by BT Urruela
As she turns to take her stool again, I can’t help but trail the curve in her black maxi dress with my eyes, the thong indentations teasing me from beneath. She sits, and I do the same, scolding myself internally and trying my best to let my good brain take over.
“A dress in this weather. I’m impressed,” I say, grinning as I snag the menu from the bar top.
“Not even New York weather can keep me out of my maxi-dresses. Besides…” she turns a bit, pulling at the bomber jacket I noticed and admired immediately, which is hanging over her seat back, “I’ve got a jacket.”
“A pretty fucking sweet one at that. Is that thing authentic? Looks like it.”
“Sure is! It was my granddad’s during the war. He flew bombers.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” My mouth gapes a bit and my eyes are wide. “My grandpa did the same. Over in the South Pacific.”
“Wow, that’s awesome,” she says, that beautifully white smile spreading across her face again. “Mine fought in Europe. He’s always been my hero.”
“That’s awesome you memorialize him in that way.”
“Thank you,” she says passing a little smile.
“No problem. So your profile thingy says you’re a nurse… what specialty?”
“Yeah, I’m a pediatrics ICU nurse at Presbyterian. I’ve been doing it about five years now.”
“And I’m detecting a little Midwestern in your accent… I assume you aren’t from here?”
She smiles and puts a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t think I had an accent. But you’re right. I’m from Toledo, Ohio. I moved up here after college. And your accent? It certainly isn’t local.”
I smile as the bartender approaches. “Chicago, actually. Though I’ve gotten better with my hard A’s.” She snickers as my attention turns to him. “Can I get a café latte, please?” I ask and he nods, turning to Megan.
“I’ll take a black coffee with two shots of espresso,” she says, drawing questioning stares from both of us.
“Cream or sugar with that ma’am?” he asks and she shakes her head.
“Nope. Just as it is, please,” she responds and the barkeep walks away as impressed as I am.
“That’s some hardcore shit.” Smirking, I set my elbow on the bar top and lean my head against my balled fist.
“I spent some time in Australia for school. Once you get used to the coffee there, the stuff here tastes like water.”
“Well, color me impressed. I kind of feel like a bitch now,” I say, chuckling as the bartender returns with our drinks and sets them down in front of us.
“Don’t worry. You’re not the first,” she shoots, with a wink before taking a stiff chug of her pitch-black coffee. I scan her face for any sign of a grimace, but there’s nothing. She lowers her mug back to the bar top, swallows, and flashes me a coy little smile.
“I almost didn’t believe you,” I say, sipping my own coffee and keeping the mug cradled in my hands.
“I know. Why do you think I took such a big drink?” she asks playfully, her smile ever-present.
“So a hard ass and a showoff, huh? I’ve got my work cut out for me.” I grin, taking another sip of coffee, but my eyes remaining on hers. It’s hard for me to do much else. They are these perfect little emerald orbs that change color from pupil to cornea.
“I aim to impress,” she says, brushing a few strands of thick hair behind her ear. “And you? When did you start ordering women’s drinks?” A giggle bursts from her mouth and she puts her hands to her face to catch it. “I’m sorry,” she says from behind her hands. Lowering them, she shakes her head and her eyes roll. “I can speak without thinking at times when humor is involved.”
“Hey, what can I say?” I shrug, lifting my cup in a cheers before taking a sip, my pinky sticking straight out. I lower the mug back down onto the bar top and smile. Clearing my throat first, I say, “So, I have a special spot in my heart for nurses. My grandmother was a nurse during the World War II. That’s how she met my gramps.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet,” she says with a wide smile.
“Yeah, it’s amazing what you all do. She had some stories. Let me tell you.” I shake my head, my thoughts trailing to Grandma in her rocker, before her mind went, telling me about the love she found with my grandpa, through all the carnage and the mayhem. Their love shined through.
“Oh, I’m sure my experiences couldn’t touch hers,” she says, waving me off.
