Forever With You (Silver State Series)

by Renae Kelleigh

  Linus

  “MORNING, SUNSHINE.”

  I’m still grinding the sleep out of my eyes when Big Mike’s husky voice pulls me out of my stupor. I pause in the doorway leading into his office. The placard outside reads MICHAEL DELCOLLIANO – MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR. “Mornin’,” I reply.

  “Miss out on your beauty sleep last night? You look like you spent the night in prison with Bubba as your cellmate.”

  I nod, smiling a little. “Feel like it, too.”

  “You busy right now?”

  I shrug. “I was just gonna grab my stuff and head up to 4 North. I heard Barry say on the radio they got a plumbing situation.”

  “He and Joey got it handled,” Big Mike replies, thumbing his nose. He sifts through the mess of papers crowding his desk and locates a pink slip of paper with a phone message scrawled on it. “Take a look at this instead, will ya?”

  I grab the paper from him and take a cursory glance. The purple ink and circle dots on the I’s are a familiar trademark of Shayna’s. She’s the bubbly redhead who sits up front and checks messages, triaging phone calls as they come in. The time of the message is jotted at the top, and beneath it a complaint of a ceiling leak in one of the basement offices.

  “I’m on it,” I say, already turning to leave. I breeze past the front desk on my way out the door.

  “Linus,” says a voice behind me. I look back to see Shayna leaning forward against her desk with her tits pushed together. Turning around fully, I take a beat to indulge in a peek down the front of her tight pink shirt. Her wicked grin tells me she’s delighted by my attention. “You heading down to pharmacy?” she asks, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Good luck. She sounded like a real bitch in the message.”

  “Awesome,” I mutter. I wheel around and use my fist to push open the front door. I’m going on about three hours of sleep, and I have a feeling my patience is going to wear thin today.

  I clamber down the steps of the squat brick building housing the maintenance and engineering department and cut across the parking lot toward the main entrance of the hospital. Coming within a few feet of my ’99 Geo Metro triggers yet another memory of last night’s clusterfuck family gathering. I’d gone over to my parents’ house for dinner at the insistence of my mother and found a brand new BMW M6 Gran Coupe parked in the driveway. It was sleek, silver, and had tinted windows and a moon roof. The decal on the back bumper bore my dad’s name: Cooper Redgrave BMW.

  I’d barely made it in the front door before he was thrusting a scotch in my hand and extolling the car’s many virtues. It didn’t take long for me to figure out he intended for me to drive it home. He was even kind enough to volunteer to have my Metro hauled to the scrap yard for me. What a charmer.

  Needless to say, the rest of the night hadn’t gone well. I appreciate the gesture, I really do. I’m sure there are plenty of people who would consider me a moron and a shithead for failing to accept such a generous gift in favor of continuing to drive my fifteen year old beater. Those people don’t know my father. Unfortunately for our tenuous relationship, there’s no such thing as a “no strings” offering from Cooper Redgrave. I’ve fought long and hard to secure and maintain my independence, financially and otherwise. The last thing I want is to feel beholden to him for a $50,000 car.

  Naturally, the dinner conversation had devolved from talk of my preference for more economical vehicles to my chosen line of work. We’d hit all the buzz words: Ambition. Goals. Motivation. Maximizing my potential. When I finally stumbled in my own front door hours later, I’d had to subject myself to a marathon music session to sufficiently unwind – hence the three hours of sleep.

  Remembering Shayna’s warning about the snake pit I’m likely walking into, I pause before reaching the revolving glass door into the hospital. I tap a cigarette out of the flattened pack I carry in my back pocket and flick the wheel on my Zippo to light it. Two or three puffs, and I’m already feeling better. The nicotine courses through me, awakening some senses while putting others to rest. Eager to get this over with, I put the barely smoked cigarette out on a nearby concrete birdbath and tuck it behind my ear for later.

