by Kenna Ryan
My brain sticks between gears. “Why doesn’t your key work?”
She laughs. “You tell me; that’s why I’m calling.”
“Oh. Right. Weird. Let me call Tom and see if he can come figure it out.” Tom is a nice guy, a terrible landlord, and a worse building manager.
He doesn’t answer my call, in typical fashion. A text goes unanswered for ten minutes.
Tom: Hey, what do you need?
Me: A friend is there, trying to get in. Says her key doesn’t work
Tom: I sure hope not! :)
Before I can ask WTF, Tom adds:
Changed the locks this morning
Why? I hammer back.
Tom: Your lease ended last night at midnight
Me: No. Tonight.
I find the picture I took of my lease for my new landlord in Georgetown.
Me: See? I should have today to move out…
Tom: Crap. I’m really sorry. That’s my bad.
Tom, you’re fifty-nine. You can’t say ‘my bad’.
Me: So, can you go let her in? Or at least come by this afternoon so I can move out my things?
His pause is ominous. I’m in Seattle for the next two days
And that’s it. That’s all he says.
I have the feeling Tom is stewing in his oops, but that doesn’t help me.
Finally, he writes: I can drive your stuff out to Georgetown as soon as I get back. I’ll get a truck
Me: Can you just call a locksmith? I’ll pay.
I start work at St. Francis on Monday. My lucky scrubs, my fancy stethoscope Mom and Dad got me as a graduation present after nursing school… clothes, makeup. It’s all inside my apartment.
Tom: They tend to do damage. And I wouldn’t trust someone knowing no one is in the apartment
Is he serious? It’ll be empty. Tom, come on…
Radio silence. Our first patient is probably walking into reception right now; there’s no more time to argue. I text Felicity.
I’ll pay you $100 to card my apartment door, get my stuff, and maybe pee on the carpet
Felicity: On it. All over it
I stuff my phone in my scrubs, praying she succeeds.
When all I had to deal with was a rush of patients and Scott Evans, it was a rough day. This is snowballing into a long national nightmare.
Scott slides into Exam 1 before I can escape.
I used to play a game of set-up and clean-up as fast as possible, then hide in the staff lounge until he’d finished ‘checking my work’. I used to win, too, pulling it off until it was time for patient vitals and history.
So today I’d planned to give him a ‘patient’s ready’ as I passed the staff lounge and with few exceptions, we’d barely cross paths. Seemed simple enough.
I guess I’m out of practice because I never had to do anything like this with Jake. He never once put me in this position.
Scott picks up a couple of instruments and snaps them into a different position on the stainless steel tray. He doesn’t slam or smack them; that would actually be better. He sets them with a click of disappointment and a sigh. Just enough noise to let you know you’ve let him down.
I’ve set up his tray at the foot of the exam table which means he’s currently between me and the door.
Back to him, I pretend to check the digital thermometer, the BP machine, things I’ve already double-checked. Anything to look busy and competent.
“Gooood morning, Kate.” His voice is loud, abrasive, and dramatic as a morning DJ.
“Morning, Dr. Evans.”
He’s moved to the other side of the door. I can hear him scooting his laptop into the spot where Jake usually sits. This irritates me more than anything else so far. But he’s out of the way enough for me to get past.
“Keeping it formal today, huh?” Scott chuckles.
I turn, planning my escape. Scott puts up his arm as I pass, softly clotheslining my thighs. “It’s good to see you,” he murmurs.
“I can’t say the feeling is mutual.”
“Come on,” he cocks his head, pouting. His tall-dark-and-handsome routine can’t pull it off. It makes him look like a sad toddler. “Don’t be like that. I think about you all the time. You must think about me, too.”
I do some hasty math to protect myself and knock him down a notch. “That was like, three years ago. I’m sure you’re not stuck that far in the past.” I hope he feels my implication that he’s a complete loser.
Scott looks me over in a way that makes me want to wrap up in a wad of exam gowns. Or poke his eyes out.