“You’re being too modest. I can’t imagine the strength working in pediatrics ICU would take. You must carry a lot with you.”
She pauses for a moment, looking up as if in thought and then her eyes trail over to me. “You know, it used to bother me a lot. I’d cry myself to sleep some nights after losing one of them. I’ve just learned to focus on the ones we do save… and I meditate… a lot,” she says, smiling.
“Well, nothing but respect for that. Both of those things, actually. I can’t meditate to save my life. It’s like a form of torture with my ADD as bad as it is.”
She laughs, nodding. “You’re telling me. It took a lot of practice.”
The bartender approaches, interrupting us briefly to take our food order before he departs. She excuses herself to the bathroom for a moment, and as she saunters away, I sneak a glance at her ass as her hips sway. She disappears into the bathroom and my eyes roam to the liquor shelves, and the mirror just behind them. I run my hands through my hair, noticing it’s taken on a life of its own as it tends to do. It doesn’t do much, but enough not to look like a complete jackass. I’m surprised I care, but I do. For the first time, the girl looks better in person. And not just by a little bit. This girl is a fucking stunner. There’s this little buzz of insecurity in the pit of my stomach, that anxious knot that takes hold when you feel outmatched. I had the same feeling with Joanne when I first met her.
I feel a brush against my arm and turn to see her staring back at me, a smile on her face.
“Did I startle you?” she asks, taking a seat.
I laugh. “Just a little. I was zoned out.”
“I could tell. By the way, good call on the restaurant. This place is amazing. One of my favorites, but that bathroom is tiny!”
“Yeah, it’s kind of like an airplane bathroom… but worse. Definitely one of my favorite restaurants, too. What’s the good in living in New York City if you’re not enjoying the cuisine?” She nods. “I find myself enjoying it a little too much,” I add jokingly, patting my stomach.
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You look great. I’m the one that needs to cut back. I can’t help it. I’m like a bear. I stock up for the winter months,” she says, that cute little giggle escaping again.
“Now you’re just delusional. You don’t need to change a damn thing.”
She looks away, a rosy hue taking up her cheeks. “Why, thank you,” she says with a timid smile. “I could still go for losing a few, but, I mean, Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming up.” She shrugs before finishing off her coffee and motioning to the bartender for another.
“Yeah, I’m a disgusting glutton over the holidays. And I am not ashamed,” I say, grinning. “I don’t even mess with the turkey. Give me all the sides.”
She smiles, nodding in agreement. “What’s your favorite food?”
“I mean, I’m as Italian as they come, so that’ll always have my heart. I love some good sushi, too, though.”
Her eyes light up and she nods. “Oh, yeah. I’m Italian as well… Sicilian actually, so I’m with you there. Pasta is my worst enemy.” Jackpot. “And sushi, well, that’s probably my favorite thing in the world. There’s this place uptown that has the most amazing Philly rolls. We should go sometime.”
I want to respond, but my tongue is stuck, the words caught in my throat. My mind rapidly processes the fact that she asked me on another date and I actually want to say yes. I was so worried about people getting attached over these thirty days, I never thought about the prospect of meeting people
I actually like back.
“Or not,” she says with an uneasy chuckle.
“No, no… sorry!” I say, putting a hand up. “I have these moments where I try to talk, but the mouth doesn’t quite work. I would definitely love to grab sushi with you sometime. Right now though, all I can think about is that!” I point to the incoming bartender, my eyes locked on the two plates in his hands, one of them being my eggs benedict. She looks over and lets out a sigh of contentment as he sets the plates in front of us.
As we dig in, with little conversation between us, I can’t help but laugh and admire the fact that she’s just like me. When food is in front of us, and hangry moods are looming, we do work.
Once we’re finished, the empty plates pushed aside and bill paid, she looks at me and smirks. “You want to go for a walk?”
