Cuts Like An Angel

by Sabre, Mason

  She couldn’t keep from smiling at the grin he gave, relieved and … happy he thought it funny. “I actually like walking and was just headed home.”

  “Oh …” She was ready to offer him a ride when she realized she didn’t know him. Patch Adams, Rosie, Patch Adams. Remember where you work. Remember the lunatics that kill for pills and happy times.

  He wasn’t an escaped patient, that was obvious. Well-dressed even. Maybe not the best fitting clothes, but not bummish either. Very genuine aura. Sweet temperament.

  “Well, I should get going,” he said.

  Not even wanting a ride. “Let me give you a lift,” she blurted. “I’m on my way home.”

  He looked distressed suddenly. “It’s rather far from here.”

  “The more reason for me to give you a ride.”

  “Well, I was going to walk to the bus station actually.” He chuckled and scratched the side of his face.

  “Right,” Rosie gushed way too enthusiastically. “You like to walk but not that much. I get it. How about I give you a ride to the bus stop?”

  He looked around a little before giving her a smile that literally stole her breath. Wow. Stranger danger, Rosie. Calm your tits.

  “What is it?” he asked, growing worried.

  “Oh, nothing,” she waved her hand, shaking her head. “Get in before the sun makes scrambled eggs of us.”

  The second she said it, she quickly ducked in her car and began shoving the week’s trash under his seat. He opened the door, and, of course, the creak on the passenger door was worse since it rarely got used.

  “Meet Harry,” she joked.

  “Harry?” He sat in the seat and shut the door carefully.

  Only, her car doors didn’t understand gentle. “You … have to slam it,” she said, pointing at it. “And Harry is the monster living in the hinges. The brother of Larry.” She eyed his grin while the scent of clean soap hit her senses. “Larry lives in my door. Much less grouchy than Harry.” Wow, how stupid did that sound? And what the hell kind of amazing soap did he use?

  His genuine laugh indicated he found her very funny. Usually guys did. Then they dumped her. “I’ve not been in a car with dinosaurs living in the door hinges. Does it fly, too?”

  She eyed his pretty blue eyes, much closer now. She made out lighter blues in the cobalt, explaining why they seemed to pop. “Fly? I wish.” She remembered their awkward stare off when she’d first seen him. The way he’d kind of ignored her wave. She slid her sunglasses back on and pushed the clutch in while working her stick shift. The gears groaned and whined. “Oopsie.” She muttered about sticky gears, yanking them into place. “Can’t find ‘em, grind ‘em, as my dad used to say.”

  Her skin tingled with the suspicion that he was staring. She chanced a look his way and found him smiling at her. “You’re funny,” he said.

  “Ah, yes,” she nodded. That’s how it always started. Guys finding her funny. Then somewhere along the way, the funny wore off and there was nothing else except the leaving act. Which was fine by her; she didn’t really want anybody that didn’t like her. She wouldn’t settle. But it was a tad annoying to be twenty-seven and not find one single man—who wasn’t a patient or twice her age—that found her more than just funny.

  She knew she wasn’t that pretty, and it was a big part of the problem. She had a fairly decent body, though. Fit. Well, not fat. Not a model or anything. Handful of boobs. If they didn’t have like … Jolly Green Giant hands.

  She got to the end of the parking lot.

  “Right,” he directed when she looked both ways.

  “Of course,” she said. “Half asleep.”

  “You work the night shift?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you like it?”

  She thought about it, wanting to be honest with him for some reason. “You know … it’s not the easiest shift, but I like being there during those hours.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  She jerked her head around to look at him, her heart suddenly in her throat. His voice sounded… very much like …

  “It’s not my business,” he said, sounding sorry.

  “No, I’m sorry. I … You sounded familiar is all. I get a lot of phone calls and you sounded like one of them.”

  “Ah.”

  She nodded as he slid his hands over his legs. “I don’t remember his name. No, I never got his name. He was … gonna call back and let me know he was okay.” Shut your mouth, that is confidential.