“I’m stuck in the right now.” Scott’s fingers curl against my hip.
“Can you move your arm, please?”
He doesn’t. Scott’s lips curve and his eyes don’t come higher than my breasts. “It’s been awhile since I was in town. Maybe we could get dinner.”
He doesn’t mean get dinner. He doesn’t even mean fuck. This is Scott’s way of making me uncomfortable so he can get off on watching me squirm. “I’m busy. I’m tired. I’m moving away, and I feel sick.”
Now he snaps his arm back. He folds his arms behind his head and stretches. “You were a lot more fun in nursing school.”
“You were equally a jackass.” I make a mental note to send a thank-you card to Dr. Phillips at his retirement compound in Arizona. He’s an absolute hero for saving me from this asshole all those years ago.
Scott’s swoony features sharpen. “If you’re feeling ill, you should go home. We can’t have you around patients today.”
I cross my arms. “It’s not that kind of ill.”
“Whatever kind it is, I’m excusing you.”
“It’s my last day!”
Scott leans back against the wall and makes a sad-clown face. “Aww, that’s too bad, Katie.”
“Don’t call me that!” I hate the tremor of tears in my voice. He’s gross, completely gross.
The door bangs open without warning. Jake stands there, out of breath and rain spattered. “Why is there yelling in here?”
I can’t tell who he’s upset with.
“Hey to you too, Jake. No yelling; poor Katie’s not feeling well. She’s going home for the day.”
Jake smacks his backpack on the counter. “You’re going home for the day. I’ve got my schedule in order.”
“Ohhh.” Scott stands up, nodding, blue eyes flashing. “I see what’s going on.” He wags a finger between me and Jake and whistles. “Banging your way up the food chain, Katie. That’s–”
Scott doesn’t finish his thought, because his hand connects in a slap to my backside…
And Jake’s fist connects with Scott’s face.
Scott drops like a rock. He topples the table and sends instruments scattering.
I press myself back against the counter, maybe not as afraid as I should be of Jake’s sudden alpha streak. I feel a lot of things but fear isn’t one of them.
Voices raise at the front desk. Chair wheels scrape. Footsteps pound in the hallway.
“I’ll beat your ass, Chance!” Scott scrambles to his feet, sleeve pressed to catch the blood from his already-swollen nose.
Jake does nothing more than jab fingers against Scott’s breastbone. “I wouldn’t, Evans. I wouldn’t if I were you.” He steps aside; I see Ashley and Rhonda craning around the door frame. This is so humiliating.
Jake lowers his arm, cradling torn knuckles. “Get your shit and go, but–”
“I’m fucking calling Phillips and Piper,” Scott cuts in. “I’m calling the whole goddamn board about this.”
“Be my guest. I’m calling the cops, but first,” Jake clotheslines Scott as he passes, just like Scott did to me, but a hell of a lot harder. “You owe Kate an apology.”
“Suck my–”
Jake drops his arm lower and strikes again. Scott doubles over on a groan.
As much as I hate being in the middle, there’s something so satisfying about watching Scott’s date with karma.
“Sorry,” Sc
ott grinds out.
Jake locks eyes with me. “I don’t think she heard you.”
“Oh, fuck your–”
Jake draws his hand back.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Scott manages to get upright and rushes the door, stumbling into Ashley and Rhonda before the ladies can move out of his way.
Jake slams the door behind Scott, shutting out our audience. He looks me over. “Are you alright? Did he touch you? I swear if he–”
“I’m fine. Really.” I don’t know if I’m fine; it’s been a long six months, a longer four weeks and one of the longest days of my life. But I know I don’t want to talk about it. “Luckily, I know what to expect from Dr. Anal-probe.”
Jake cracks a small smile. “That his formal title?”
“It’s Scott’s email address. Probably his license plate, too.”
“I’d love to make it his prison tatt.”
This is easily the sweetest, hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Jake cradles his hand again, testing it with a small squeeze. “This is going to fucking smart later. I don’t regret it, but it’s been long enough that I forgot how bad it hurts.”