I stand, taking a step back and giving her room to pass. “I’d love to,” I say, smiling. She gets up and puts on her jacket as I do the same, pulling a beanie from my coat pocket and slipping it over my head. I put a hand out and take a step back. “You lead the way.”
“Isn’t this your neighborhood?” she says, shooting me a playful wink.
“What are you… three minutes from here?” I ask, laughing as she makes her way to the door. “I got this though. Like it’s a tough decision. Let’s go through Washington Square Park.”
I hurry a few steps to make it to the door before her and prop it open.
“Why, thank you, sir,” she says, passing through the doorway.
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
As we stroll onto the path leading into Washington Square, we’re immediately struck by the illustrious beauty of New York City in the fall. Some of the leaves have begun to die, but the majority are still blazing with vibrant shades of fall oranges, yellows and crimson, much like the horizon during a setting sun. There’s a smattering of people all over the park, which is no surprise. Weekends here can be crazy, even when the cold has come. This right here is one of the things that brought me to New York City in the first place, beyond being closer to my grandma. I break my gaze from the beautiful surroundings and glance at my wristwatch, wary of my date with Grandma this afternoon.
“Do you have to go? Sorry, I probably should’ve asked that initially,” she says, noticing my distraction.
I lower my hand and pocket it, shaking my head. “No, you’re fine. I still have time. I just need to be somewhere at two.”
“Oh, well, just let me know whenever you need to head back. I could get lost in here,” she says, her hands in her bomber jacket and her gaze sweeping across the treetops.
“I know. I come here to read and write all the time. I absolutely love it. I can’t stay out too long when it’s cold like this, which is a shame because, I mean… look at it.” I motion to the trees around us. “But spring and summer, I’m here every day.”
“I almost forgot you were an author. That’s pretty impressive. I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
I shake my head, lost in the thoughts of countless hours in front of the computer screen, toiling away over putting words to page in a way that would make me feel something. “It’s a bitch. I’m not going to lie. You’re almost a slave to your imagination.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Well, I can have the desire to write, but it doesn’t mean I have the ability. Sometimes when I sit down to write and the story surges through my brain, but nothing comes out. My fingers don’t move because the words just don’t come together.”
“Oh, wow, I never thought about that.”
“Trust me… seeing that book… flipping through the pages and reading passages I wrote… it makes it all worth it. But writer’s block is a real bitch,” I say, looking toward the ground.
“I guess, lucky for me, I’ve always wanted to do non-fiction. Kind of a story about my life,” she says.
“You almost have to treat it as a fiction novel though, regardless. They work the same way. You need a beginning, a middle, and an end. You need the ebb and flow… the conflict… and of course, the why. Why am I writing this? What am I trying to get across? What is the purpose… the moral to the story? If you don’t have that, you don’t have a story people want to read. You have to have a why.”
She nods, taking in my words for a moment before she says, “I guess I’ll need to pick your brain in a few years,” through a smile.
“Happy to help. I actually taught writing at Manhattan Community for a spell. Just creative writing 101, so it could be mindless at times, but it was great helping the few who actually wanted to learn the craft.”
“I definitely respect that you can do that. I can only imagine how hard the process is.”
“I appreciate that. I need to get my shit together soon and put something on paper. I’m just a smidge past deadline,” I say with a laugh.
“Are they hard on you if you miss it?”
I laugh again, a little uneasy this time, as I think to the last time I met with my publishers. “Honestly, I think they’ve about given up on me. They’ll still send their thinly veiled ‘how’s everything been?’ emails from time to time, but for the most part, they leave me alone.”
As we approach a serene lake, still and shimmering from the midday sun, I turn to her and ask, “So what made you want to be a nurse?”
We stop just before the lake, and she tilts her head, her eyes on mine. “Watching my mother die,” she says bluntly, and her words bring me back a bit. “The difference between the good nurses and the bad nurses was astronomical.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I say, though it doesn’t seem like enough.
