First Crush

by Linda Seed

  Something was going on with Owen, and TJ needed to find out what it was.

  Bianca hadn’t expected to find anything concerning in Owen Davenport’s lab tests. The boy had looked normal to her—gangly, awkward, with limbs that looked too long for his body, maybe, but normal.

  If he was tired, as TJ had reported, that wasn’t anything unusual for a boy in early adolescence. They tended to get too little sleep at a time when their bodies were developing at an astounding rate.

  Now, sitting in her office during a break between patients, she scanned his results with concern. His blood counts were off, and so were his glucose levels. It was probably nothing to worry about, but she’d have to call him back in for further evaluation.

  Seeing Owen Davenport again would mean seeing his father again. At the thought of it, Bianca felt a little flutter in her chest. She told the flutter to shut the hell up.

  How stupid was it that her teenage crush hadn’t waned after all these years? How pathetic was it that she still felt the flutter? She wasn’t an awkward sixteen-year-old anymore. She was an accomplished professional woman, a mature adult with meaningful work, and goals, and …

  And a distinct flutter.

  Her office door opened, and Sofia poked her head in. “Bianca? You’ve got the Miller twins in Room Two.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t look up from her iPad.

  Sofia’s eyebrows rose. “Something wrong?”

  “No, no. Well … maybe. Owen Davenport’s labs came back.”

  “Oh, no. He’s not sick, is he?”

  “Probably not. But I’ll have to call his father to schedule a follow-up.”

  “I’ll do that. It’s what you hired me for. You don’t have to—”

  “No, let me,” Bianca said, interrupting her.

  “Ooh.” Sofia grinned suggestively.

  “Shut up.”

  TJ was on a job when he heard from Bianca. He was in somebody’s spare bedroom trying to diagnose a dead outlet when his cell phone rang.

  “Hello, TJ? This is Dr. Russo. Bianca. Bianca Russo.” She said it as though she wasn’t certain of her own name.

  “Hi, Bianca.” He was torn between enjoying that hit of nostalgia from hearing her voice and worrying about why she might be calling him. “Is this about Owen?”

  “It is, yes.” She cleared her throat. Was she nervous about talking to him? Jeez, his mother had been right. She’d had a crush. Did she still? The idea was … Wait. Was something wrong with Owen?

  He zeroed in and focused. “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing, but I’d like to follow up.” She told him about the lab results and asked him to bring Owen in for another appointment to look into what they might mean.

  “I can bring him in next week,” TJ said. “Is this something I should be worried about?”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t. It’s probably nothing. But it’s better to be safe.”

  Once he was off the phone, he thought, I knew it. I knew there was something going on. And, on the heels of that, Well, shit.

  He really hadn’t wanted to be right.

  6

  Bianca had tried to talk herself into moving in with Peter. She really had. But every time she imagined packing up her things and leaving her house—her parents’ house—for Peter’s clean, tidy, energy-efficient condo, she felt a gaping pit of dread in her chest.

  All things considered, it probably was a bad idea to make a romantic commitment to someone who inspired a gaping pit of dread.

  “I can’t do it,” she said to Benny one night as she was looking at her furniture, trying to decide what would and would not fit in Peter’s condo. “I just … I can’t.”

  “Yeah. You’ve got a lot of stuff,” Benny said. “You shouldn’t even try to do it yourself. You’ll need to hire some movers.”

  “I meant, I can’t move in with Peter.”

  Benny stared at Bianca for a long moment, then broke into a dance complete with hip swivels and fists rhythmically pumping into the air.

  “Thank God,” she sang to the beat of her dance. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

  “Really? I’m about to break a man’s heart, and that’s how you react?” Bianca glared at Benny.

  “Sorry.” Benny stopped dancing. “You’re right. But, Bianca, you’re not going to break his heart. He’d need to have one first.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Probably not.” Benny shrugged. “He’s not a bad guy, I guess. And I’m not saying he doesn’t really want to be with you. What I’m saying is that he’s not in love the way you and I think of it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Benny cocked her head and talked as though she were explaining addition to a toddler. “Peter sees you as a sensible addition to his lifestyle. It’s genuine, I guess, as far as it goes. But it isn’t love.”

  That stopped Bianca, because she could see the truth of it. Peter didn’t make emotional decisions, he made decisions based on data and analysis. If he wanted her to live with him, it was because he’d done a cost/benefit assessment of the situation—not because his heart burned for her.

  Peter’s heart didn’t burn—it pumped blood for the benefit of his vital organs. Nothing more.

  Bianca sank onto her bed. It was late, and she was wearing a pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt, her hair damp from the shower.

  “You’re right.” She felt tears spring into her eyes.

  “Oh, wait. Shit. I didn’t mean—” Benny looked alarmed.

  “I know what you meant. And you’re right. But that leaves me at square one again, doesn’t it? I’m going to be a crazy spinster cat lady.”