  Central pharmacy is located in the back corner of the hospital’s dank, fluorescent-lit basement. It’s a shithole down here for sure. I’d probably need therapy if I had to spend every day stashed away in a dark, moldy corner. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the crumpled up phone message. Kenna Aldridge, 103. I envision her as a pale, fang-toothed shrew, starved for sunlight and affection. The image causes me to chuckle a little to myself as I ring the bell and flash my badge. The administrative assistant pushes a button to buzz me through the heavy locked door.

  Office number 103 is the first one on the right. The overhead light is off, but the room is lit by the dim glow of a desk lamp. Poster-sized black and white prints of Ansel Adam landscapes festoon the drab white walls. A spider plant wilts on the corner of the desk, seriously in need of some TLC. I glance up and instantly spot the damp stain in the foam tiles of the drop ceiling. An orange cup on the desk is overflowing with water as it drips from above.

  Pushing up the cuffs of my long sleeved undershirt, I get to work slinging papers out of the way. I’m standing in the center of the desk with the ceiling tile shoved aside, examining the pipes above, when someone clears their throat below.

  I duck down to find the office’s occupant standing just inside the door. I’ve seen her before. It’s not easy to forget a body like that, especially when it’s encased in a sleeveless, formfitting dress and cherry red high heels. Her pale blue eyes and light blond hair are also pretty memorable. A fang-toothed shrew she most certainly is not.

  …At least not on the surface. The way she’s leaning into one hip with her arms crossed beneath her chest, giving me a look like I just pissed on her rug, leads me to believe her personality may be less than charming. I wipe my hands on my jeans and my forehead on my shirtsleeve. “Kenna?” I ask.

  “That would be me.”

  “You have a leak,” I say.

  She cocks an eyebrow at me. “You think?” She skirts around me to sit behind her desk and shoots a disdainful look at my work boots planted on the scuffed surface. When she starts tapping on the keyboard at my feet, I notice her fingernails are stubby like she chews on them. Their plainness seems incongruous with the rest of her polished appearance. “What was it that tipped you off?” she asks coolly without looking up. “Was it my first phone call, or the second? Or was it the bucket of water on my desk?”

  I take a deep breath, wishing it wasn’t against the rules to light up inside the hospital. I could really use another shot of nicotine to get me through this conversation.

  I chuckle a little to help me loosen up, and she looks at me, her eyes flashing with anger. “Look, princess, it’s not like we’ve been sitting around avoiding your calls. In case you haven’t noticed, we work in a cesspit.” I jump down off the desk and squat to pluck a pipe wrench from the array of tools I brought with me. “There was a fire in the cafeteria yesterday, did you know that?” I ask casually, jostling her chair as I mount the desk again. “This whole building is coming apart.”

  “I can’t imagine why that would be,” she mumbles sarcastically, “when we have highly motivated individuals such as yourself working here.” My shoulders tense. There’s that word again – motivated.

  “Are you insulting my work ethic, sweetheart?” I ask, rising up until my head is above the ceiling tiles. She doesn’t respond, and I don’t press. If I want to get into a pissing match with a condescending elitist, I’ll just go to my parents’ house.

  Once I’ve finished patching the leak and replaced the tile, I crouch back down to find an empty office. I leap down to the thinly carpeted floor and stoop to gather my tools, thinking it might be best if I cut out before she returns. As soon as I’ve drawn myself back up to standing, however, she breezes back into the room. No such luck.


  Kenna twitches her lips to the side as she gazes upward. She looks conflicted.

  “In a little bit I’ll bring you a new ceiling tile,” I say, shifting the weight of my toolbox from one hand to the other.

  She trains those light denim eyes on me and bobs her head in an understated nod. “Thanks for fixing it.” For a moment I wonder whether she’s going to apologize for acting like a crazed bitch. When she doesn’t, I pry my eyes away from her to glance at the dehydrated spider plant on her desk. I pick up the orange cup brimming with water and dump it over the brown, drooping leaves. Then I walk out the door.

  Chapter 2

  Kenna

  I RECOGNIZED THE maintenance guy. I’ve passed him several times in the hallway. It’s hard not to pay attention to someone that tall. At five-ten, I’m not exactly stunted in the height department myself, but I’d guess he still has a half foot on me. Toss in his broad shoulders, trim waist, tightly curled, reddish blond hair, warm hazel eyes and light dusting of beard, and you have a specimen that’s pretty difficult to look away from.