“Scrapping with coworkers on the regular?” I pick my way over the mess of instruments to reach supply bins. Gauze, tape, saline. “Give me that hand.”
He hesitates.
“Come on; I won’t amputate anything. Not this time.”
“My hand will be fine. I’m more worried about you.”
I slap the table’s paper cover, ignoring this.
“You’re not wearing gloves…” he observes.
“It’s you.” Exam gloves are the condoms of the touch world. Pretty sure Jake made a bareback joke once upon a time when our places were reversed. I shrug and grab a pair from a box on the wall.
“Why are you here?” I ask, examining his swelling.
“Ow! It’s funny,” he bites between clenched teeth. “I got a misdial from Phillips this morning, trying to reach Dr. Piper. I mentioned Scott Evans was filling in for me. Dan seemed a little pissed off at the idea of you being anywhere near Evans. So, I headed over.”
I forget to irrigate his knuckles for a second, heart swelling. “That’s sweet.”
Jake’s eyes widen. “Yeah?”
“That Dan thought of me.”
“Oh, yeah. I was excited when he hired me on here.”
“Same. He has such a good heart to still worry. But really, I’m fine. I can handle Scott. I couldn’t back then but…” I drag my eyes from Jake’s. “I grew up. I’m not the same person.”
His hand feels strong in mine as I wrap the tape around his fingers. Those smooth, graceful, skilled fingers. Old embers of my fantasies flare up for a second.
But he isn’t mine to hold. Jake must remember this, too; we pull away. “I’m no doctor, but I think you’ll be good as new in no time,” I say.
Jake rotates his hand, making a noise of approval at my work. “Hey, we can handle the morning. Why don’t you take off till after lunch?”
“No thanks.” Let’s be real: My four-hour contribution to the day’s second half, on my last day here, doesn’t feel especially vital to the clinic right now. “Scott was right; I think I’ll just go home.”
“Why? That guy is an asshole, Kate. Don’t listen to him.”
“For once, I think he listened to me. Not my words but my…” I don’t know how to explain it. “I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be around patients. This has been the worst day. All my stuff is locked in my apartment, I had to call a bunch of hotels and–” Why am I telling Jake these things? “I’d just like to go.”
Jake steps away, expression steady. “Okay. If that’s what you want to do. Whatever you need.”
What I need? I can’t help but look him over. Needing and getting are different area codes.
I peel off my gloves and sweep everything into the biohazard bin. This is it. Not how I imagined my last few minutes at Maple Hills. The realization stops me outside the exam room. I turn back. Jake digs through his backpack, settling in for the day.
For once, I’m going to say it. Not after I kiss him, or after I already have the job. Just this once I’m not going to hedge.
I swallow my heart out of my throat. Blood pounds through my veins on thrill after thrill of my heartbeat.
“Hey.” I wait until he looks at me. “That night at the holiday party? I don’t regret what I did. I’m sorry it made things weird, and that we don’t feel the same about each other, but I’d do it again. In fact, I’d climb you like a tree given the chance.”
Jake stares at me, mouth hanging open.
I back away and shut the door on him. Melancholy as I feel, I can’t fight a grin.
-Chapter Eleven-
Mid-summer in a larger city means hotel accommodations are limited to hostels that offer complimentary vape juice, or Instagrammable plazas with rooms priced by yearly salary. I felt lucky, early this morning, to get a reasonable, normal room at the Greenbriar.
Five-star hotel, student-debt rates. Amazing.
Why I never stopped to question that luck, I have no idea. After the day I’ve had it should have occurred to me.
It didn’t.
Now I’m paralyzed in the middle of Greenbriar’s marble and mahogany lobby, staring at Brian, a sharp-dressed concierge who won’t get facial hair until sometime next year. “What do you mean, unavailable?”
My voice is so loud! Why is an embarrassed whisper always necessary in places with symphony-quality acoustics?
He squints at his screen. “It looks like the room was double-booked. Our policy is to honor the first or earliest reservation.”
