Maybe God just showed up . . . or he’s a hell of an asshole.
History has taught me that either is possible.
I’ve got my first step in the hallway, and I catch a glimpse of her back, hair still flopped off to the side, striding away and around a corner.
“Hey!” I start to jog, but I lose her as she jets down another corridor just as a smiling Betty White look-alike rolls her wheelchair over the toes in my left boot.
“Hi.” Betty’s eying me like her Tinder date just showed up.
“Hi.” I glance down and blow out a quick breath, shoving my hands in my pockets.
I’m so fucking tired; maybe I should get a bed here.
“You looking for a good time?” She reaches out, and I have to jerk my hips backward damn fast before she takes a big ole’ handful of crotch.
“Hey . . .” I can’t help but laugh through my exhaustion.
What the fuck do you say to a little white-haired cock-grabber with fire in her eyes?
I’m assessing the likelihood that she’s going to take another stab at me when I catch a glimpse of a guy about my height but half my weight with a shining, bald head marching toward us from behind the nurses station with a huge smile on his face. He puts himself between Betty White and me just as she takes her second shot at me.
“Ella. . . .” He is clearly trying to hold back his laughter as he gives her a scolding glare. “We talked about this. You can’t touch.” He leans right down, sticking a clipboard under his left arm, and speaks to her eye to eye. His voice is firm but compassionate. I’m struck by his gentle, matter-of-fact manner, considering the absurdity of the scene.
Betty rolls her eyes then looks me up and down, and I have to admit it makes me uncomfortable.
“But look at him—” She tips her white hair in my direction and points at me.
I can’t believe my fucking face is getting warm. This woman, old enough to be my grandma, has me blushing. She sets her eyes on me like I’m Magic Mike, and she’s got some dollar bills to stuff. “My husband was a Marine.” She bats her lashes at me with a knowing smile.
My white t-shirt is pulled tight over my chest, my dog tags clearly silhouetted beneath the gray fabric.
“Yes, I see him.” Bruce nods and snaps his eyes to me then back to Ella. “It’s not every day you have this kind of opportunity, huh?” Bruce’s smile broadens as he stands straight, holding a pretzel rod between his teeth like a cigarette.
“It’s okay.” I give Ella a friendly but uninviting smile.
“Go on.” Bruce gives her the universal hand flap signal for “go away.” “Go bother Dominic. He’s more your speed.”
Bruce turns her chair around, aiming her away from us. With a well-practiced spin of the wheels, Ella is rolling away with a string of profanity trailing behind.
“Sorry.” He’s smiling at me, and his entire face lights up. “Don’t be so shocked, that happens around here. They’re old, not dead.” Bruce shrugs. “I’m Bruce, head nurse.” He holds out his hand, and I meet it with my own in a friendly shake. “Trying to quit.” He motions to the pretzel rod between his teeth.
I nod. “I’m Beckett. Beckett Fitzgerald, my dad is—”
“I know.” He interrupts, taking the pretzel out like he’s just finished a puff. “Your dad is doing better, but he wants to leave. Eventually, I won’t be able to stop him.”
“I can’t either.” I match his shrug, and my neck gives me another snap as I close my arms over my chest.
“Well, either way, I’m glad you’re back. I know he’s proud of you. Maybe he’ll do better with family around.” Bruce’s eyes are roaming over me with a look similar to Ella’s.
“Well, that’s debatable.” I lose my smile thinking Dad would have anything positive to say about me.
“He’s sick. Don’t take it personally.”
I haven’t taken it personally in a long fucking time.
My head clears, realizing Bruce might prove helpful in another way.
“Hey, can you do me a favor?” I ask.
I see the glint in his eye and know he’s about to be disappointed when he finds out that what I want is not what he’s silently offering.
“Sure. What?” He bobs the end of the pretzel between his lips and raises his eyebrows. Even though what is on his mind is most definitely not on mine, I can’t help but like the guy.
“You’ve got a girl working here. Long, white-blonde hair, blue eyes. Her name’s Promise . . .”
“We have four or five girls here that meet that exact description.” His eyes roll with his preposterous answer, and then he breaks into a full, toothy grin, and I like him even more.