  “No, you won’t.” Benny sat down beside her and rubbed Bianca’s shoulder. Benny was dressed in a Hello Kitty bathrobe, her hair in a high ponytail that resembled a water fountain springing out of her head. “For one thing, you’re allergic to cats.”

  “Benny—”

  “And for another thing, you’re the alpha sister. If any of us ends up a crazy cat lady, it’s going to be Martina.”

  Bianca laughed, her eyes still damp. “This sucks,” she said.

  “Not as much as living with Peter would.”

  She had to tell him—and sooner, rather than later—so she called him from her office and asked if she could come over after work so they could talk.

  He was running late because two appointments had gone long, pushing his entire schedule out of whack, but he suggested that she go to his place, let herself in with the key he’d given her, and wait for him.

  She got to his place just after six-thirty. Bianca had dawdled at her office, doing paperwork and killing time so she wouldn’t have to sit in Peter’s condo for too long. It was a nice building with a view of San Luis Obispo’s downtown shopping district, but inside, there were few signs of life.

  Clean, modular furniture. Bookshelves sparsely dotted with nonfiction titles: medical textbooks, business how-tos. A coffee table with nothing on it—no magazines, no scented candles, no stacks of bills waiting to be opened. A refrigerator stocked with expensive products from Whole Foods.

  The more she looked at the place in the silence of Peter’s absence, the more certain she was that she couldn’t live like this.

  At first, she’d thought maybe she could be a warming influence for him and make his lifeless space into a home. But now, she realized that was wrong. This was who he was. She couldn’t change him, and why should she even try? He was happy this way. He liked who he was. And that wasn’t wrong. It just wasn’t for her.

  By the time he got home just before seven, she’d worked herself up into a state of nervous dread, but she also realized the breakup was both right and inevitable.

  “Peter.” She stood up from the sofa to greet him when he came in the door.

  “Hi.” He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, barely looking at her, and headed into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, took out a bottle of whi
te wine, and poured himself a glass.

  That was unusual. He rarely drank; the wine was there mainly for her.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” He looked up as though he’d barely noticed she was in the room. “Oh. Yes. Of course. I had a tough patient today, that’s all. Colon cancer. Twenty-two years old.”

  “Oh, no.”

  She couldn’t tell him what she’d come to tell him—not after a day like that. It could wait. Tomorrow, maybe. Or on the weekend—

  “So. What did you want to talk about?” Peter sat down on the sofa looking exhausted. His hands, holding his wineglass, were suspended between his knees.

  “Oh. It’s nothing. I don’t think—”

  “If you came to tell me you’re ready to move in, I want to hear it. After a day like I’ve had, I could use some good news.”

  “Oh. I don’t … It wasn’t that.”

  “Ah.” His shoulders slumped. “Okay. What, then?”

  Bianca froze, unsure how to proceed. She couldn’t break up with him now—not after he’d had a terrible day. He looked so tired, so defeated, she didn’t think she could add to his problems.

  “It’s nothing. It can wait,” she said at last.

  He shot her a look of pure irritation—something that was rare for him. “Waiting is your thing, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?” She sat on the sofa next to him, but at enough of a distance that they didn’t touch.

  He shrugged. “When I asked you to move in here, I thought you’d be happy. I thought you’d be excited about it. But, no. You wanted to wait and think about it. Now here we are, waiting for you to say whatever it was you came here wanting to tell me. Seems like you enjoy leaving me hanging, that’s all.”

  She sat up straighter and leveled her shoulders. “You’ve had a hard day, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

  He didn’t look at her as he took a sip of his wine and put the glass on the coffee table. “So, what you’re going to say will make it worse, then.”

  It was clear to Bianca that with that kind of lead-in, he knew what was coming. There was nothing left to do but say it.

  “Peter … I think we should stop seeing each other. It’s just not working. I’m sorry. You’re a lovely person.…”

  “Save it.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Save the part about me being a lovely person. I’m not lovely enough for you to want to be with me, so what does it matter?”

  “It’s not—”

  “You know, Bianca, did it ever occur to you that I’m not the problem here?” He stood and towered over her, looking down at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe you don’t really want all of the things you say you want. You want marriage and a family, but here you are, still without either one of them, turning away the person who’s standing here willing to give you both.” He shook his head. “Just a thought, that’s all.”

  She stood, picked up her purse from the coffee table, and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I should go.”

  “I’d tell you that I’ll bring your things to you, but you never left anything here, did you?” He laughed bitterly. “Just go.”

  Bianca left without saying anything else. As she went, she wondered if he was right. Was she deliberately sabotaging her own goals and desires? What if she only thought she wanted a family of her own, but was intentionally putting up roadblocks that would prevent it from ever happening?

  On the other hand, maybe she just was smart enough to know that she and Peter weren’t a match and never would be.

  “I did it,” she told Martina when she got home that night. Sofia and Benny weren’t around, but Martina was sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, reading a book. She was wearing a long, floral-printed dress she’d made herself, her feet encased in warm, wool socks. Her long, auburn-dyed hair was tied into a loose bun.