  “Did he? Call I mean?”

  She realized she didn’t even know his name. “My name is Rosie by the way.”

  “Rosie.”

  Again she jerked her head his way and found him looking off just to the left with a smile.

  “It’s my grandmother’s,” she explained, hating the odd sound in his tone when he repeated her name. It could have been wow, how antiquated and cute or wow, never heard that name in centuries, or Poor you, kind of wow.

  “My name is Josh,” he said quietly.

  Rosie navigated onto the main road, leading into the city. “Josh.” She nodded. “Nice name.” Nice name? Do you have to?

  “So did he call?” he asked, confusing her before she remembered what she’d been saying.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She glanced at him, confused by his chirpy tone. The idea that she knew him from somewhere hit her again. “I swear you look familiar. Or seem familiar.”

  “I get that a lot,” he said lightly, looking out at the scenery. “You’re from America?”

  “That obvious?” She let out a chuckle. “Been here about six months now.”

  “Really? How are you finding it?”

  “Cold,” she laughed. “But it’s pretty good so far. Everyone is so nice, and the weather isn’t always that bad”

  He glanced out the window, and her gaze snagged on his hand. The way he gripped his knee caused the veins and muscles to stand out. She didn’t recall being a hands person, but his were very nice. Not huge but sleek and strong. She realized they matched the rest of his perfection. God, he was so out of her league.

  “Very pretty day,” he mused.

  “Yes, it is. So, you said you wanted to volunteer?” Better to push the conversation away from her, her homeland, or why she was in England.

  “Yes,” he turned to her. “I would love to do that. You like the work? I enjoy helping others.”

  She glanced at him a few times smiling. “So do I. And yes, I mean, I probably love it a little too much.”

  “How so?”

  “I …” She struggled to think of how to say it, not wanting to sound unprofessional. “I guess I take it too seriously. To heart. I realize that’s a bad thing and—”

  “Why would you ever think that?” he cut in, sounding perplexed.

  Again she gave it serious thought only to feel like she was failing some kind of test the harder she tried. “They say you’re not supposed to get too close to your work. It can get to you. And it’s true,” she said firmly. “It can.”

  “It gets to you?” he asked, seeming curious.

  The need to be honest and transparent with him again pressed her. She let her nods come as she checked her mirror before switching lanes. “Yes,” she said. “It does. I worry about the callers. I want them to … get well and get help and I feel …”

  “Responsible?”

  “Yes, right. That. I have a chance to help, you know? It sometimes feels like I’m playing a game of chance with their lives. Which words are the right ones? The wrong?”

  He tapped his fingers on the folder in his lap. “Yes. I imagine that must be hard.”

  “Oh my God,” she cried too loudly then hurried to recompose. “It is. Yes.”

  “But you can only do what you can do. And you do that, I’m sure.”

  “You are?” she smiled at him.

  “I am. You remind me … of an angel.”

  She
laughed boisterously while very flattered over the compliment but even more curious as to why he would think such a thing. “That’s a pretty heavy title.”

  “Not really,” he said lightly. “You have a very soothing voice. Perfect for that job. And you are funny. If you take a right here, it’s faster.”

  “Oh,” she slapped her blinker on and made the turn. “I try not to be funny during calls. Kind of like laughing at a funeral, you know?”

  “Maybe they want to laugh at their funeral,” he said quietly. “Maybe they want to not think about whatever made them call to begin with?”

  “But that’s the point of them calling, to … to deal with that?”

  He gave a shrug, still tapping his folder. “I guess so.” Rosie wanted to stare and confirm he was tapping out a pattern. Or maybe just stare at his hands. “But laughter is like medicine too. Something maybe they don’t get a lot of.”

  She considered that as she fought with her grinding shift. Considered also that he seemed to know a lot. “Are you volunteering because …” How to say it?