  My first view upon walking into my office this morning was a slice of his tanned stomach. He was up on a stepladder with his arms stretched above his head, and his shirt had drifted up, baring the hard lacing of muscles on his abdomen. Then he’d ruined it by climbing down and making some inane comment about my ceiling having a leak. Predictably, my mouth had a mind of its own.

  To be clear, I’m not normally this tightly wound. I slept on the couch at Ralph’s place last night, which always results in a fair amount of tossing and turning. Then I’d had to wake up an hour earlier than usual so I could go home and shower and change before coming to work this morning. It may sound like I’m making excuses, but I can promise they’re legit.

  Not that any of that justifies my attitude toward someone who was just trying to help.

  Now it’s just shy of two o’clock, and I’m dipping French fries in ranch dressing (a horrible weakness of mine) while putting the finishing touches on a drug utilization review. A knock sounds at my door and Maintenance Guy walks in carrying a pristine foam ceiling panel. I’d completely forgotten his promise to bring me a new one.

  “Do you mind?” he asks, holding the tile aloft. I push back from my desk to accommodate him, determined to act more civil this time around. The coarse material of his jeans brushes against my thigh as he scrambles up onto the desk. I watch as he lifts out the water stained tile and replaces it with the new one. Now the other tiles look old and yellowed in comparison.

  He jumps down and dusts his hands on a towel tucked in his back pocket. My eyes move to the tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves, which are shoved halfway up his thick, veiny forearms. Both wrists are encircled with an intricate pattern of shapes and lines that continue upward and disappear inside his shirt. Next I take in at the short-sleeved blue work shirt he wears snapped up over his waffle weave undershirt. The name stitched over the left breast pocket says LINUS.

  “So tell me, Kenna Aldridge,” he says suddenly. “What were you doing here at – what was it? 8:27 last night?” He pulls a pink slip of paper out of his pocket as if to verify the time. “Don’t you have a boyfriend to go home to or something?”

  “Nope,” I say, concealing an eye roll. “Just a cat with whom I share a mutual dislike.” I scoot my chair back in and resume typing.

  He quirks an eyebrow at me. “That’s sad,” he says.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from responding right away. It’s clear he’s trying to aggravate me, and I’m determined not to become a loose cannon. “Bite me,” I say. I’m proud of myself. It may sound juvenile, but it’s about seventeen times sweeter than my initial thought.

  “Just say when,” he replies with an irritating wink.

  I USED TO think, like the vast majority of the population, that weekends were never long enough. Now they positively drag. I’m not sure when the shift occurred. During my postgraduate residency, which I finished just over a year ago, there were never enough hours in the day to accomplish everything I needed to. Time was a valuable commodity. It’s still common for me to feel that pressure during the work week, but now I refuse to take work home with me on the weekends. Consequently, I often find myself sitting around my house, wondering how best to occupy my time.

  I read a lot. I do Pilates and practice cooking exotic dishes that call for unusual ingredients like saffron and chestnut flour and Goji berries, most of which I have to order online. I also spend a lot of time with Ralph. Today we’re at the farmer’s market. I’m relieved to note that, so far, his mood seems to be on an even keel.

  I’m sorting through a crate full of Freestone peaches when Ralph’s cell phone rings. He still carries one of the older flip phones, so the simple, monophonic ringtone is instantly recognizable. He checks the display, then holds up a finger as he works the phone open to answer it. I watch as he wanders away and is swallowed up by the crowd.

  From the peaches I move on to another fruit stand. This part of Washington is known for its orchards, meaning there’s usually a vast abundance of apples, pears, cherries, apricots and plums available. I hand over a crumpled fiver for a box of Bing cherries, thinking it might be fun to make a pie later. Cherry is Ralph’s favorite.

  By the time I’ve picked my way over to the tomatoes and string beans, Ralph is back at my elbow carrying a bouquet of purple and white wildflowers. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,” he says, holding them out to me with a crooked grin.

