A twinge reverberates through my chest at the word, and not the sexy kind I was just enjoying. I absently rub at it, thinking about all the skipped sleep and meals and missed events that my job had required.
Why wasn’t it enough?
I quickly glue my arm to my side, not wanting to appear nervous when I’m not.
When I wasn’t two seconds ago.
Dwelling on past mistakes can do that to a gal, and so I put on a front I haven’t worn since getting fired. I meet Dr. Vasquez’s gaze head-on and tell him I’ve worked with several players from the Miami Heat. Not only to remind myself I’m qualified for my new position, but also because most people thought it was cool, and I so rarely got to be cool.
“Seriously?” he asked as we neared the other side of the building. “You know Ezekiel King?”
My heel catches on a groove in the floor, making an awful screech as it drags over the grout and stonework. Yeah, I probably should’ve seen that coming.
“Is it true that he—?”
“Surely you understand the importance of client/patient confidentiality,” I quip, glad it comes out sounding lighter than I feel.
He grins as though I’ll spill the deets that easily, but I take privileged information as seriously as I assume he takes his Hippocratic oath.
“All I will say is that after athletes and musicians, switching to a bunch of grandparents is going to feel like a total cakewalk.”
Dr. Vasquez’s stride slows, and there’s something I don’t like about the tilt of his head.
But the muffled noise beyond the doors grows louder as we reach the far side of the courtyard, distracting me. My attractive guide shuffles ahead of me to open the door, and I thank him as I step outside and squint against the glare of the midday sun.
While my eyes need time to adjust, my ears ring with the shouts, cries, and chants of… an angry mob?
In rocking chairs?
Outlines and profiles solidify and separate into a large group of seated protesters. Rockers, lawn chairs, and a few plastic pool loungers crowd the sidewalk and front steps of the building, so I’m glad I didn’t start at this entryway.
With the scene sharpening before me, I immediately wish for the return of hazy oblivion. For reasons I’m not sure Iwantto know, the majority of the geriatric dissenters are in their skivvies.
My gaze darts from sign to sign, my mind shifting into assessment mode in a flash.
Taking a Stand for Our Pools and Our Land!
Gray Hair Don’t Share!
Senior Zone: Off-limits to whippersnappers!
Our Village is for Golden Years ONLY!
TheStranger Dangersign seems a tad misguided—or a lot melodramatic—but outsiders coming in is definitely at the heart of this protest. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, drawing my attention to a commotion at the back, and I groan at the news van pulling up to the far side of the demonstration.
Great. I haven’t even started my job yet, and I might be seconds from losing it.
Panic squeezes my lungs, crowding out enough of my oxygen that dizziness sets in.
Whether it’s a lifetime of coping with Generalized Anxiety Disorder or a shift that automatically happens in a crisis, I pride myself on how outwardly cool I remain under pressure. Sure, my duck legs are paddling wildly beneath the surface, but it’s much easier to engage my pervading sense of logic on the behalf of others. Taking charge also means being my best and bossiest self, granting me more of the control I’m forever chasing.
My worries could wait until I crawled into bed alone, where I’d process my feelings and use the cover of night to shed any necessary tears.
I glance at the handsome doctor at my side to see how he’s doing, only to find him idly scrolling away on his phone, acting as if this is business as usual.
Seriously, Doc?
Then I hear my name, shouted in a voice that’s sung me lullabies, told me stories, and melded with mine in laughter. Warmth floods me the instant it tickles my ears, a slightly raspier version of the voice that also taught me how to swear—first by accident, and later on, with more creativity and purpose.
