Rachel
15:00 and we only have two patients: a possible stroke and an infected spider bite. Jeremiah is lancing the wound, and I’m ignoring him whenever possible. He was too close in that exam room. I don’t know what to do with his honesty. I’ve trained myself to hate him. What do I do if he starts being nice to me?
Jackson wanders down the hallway, dragging his fingertips along the wall.
“Jailbreak?”
“I’m hungry.”
“We’ve got some fruit in the break room.” I nod toward the door, and he follows me. “Apple, orange, or banana?”
“Apple, please.”
I toss him a Honeycrisp. “You have great manners.”
“My mom always nagged me about please and thank you.”
“All the good moms do. Clean bedrooms were my mom’s thing.” I grab a banana, and we sit on the sofa.
He twists the apple stem around and around. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Always.”
“How do you get over missing them?”
My heart breaks for him. He’s so young, so little to have to deal with such huge feelings. Grief is like Texas humidity in August: oppressive, heavy, pervasive. Somedays you feel like you’re walking through Jell-O, other days you feel like you can’t get enough air into your lungs.
No matter what, it clings to your skin, and you can’t scrub it off.
I squeeze his shoulder. “You don’t. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but you’ll always miss your parents.” I peel my banana. “After a while, it gets a little bit easier because you don’t expect them to be there.”
“Oh.” He scratches his nail into the apple skin.
“I was eighteen before I stopped calling down the stairs to ask my mom to make me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I graduated from high school and then from nursing school, it was even harder. I wanted to know they were proud of me, but I just had to guess.” I meet his eyes. “What do you miss most about your parents?”
“I don’t know.”
I don’t buy that for a moment. I gift him my most disbelieving raised eyebrow.
But I get it too. It’s hard to talk about the people we miss. The pain roars to life and can feel like it’s swallowing us whole.
There’s so much sadness in this little kid. Missing your parents and not understanding exactly what that means is hard.
Danielle was eight when our parents died, and it was easier for her. She didn’t understand that dad gave up. She and Laura see his death as romantic. He loved mom so much, he couldn’t live without her.
But what about us?
He loved mom enough to die, but he didn’t love us enough to live.
Frustration and resentment boil in my gut. I refuse to let it spill over onto Jackson. I shove my feelings down and ignore them like I always do.
Jackson at least has hope. There’s a glimmer in his eyes. He has an uncle who fights for him. Talking is one of the best ways to heal.
“You can talk to me. Not a lot of people understand what you’re going through the way I do.” It’s both a blessing and a curse. I can help people grieve, but I don’t wish this feeling on anyone.
He tosses the apple back and forth between his hands. “Dad was going to teach me how to mow the lawn this summer. Uncle Jer hires guys to do it now.”
“Did you ever ask your uncle to teach you?”
“He’s too busy.” His eyes dart to the open door and he lowers his voice. “I don’t know if he knows how.”
I chuckle. “That might be an accurate assumption.” But now I’m picturing Jeremiah sweaty and shirtless on my front lawn. Those aren’t images I should have in my head. My subconscious is not allowed to shift him from handsome jerk face to sexy handyman.
Time to redirect. “My dad was supposed to teach me how to drive.” I hold my hands in front of me like I’m gripping a steering wheel. “My grandmother taught me instead, and she was a terrible driver. She liked to bounce her car into trash cans.” I slide side to side, crashing into him like we’re on a bumper car ride. An innocent giggle escapes from him.
We settle into silence and eat our snacks. “What would you be doing at your grandparents’ house?”
“Same thing I’m doing here. My grandfather has Parkinson’s, so he doesn’t leave the house very often.”
“Jeremiah wouldn’t take you hiking? I hear Garden of the Gods is breathtaking.”
“Grandma says we’re there to see her and Grandpa, so we don’t get to leave.”
That’s selfish, but I’ll keep those opinions to myself. “Does she at least make good Thanksgiving dinner?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never gone before. Mom always cooked and invited our neighbors over. Grandma and Grandpa only came once.”
“What about your uncle’s parents?”