  “Did you pay for these?” I ask.

  “Am I supposed to?” he says, blinking. “I thought everything here was free.”

  I laugh at his dry humor as I take the flowers from him and inhale their fresh scent. “They’re very pretty, Dad. Thank you.”

  “Need some help?” he asks, nodding at the box of cherries tucked under my arm. I lift my elbow as he slides his hand beneath the crate, relieving me of the burden.

  “Who was on the phone?” I ask, knowing it could only be one of two people. Ralph has three contacts in his phone, and one of them is me.

  “Duff,” he replies. Duff is his case manager who, for the past three years, has been actively appealing for state disability on Ralph’s behalf. He’s also grown to become his one and only reliable friend.

  I stop under a dark green awning to sample a slice of nectarine. “Did you ask if he wants to come over later?” For the past few months, spending Saturday nights with Ralph and Duff has developed into something of a tradition for me. Typically I make dinner, and then the three of us play cards or watch old movies.

  “He’s got a family thing tonight,” Ralph replies. He swats a fly away from the back of his head. His expression is hard to read, but I can tell from his tone he’s upset.

  “That’s okay, right?” I say carefully. “He’s allowed to be with his family sometimes.”

  “Yeah, if that’s really what he’s doing,” Ralph mumbles.

  “You don’t believe him?”

  He shrugs. “Seems like he’s been blowing me off a lot lately. Whatever, though, you know? I get that I’m not much fun to be around.”

  I bite my lip as I fight to suppress the irritation flaring inside of me. Ralph is a chronic over analyzer, and he’s also prone to spells of scathing self-pity. I know he expects me to reassure him, but I’m not a therapist, dammit. Most of the time it’s easier if I just look past his tantrums, but then I feel like a rotten daughter. Sighing, I tell him what he wants to hear. “I’m sure that’s not it, Ralph. We had fun together last week, remember? He’ll catch up with us again next Saturday.”

  My voice sounds disingenuous even to my own ears, but it seems to have placated Ralph. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go bake a pie.”

  He nods, then plants a hard kiss against my temple. “I love you, kiddo. Never forget that, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Ralph is snoring in the recliner while the closing credits roll on Raiders of the Lost Ark. I made
fettuccine for dinner, and I’ve just finished scrubbing the dishes. The cherry pie has twenty minutes left to bake.

  I lean against the counter, staring into space, lost in thought. I think about work. I think about Linus the Maintenance Guy. And I think about Jeff.

  Jeff and I became best friends in eighth grade when we rode the same school bus. We remained inseparable throughout high school and kept in close touch for the first two years of college. Jeff majored in computer science at State while I went for General Studies at UNC. We spent every weekend together, studying or just hanging out.

  Somewhere along the line – it’s impossible to pinpoint when – we began to see each other differently. I can still remember with startling clarity the night I spent sleeping next to him in his bedroom in Raleigh. Sharing a bed wasn’t anything new for us – it was something we’d done dozens and dozens of times before. That night, though, there was a shift in the air. For the first time, I became aware of a palpable, crackling electricity between us, and I felt the overwhelming desire to touch him in some way. I was paralyzed with fear that night, partly because I’d been terrified my feelings were one-sided. Looking back now, I’m sure that wasn’t the case. In fact, I’m almost certain the transformation in our friendship was apparent to Jeff many moons before I caught on.

  I close my eyes and try to picture Jeff as he would look now, six years older. I envision him in one of those bulky headsets worn by pilots, with aviator sunglasses and that same boyish grin that stole my heart over a decade ago at the back of a rusty yellow school bus.

  Seeing Ralph is still sound asleep, I leave the kitchen for the back of the house. I slide open the closet door in my bedroom and push up onto my toes. My hands reach instinctively for the shoebox I know is there, shoved all the way to the back of the shelf.

  Once the box is in my hands, I stumble backward with it and lower myself onto the foot of my unmade bed. I swipe my hand over the lid, mopping away the thick coating of dust.