“It’s okay. I was fifteen, so I’ve had plenty of time to process it. Never becomes easy, but you learn to move on. We had a handful of nurses who were just absolute Godsends and then we had some that couldn’t have given two shits. It hurt, because you’re sitting there, watching your mother destroyed by cancer, and these assholes are more concerned with how much time they have before they get off.”
“That’s appalling,” I murmur, shaking my head.
“Yeah, but that handful really made a difference. I still keep in touch with some of them.”
“I know what you mean. My grandma is at Brookdale and the nurses there, one of them specifically, really do everything they can to give her the best life they can. It settles the mind a bit.”
“Exactly. So, I kind of set out to do it the right way. I wanted to work with children, because, well…” She pauses, looking away again toward the placid lake before looking back at me. “They’re still innocent. Still deserving.”
“That’s awesome. I couldn’t agree more. I’ve always thought, if only I had a male figure to show me the ropes when I was younger, to lead me in the right direction. It may have changed a whole lot about my life. Though your experiences with these kids may be brief, I can only imagine they’re lasting. Do you keep in touch with any of them?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, with a smile. “They’re my babies. Always on my mind.”
I nod toward the main walkway we came from and say, “I hope it’s okay if we start heading back. Would love to continue the conversation though.”
“Sure thing,” she replies with a smile and she continues toward the busy road without another word. I follow behind, walking with lengthy strides to catch up.
After a bit more chitchat, we reach the intersection where we are to part ways. There’s a nervous hesitation in the air, and I can tell by the way she looks at me, the way her bottom lip slips between her teeth, she wants me to kiss her. And hell, maybe I do too. But I can’t. This can only lead to trouble.
She stands there, her brown locks blowing in the wind and her hands tucked into her bomber jacket. She has a kindness and serenity in her eyes you don’t often see in people. I’m both intrigued and enamored by it. I smile, a genuine, full smile, and I tilt my head just slightly.
“I had a really good time,” I say, trying my best not to avert my eyes to the gro
und in nervousness.
She smiles wide, her pearly whites shimmering in the mid-day sun and she nods slowly. “Yeah…” she says. “I had a really good time, too.” There’s a short pause, a stillness between us for a moment as we take each other in. “Sushi soon?” she asks finally.
“Yeah, I think that’s a great idea,” I respond, putting my arms up for a hug and she steps into my embrace. Her body is warm, pleasing to the touch, and it sends a surge of excitement through me. I give a quick, stealthy kiss to the side of her head, taking in the intoxicating smell of her shampoo as I pull away.
“Bye, Megan,” I say with a smile as I turn to proceed toward my loft, my eyes still on her.
“Bye, Gavin,” she replies, before turning on her heel and walking away. I watch her for a moment, but she doesn’t turn back, and I wonder if she knows I’m watching. I wonder if the added sway in her hips is because she knows. I’m struck with an intense desire to see her again as soon as humanly possible, which only confuses me that much more. Thirty days will be my undoing. I’m sure of it.
I don’t often take Grandma outside during fall and winter, but from time to time, I like to bundle her up and take her out to Central Park, just beside the Bow Bridge where Grandpa took her on dates when they were younger. She used to tell me about those days, when he showed her that the kind of love she read about in books was real. I used to revel in the stories; the summers spent soaking up every word.
I take her here for the same reason I take her to all her old haunts—for the same reason I spend hours letting her feel, smell, and connect with her old books—in hopes that it triggers something… so that I may have my Grandma back again, if only for an afternoon.
I push her chair through Central Park, enjoying her bobbing head and looks of joy at the beautiful fall colors, and wildlife darting back and forth. We stop just before the Bow Bridge, not far from the spot where Grandpa proposed to her some fifty years ago. The Plaza Hotel juts into the horizon just past the bridge and as I snag a blanket from the bag I brought, I notice Grandma is mesmerized by the towering twin buildings.