  “You did what?” Martina set the book aside.

  “I broke up with Peter.” Bianca collapsed onto the sofa, still wearing her jacket and holding her purse.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  They were quiet together for a while, then Martina said, “How did he take it?”

  “He was mad. He did this ‘I should have known you wouldn’t realize what’s good for you’ kind of thing.”

  “But you do realize what’s good for you,” Martina said. “That’s why you broke up with him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bianca knew she’d done what was necessary, but knowing it didn’t make her feel any less awful.

  “For what it’s worth, Bianca, you did the right thing.” Martina laid a hand on Bianca’s arm. “He wouldn’t have made you happy. And he’d have known he didn’t make you happy, so he wouldn’t have been happy, either.”

  That was a lot of talk about happiness, considering the utter lack of it going around.

  7

  Owen’s follow-up with Dr. Russo was scheduled for later in the week. In the meantime, the kid was completely preoccupied with the business of getting a dog.

  TJ tried to put him off, but it was all Owen could talk about: What kind of dog would they get? What would they name it? Where would it sleep? Would it know how to sit or fetch?

  In the evenings after dinner, the two of them perused the San Luis Obispo animal shelter website, scanning the offerings of available dogs. They discussed breeds, disposition, possible health problems—and the ever-urgent question of who would walk the dog and clean up after it.

  Owen claimed that he would do it every day without having to be asked, but TJ knew better. Still, as long as Owen would do at least part of the work without too much hassle …

  “I guess we can go down there tomorrow after school,” TJ said one evening when he’d been sufficiently worn down by Owen’s persistence. “I’ve got some free time in the afternoon.”

  “Really? That’s awesome.” Owen hugged him, which he rarely did anymore since he’d become too self-conscious about that sort of thing. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks. I’m going to go text Austin.”

  The whole thing left TJ feeling fairly pleased with himself—even if he didn’t particularly want a dog.

  The most common dogs available at the shelter were Chihuahuas and pit bulls. TJ didn’t want a Chihuahua because it just wasn’t his style—he could hardly imagine himself maintaining his manly dignity while walking a two-pound dog on a leash—and he didn’t want a pit bull because it was prohibited in the rental contract for his house. That left everything else, which included hounds and terriers, shepherds and pointers, Labs and mutts.

  TJ and Owen walked among the enclosures as the dogs inside barked for their attention, slept in corners, or glared at them suspiciously.

  Amid the racket of a hundred different barks, Owen was taken with a small sandy-colored terrier who was scrabbling at the window of his pen, his tail wagging furiously.

  “Look, Dad. He likes us. Look at him.” Owen put his hand up against the window, and the dog tried to lick it through the glass.

  “Maybe.” TJ peered at the information card on the door, trying to get a sense of the dog. At the bottom of the card was a notation that the dog had been adopted and was waiting for his new owners to pick him up. “Uh-oh. He’s taken.”

  Just as well, TJ thought. The dog looked excessively energetic, which might translate into destroyed furniture and pillows stripped of their stuffing.

  “What about him?” TJ pointed across the hall to a black Lab, his muzzle dotted in gray, sitting silently in his pen.

  Owen went over and looked into the pen. “He looks kinda old.”

  Old meant sedate, TJ thought. Old meant less trouble, less chasing him around to try to get back your shoe.

  “That’s why he needs us,” he said.

  The dog’s tail thumped slowly and heavily against the floor. Was that a wag? It had to be. Either that or it was having some kind of seizure.

  The card on the dog’s pen
said his name was Gary, he’d had one owner since he was a puppy, and he’d been surrendered to the shelter two days earlier after the man had died. Under the category of age, the card simply said five plus.

  “Five plus another ten, probably,” TJ muttered under his breath.

  “Dad, he’s too old,” Owen said. “Can he even play?”

  That was a fair point. TJ knew they should probably get a young and frisky mutt, something like the terrier across the hall. Still, he looked into Gary’s eyes, and the old dog seemed to be pleading with him.

  He’d lost the only owner he’d ever known. Tough break. A guy shouldn’t have to live his final days alone in a shelter, especially when he was grieving.

  “What do you think, Gary?” TJ said to the dog. “You want to try living with us?”

  “Dad,” Owen moaned.

  There was paperwork, of course, and the practical matters of procuring a dog bed, food and water bowls, a leash and collar, and all of the other things a self-respecting dog needed. TJ pored over the food choices, the treats.

  By late afternoon, TJ had brought Gary into the house, fed him, placed his bed in a corner of the living room, and showed him the toys he and Owen had selected for him.

  They put Gary’s new squeaky hedgehog into the dog bed to try to make it more alluring, but Gary wasn’t interested. Instead, the dog waited until TJ sat down on the sofa, then stood next to him with his head on TJ’s thigh.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have a nap in your new bed?” TJ asked.

  Gary let out a sigh and blinked at TJ with mournful attention.

  At least he wasn’t peeing in the house. That was something.