His fingers move, soft and gentle strokes swiping back and forth over the soft material I can’t seem to get enough of. I feel his chest expand against mine along with the rapid thumps of his heart beating. It crescendos, going wild while matching the fast beats of my own banging against my ribcage. I press my handinto his chest, pushing him off me so I can get away from the heat drifting between us. We don’t need to be in this position right now. In fact, there should be a good amount of distance between us at all times. Preferably the size of a large mammal. Like a dolphin or a pony.
I push off the floor, stepping out of his grasp, and walk toward my kitchen. I get a quick glimpse of Andrew sitting on my living room floor. One knee bent where his forearm rests, a contemplative look on his face as if rewinding the last two minutes that led us to a horizontal position right where he’s sitting. An uncomfortable flux of guilt and shame trickles down to my heart, making me wonder what the fuck I’m doing. Why I’m letting Andrew spend the day with me, building LEGO and eating pizza and wrestling each other to the ground. Doing shit that people in relationships do. It’s so reckless. Not to mention risky while leading to this, a strong undercurrent of regret making me want to rush back and wrap my arms around him. But of course, I don’t do anything of the sort. Instead, I ignore his rapt gaze narrowed at the floor and reach for my cupboards above the stove.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asks. I hear him shuffle followed by his sock cover feet padding closer to me. He’s right next to me when I swipe my fingertips at the edge of the cabinet. The object I’m looking for is beyond my reach, and when Andrew looks up at the top shelf, I decide it’s okay to push aside the thought of his hands on my waist and his weight pressed on top of me and ask him for help.
“Can you get that please?” I point my finger at the glass vase. It’s hourglass shaped with a thick base and trumpet-style opening.
“This?” he asks, peering down at me.
I nod, and he grabs it with ease. Not while on the tips of his toes like I did but with barely any strain on his arms or legs. Hehands it to me, and I walk it over to the LEGO roses on my coffee table. I’m on my knees, plucking each one by the stem and gently placing them in the vase as if they’re real roses instead of made of plastic. I might as well walk the vase over to the sink when I’m done and fill it with water.
“You have to display them,” I tell Andrew as he settles back down next to me. “Otherwise, they’re just going to sit somewhere in a closet and collect dust.”
“You are so right,” he says, not bothering to hide the mocking tone in his voice. I nudge at him with my elbow, and he smirks at the same time I let out a soft, contented scoff. A little quiet banter to match the teasing we’ve been doing all day.
He watches me with rapt attention, a chuffed grin on his face, and he reaches for the last rose stem lying alongside a few sprigs of plastic baby’s breath. He brings the vase closer to him and arranges the pieces so they look nice. The whole act, me providing the vase and him adding the finishing touches, feels so domestic and homey.
“Thank you,” I say to him. With our recent history, a kiss feels expected. But we both know that’s too dangerous. A hug feels more appropriate, but even that feels risky. So, I settle for a light punch to his shoulder, to which he responds with his own soft punch aimed at my arm. We both laugh. A soft, afflicted laugh filled with a gentle reminder. “I really enjoyed myself.”
He reaches into his pocket, wiggling out his phone. He unlocks the screen and places the lit screen in front of me.
“Put in your number,” he instructs. “So I don’t have to show up unannounced next time.”
I do as he says, though a part of me wants to fight him. Have a little sparring action of bickering and taunting. But I don’t. Because I actually want him to have my number. Maybe next time, I can choose the activity. Put together a puzzle or play a game of Scrabble. Or have aTwilightmarathon or do somecrafts like learning how to crochet. Maybe even cook or bake something I’ve been wanting to try from the long list of YouTube cooking videos I’ve flagged. As friends, of course.
He takes his phone back. I expect him to shove it back into his pocket, but before he does, he taps away at it and opens up his camera app. He angles his phone at the bouquet of plastic roses and takes a snapshot. He takes a few, making sure to get it at the right angle and not have a single petal or stem out of focus. I watch him document our day in the form of more than our memory while shooing away that wave of guilt that starts to swell inside of me.
He smiles at me once he’s satisfied with his photography work. He looks at me with a poignant afterthought that leans just the smallest angle toward grief. I can see it hidden behind his pursed lips and the twinkle in his eyes as he says, “I really enjoyed myself too.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Grace
I feellike I’ve been run over by a truck. A very harsh and relentless truck that wants to show me all the bad in the world in the form of innocent clients. The last client I saw was a nineteen-year-old woman, found on her bedroom floor by her dad with what looked like drug paraphernalia. The distraught family came in with the client, worried about her overdose and the recent discovery of her hidden use history. They were tearful and anxious while I provided them with resources for rehab and mental health services due to her history of depression. I held back the knot in my throat while they clung to me, asking why this happened to their little girl. How could they have missed all the signs. What could they have done differently. If she’s going to be okay.
I’m doing my job. Trying to keep a professional front while being as compassionate and sympathetic as possible. But sometimes, that compassion bleeds into my own heart. The images of the daughter crying in her mother’s arms when she realizes she’s met with concern and fear instead of reprimand causes me to imagine a child finding comfort in the one person who would move mountains for her. I left the small room to give them some privacy while knowing their journey has just begun.I tried to focus on the good. The fact that this incident didn’t take her life. That both the mother and daughter understood they needed help and were willing to seek it, but I couldn’t help the constant twinge in my chest thinking about this hurdle they’d have to overcome before either one sees any semblance of normalcy.
I’m sitting in the nurses’ station, cradling a cup of vending machine Earl Grey tea while reviewing a chart for a patient ready to be discharged with a durable medical equipment order for a walker and shower chair. I have a few minutes before my lunch, and I’m using it to unwind and disassociate. Move on from one client to another in the hopes that I can help another person. Maybe even see a significant amount of good outweigh the bad so that the light at the end of the tunnel feels more feasible rather than this obstacle course that continues to lengthen and grow more arduous.
After a regretful sip of my tea that left my tongue seared, I’m interrupted by a completely offhand question.
“Do you know anything about catnip?”
I look up from the computer I’ve been scanning over. I had my pen wedged between my teeth, a very unsanitary habit I’ve been told by many I need to stop, and I whip it away from my face the second I see Dr. Noah’s distracted face peering down at his phone screen. He has a pair of glasses on, ones that are clearly meant for reading, and he looks at me over the black rim.
I almost look over my shoulder, unsure if the question is directed at me, before finally responding with, “Catnip?”
He nods. “I just got a cat, or two cats actually, and they seem a little…overactive. I’m thinking some catnip may subdue them.”
“So, you want to get them high?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but I am a dog person,” I confess. “I believe that makes us incompatible.”
An offended look crosses his face, and he removes his glasses, tucking them into the breast pocket of his scrub top. “There are plenty of people who have catsanddogs. In fact, my neighbor has two golden retrievers and a calico cat.”
“Hmm,” I hum with intrigue. The conversation suddenly feels like a metaphor about suitability and congruence. And not of the coworker dynamic but something that suddenly makes me a little uncomfortable that it’s just me and him at the nurses’ station.