  “Because I had a friend who died from sadness,” he said.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I tried everything I could to help him. Some people … they just need a special touch.”

  Chapter Five

  William

  God, it was her. The moment he sat in her car and looked at her name tag, he’d been soaring through the solar system in ecstasy all while trying to sit there, still and normal-looking. William looked down at the file on his lap. Shit. Nice one. Just show her the discharge note and the crazy stamp to boot. “Have you ever been sad?” he asked, raising his eyes to look into hers. He mostly asked to have an excuse to look at her. To study and stare at the face of the angel who had saved him.

  She swallowed. “I …”

  “Sorry. None of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No. It’s okay, I mean.” She stopped, puffed out her cheeks and turned her attention back onto the road, waiting for the light to turn green.

  “You can let me out here if you want.”

  She suddenly appeared so let down. “Josh … I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” He shook his head and nodded just ahead. “The station is there. There’s nowhere to park.”

  She followed where he was pointing with her gaze, her shoulders relaxing. “Oh. Right.” She let out a nervous chuckle. “I’ll pull over just at the other side of these lights if that’s okay.”

  William nodded. Why had he asked her if she’d ever been sad? Couldn’t he come up with something less stupid? Of course she had been sad. Everyone got sad at some point. He wasn’t special. Never was, never had been, and to think otherwise was his downfall.

  She pulled the car to the kerb. If he was honest with himself, he was more than a little disappointed at the thought of getting out of the car. Any other time it would’ve made no sense. He didn’t like people. Didn’t like strangers. Most women he met were way off his radar. It was hard to find a woman who thought beyond what was happening, the latest gossip columns or celebrity breakups, but Rosie … She was so very different. Innocent and sweet. But there was more to her. She reminded him of the kind of girl you’d find hidden in the library, nose in a book and one eye on the hot popular girl wishing she was her. But what girls like Rosie never realised, was that the hot girls … that’s all they were … hot. There was nothing to them. William had had his fair share of them. Drunken kisses behind the school when someone had slipped vodka into the fruit punch. Adolescent and clumsy fondling in the cloakrooms. He had his pick of the girls, too. Blond hair, blue eyes and a matching smile to boot, he knew the pull he had; but it was tiresome. Every popular girl purring over him like he was the damn tom cat, when really, what he wanted was the one behind the library book. The one with the brains who could use words with more than one syllable. That was Rosie.

  “You’re smiling,” she said to him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

  “Oh, I was? I’m …”

  She put her hand up. “Don’t say sorry. You were miles away. Thinking about your friend?”

  “Something like that.” He put his hand on the door handle and pulled. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “My pleasure,” she smiled, her eyes lighting up. It filled something inside him when she did that.

  “Do you want to get a coffee or something?” Shit. Did he just say that? He needed to get home. “You probably have work tonight?”

  “I do, but I …”

  “Another time?” His bloody mouth. It got him in so much shit more times than he dared to remember, and he still hadn’t learnt to keep a trap on it. But he didn’t really want to go. He didn’t want to leave Rosie, and he didn’t want to go back to the house. To the mess. To what he would have to clean up. Blood and vomit. “Sorry. It’s been a long day already. Would you like to grab a coffee on your next day off?”

  “I would …”

  But … there was always a but. “It’s okay. Thank you for the ride, Rosie.” He leaned over and placed a hand over her hand that rested on the gear stick and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. He pushed the door open and it screeched in what seemed like agony. “I woke Harry up, or was it Larry?” He opened and closed the door a little, creating an enormous Eeyore sound. “I can fix that for you, you know. I know a thing or two about cars. My dad taught me,” he lied. His dad hadn’t taught him shit, except maybe how to duck or how to open another can of beer, or how to pour it without making too large a head on it. But now his father was gone. He’d been gone for years. Left when William was six. Drunk himself to death by the time William was twelve. William had learnt cars from one of his mother’s clients. He was a regular. He always had this massive car, would pop the bonnet on it, and William would stare at it with such awe. He had wanted to have a car like that one day.