“They’re dead.”
My brain stumbles. Jeremiah’s parents are gone too? All these months, I’ve painted Jeremiah as a bad guy. A self-absorbed cookie smasher, but maybe I was wrong. How many other things do we have in common that I never considered? Is the version of him I’ve carried in my head an accurate description of who he is?
And if it’s not, what do I do with that?
Jeremiah
I’m typing up discharge instructions for the ulna fracture in Room 6—trampolines are from the devil—when Rachel leans across the counter and interrupts me. “You need to teach Jackson how to mow the lawn.”
I lean back so her nose isn’t three inches from my face, her lips aren’t at eye level, and I can remember how to use my brain instead of leaning forward and kissing her. “I need to what?”
“His dad was going to teach him but didn’t. You should.”
I’m not sure what to react to first. Her being bossy—which I definitely appreciate. Women who take charge are ridiculously sexy—or Jackson feeling so comfortable around Rachel, he’s talking about his parents.
“What else are you guys talking about?”
“Just stuff.” Something dances in her eyes.
“Sounds like more than stuff.”
“He’s sad, and I get the feeling he doesn’t talk about his parents very much.”
“When I try, he never wants to talk to me.”
She draws hearts on the counter with her finger. “Maybe it’s the way you’re asking him.”
“Hey, Jackson, do you want to talk about your parents?” Every night at the dinner table. I’ve heard fine grumbled so many times, I’m not sure he knows any other response.
Her face pinches like she’s delivering bad news. “Direct isn’t the way to go with him.”
“How do you know?”
“Didn’t work for me.”
“So, if I said, hey, Rachel, tell me about your parents, what would you say?”
“I’d say mind your own business, Dr. Crumb Bum.”
“But you’re telling me how to raise my nephew?”
“Just adding insight and clarity.”
“Got it. Mow the lawn. Check.”
Her gaze drifts across my face, and a dimple forms between her eyebrows. “Do you know how to mow a lawn?” Her voice is low and husky. And, oh, flack. My brain misinterprets her question in a non-work-appropriate manner. Her hair spread across a pillow, one finger beckoning me closer.
I shake my head and rub the heels of my hands against my eyes to clear the image. “I manage.” The word rasps across my vocal cords.
She leans closer. Her breasts press into the counter, so the barest hint of cleavage is visible in the V of her collar. “Manage harder.”
Why did she have to say that word that way? Does she have any idea the innuendo racing through my imagination? Her lips are mere inches from my face. Her eyelashes flutter when I exhale. The turmeric and cumin scents from before have been replaced by bananas and the peppermint lotion she keeps in her locker.
I swallow and blink, struggling to find a work-appropriate thought. “What were we talking about?”
“Jackson.” She straightens. “Are you okay?”
I am most definitely not okay. Last night, I fell asleep dreading working with Rachel and now my brain is concocting all sorts of ways to spend more time with her.
With and without clothing. Working harder to impress and excite her.
To earn another lip nibble.
I scoot back from the desk and turn toward the printer. I don’t have time for this. For innuendos and daydreams and wondering whether Rachel tastes as good as she smells.
All my energy needs to go into helping Jackson navigate this new reality we’ve found ourselves in.
“Thanks for talking to Jackson. Will you walk Room 6 through the discharge instructions?”
“Sure. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Nope. I’m fine.” Think about rectal exams and toenail fungus. Anything except the woman you’ve been infatuated with since you started working here.
Ignore that she’s being nice to you, is taking an active interest in your nephew, and hasn’t played another prank since moving your protein shakes.
That wasn’t even that bad of a prank. She moved them out of the common fridge, where anyone could have taken one, and put them where only I have access.
And she knows me well enough to stock the fridge with my least favorite flavor of Ensure. The one most likely to rile me up.
She knows me.
She knows my idiosyncrasies. You don’t learn that much about a person you hate.
Maybe she hasn’t hated me all along.
Maybe we’ve both been lying about how we feel. Deep in my bones, I want that to be true.
How do I test my theory?