My patience unravels. My chill bottoms out. My evens can’t. I inhale to form the word ‘manager’ when Brian raises his hand.
“But we always want to make things right. This was our mistake.”
I’ve been to City Burger on a busy Saturday; I know what ‘make it right’ means. “I don’t want coupons, Brian…unless they’re for the taco place at the end of the block.”
He laughs. “No, no. We have a penthouse available. You’ll be upgraded at the basic rate.”
This sounds like the opening scene of a future Taken movie. Luck this incredible is a warning you’re about to wake up with a kidney missing. “But?” I prompt.
Brian’s eyes widen beyond his hipster frames. “No but. You’ll get the penthouse and our bespoke welcome package as a thank you.”
“After the day I’ve had… that sounds…” I do a few deep breaths for clarity, more tempted by the minute. I could call Felicity and ask to crash if she doesn’t have a guy du jour. Her place is free, but I kind of don’t want to go. “Brian, sell me on the deal. Is there a soaking tub?”
He brightens. “Clawfoot. Private lounging deck with fireplace. In-room massage.” Brian pronounces these last three words like he’s the recipient. Or the giver? His excitement is catching.
I slide my card across the counter. “I’ll take it.”
***
“Oh… my god.”
I lean back against the door’s cool, clean white paint and feel like I can’t afford to look at this place – forget about sleeping here.
Just for tonight, I remind myself, treating the room like a stray puppy. And in the morning, you let it go and hope its mother takes it back.
Loft ceilings let in brilliant early-afternoon light, turning the suite’s white and china blue hues with a fairytale softness. AC whispers a musky hint of vanilla through the air. Bath salts in a glass bottle are perched on the edge of my tub, waiting. Two comfy-looking, oversized white chairs wait in front of the tv.
A crate occupies the middle of a dreamy, down-feathered, king-size bed, tagged With Our Compliments. I have no idea where to start. I try not to think about the irony of staying in a place like this alone.
I flop down on the bed and sink for a second before I dive into my gift. Truthfully, I expect a log of summer sausage and cheese with a name I can’t pronou
nce. Once I stayed at a swanky New England B&B with a former boyfriend and our welcome basket looked like a Lunchable with two pounds of maple candy thrown in.
This, on the other hand… Thumbprint cookies, pink Moscato, peach bath bombs that look and smell like actual peaches. Caramels, hot Korean jerky, and a brown paper box of tea that smells like I’m being seduced by a well-muscled tangerine in a spice market tent.
When Brian said ‘bespoke’ he wasn’t exaggerating.
I haul my wine, my cookies, and a bath bomb to the tub, and fill it like the water bill isn’t my problem.
***
I may have induced a diabetic coma with my cookie intake, and I kind of fell asleep in the tub and it was probably, definitely the wine.
Once I’m up, it’s like the bathtub scene from Pretty Woman. Except, I use up all the bubble bath and sing along to girl-power rock playing through my phone and still don’t manage to conjure a single hot billionaire executive.
I tried.
For not the greatest day, I admit as I towel off that this is exactly what I needed: A break from the old and a break before the new. Next week my job, my coworkers, my city, and my apartment will be different from everything I’ve known for almost five years. This is a delicious mid-point.
I pad from the bathroom on light steps, happy to indulge in a little fantasy, some room service and–
“Kate.”
“Jesus Christ!” I clutch the towel around me and try to catch my breath. What did I tell you? Taken 4: The Takening, right here in my hotel room. It takes my brain a second to thaw from cold panic.
“Sorry.” Jake stands in front of the door, a bouquet of pink and lavender roses in his bandaged hand. He’s dressed in jeans and a dark blue button-up; not what he wore at the clinic this morning.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“You didn’t guess?” A smile plays faintly at his lips at how shocked I am. “I guess not. To answer your second question, there was no mix-up with your reservation.”
I take in the room like I’ve never seen it before. The suite, my welcome basket. The Moscato.
Things make more sense and less, all at once.
“And my first question?” I whisper.