  “I have the weekend off,” she said.

  “You do? This weekend?”

  She nodded eagerly. “I was going out with the girls, but it got cancelled. And the shifts are all covered at the hospital.”

  With the girls? William felt his chest cave with that news. Maybe she wasn’t the right one. Maybe he had been mistaken. It was possible. His mother always said he was no good at judging people. Just because she dressed like sunshine right now, didn’t mean that was what she really was. Except … that’s how he felt when he looked at her. Like she was sunshine. She couldn’t be tainted … “Shall I call you and we’ll arrange it?”

  “Okay.” She reached down for her bag. It was in the front, by his feet.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, lifting it to her.

  “It’s okay.” She opened it, pulled out a pen and held it between her lips. Scraps of paper flew out of her bag and landed on the floor between them. William bent down to pick it up. “Don’t,” she said, startling him with the level of panic in her voice. “I mean. It’s okay. It’s just trash.” She reached for it, screwing it up in her hand and stuffing it back into her bag. She pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled her number on the back. “If I don’t pick up, just leave a message. I cook for Ms Mandy in the flat below me.”

  “Ms Mandy?”

  “Old lady. Lives by herself. She really should be in a home. Can’t do much for herself, but you know, she keeps her independence.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “I’m just doing what anyone else would do. She’s lonely.”

  “Not everyone else would.” They wouldn’t. Most people wouldn’t care. They’d leave the old woman to her own devices. Probably wouldn’t even call for help.

  William pocketed the paper. Weekend. Three days away. Not much, but enough. He could get the house clean. Maybe invite her back. Or maybe it was too soon for that? He didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to scare her off. He calculated in his head. It really depended on the state of the house after all this time. “Thank you again for the ride.” He pushed the door fully open, sliding out and s
lamming it shut. He cringed at it, but Rosie waved at him, and he saluted her back before walking to the station for his bus. Not that he was going there. He lived a ten-minute walk from it, but she didn’t have to know that.

  He walked to the station and to the board that listed bus times. He scoured them, not really reading. Keeping Rosie in his peripheral vision until she pulled away, he then came out of the station and headed home. In the space of a few minutes, he went from sunshine straight into the arms of darkness.

  It didn’t seem real yet. It wouldn’t be until he walked in there. He stood at the front gate—the front gate they’d never fixed. It stood at an angle, the corner of it digging into the broken path. Years of forcing it open and closed had created rivets in the stone, until the only hinge holding it in place had rusted and threatened to give up at any more abuse. Lucky for the hinge, William thought.

  He shoved at the gate, pushing it fully back because it had got stuck halfway, and that was where they’d left it. He pushed the damn thing with everything he had and the wood holding the hinge splinted and cracked. Good for you. Thank the years of rain and weather, thank the faithful elements that had eaten away at the flesh and allowed the wood to break and the gate to fall to its side. He picked it up and hauled it to the wall of the bay window to lean it there.

  He made his way to the front door and put his key in the lock like he had done so many times before. His hand shook, sweat beading on his forehead as he leant into the wood for support. “Just open the door, you idiot. Just open it.” He closed his eyes and twisted the key. The lock came open with a stiff twist, and he pushed. The sickening stench ran free, escaping the gloom and smacking William in the face. He clamped a hand over his mouth and ducked inside quickly before too much of the stench escaped and alerted the neighbours.

  Shit.

  Chapter Six

  Rosie

  Rosie shoved her stick shift into first and shut the car off. God, no. She took in a slow breath and cocked her jaw at the pink paper attached to her front door. She noticed the washroom door at the rear of the house was open—again. God, Ms. Mandy, would you please stop trying to wash clothes. She always left the door open, and people would help themselves to their detergent. Rosie started hiding it in behind the washer when Ms. Mandy claimed it was the All-timers disease as she called it, making her forget. More like old-timer of the ornery sort.