb. He yawns. “Don’t leave me again.” His eyes flick to mine, serious for a brief moment before they fall shut and his body relaxes.
“I won’t.”