She looks down at her outfit. “I’m not really dressed to hand out food,” she replies, and I can tell it’s the best excuse she could come up with. Honestly, it’s almost shocking.
“I didn’t realize serving people who don’t have access to warm meals requires a certain attire,” I deadpan, more than a little pissed at her lack of empathy. In short, Bethany sucks as a human. She starts to back away, and I can’t help the curl of my lip, almost a sneer.
“I just remembered I have to meet my sister to help with her wedding plans.” She nearly misses the last step, and I briefly consider whether it’s terrible to hope she face-plants on the granite. Well, that would make me late, so I’d settle for her just leaving.
“Right,” I say, expression perfectly unimpressed. “Well, see you never, Bethany,” I add dryly, swinging the door open with a flourish, stepping inside, and finally ridding myself of that drab gold digger.
My sneakers squeak against the clean floors as I walk toward the kitchen, where food service is scheduled to begin from eleven-thirty to one p.m. I usually arrive an hour early to help prepare everything. I spot Arthur at the hospitality desk, and he waves me over. I grab my volunteer pass, the lanyard proudlydisplaying the wordvolunteerin yellow letters, and sling it around my neck.
“How’s life at the hospital, man?” he asks, smiling widely, showing off his gapped teeth. It’s endearing to him, and I can’t help wondering if orthodontia would take away some of that charm. He always jokes that he can fit a buck-fifty in there, though I hope he hasn’t actually tried. I shudder at the thought.
“Never-ending,” I say, and that seems to please him. His mom was an operating room nurse, and from her stories and firsthand experience, he knows how grueling the workload can be. With a wave of my badge, I walk to the kitchen ready to help in any way I can.
“There you are, love,” Betsy calls, waving me over. “Can you be a dear and load the trays with the canned veggies, please?” I nod, offering her a quick smile, and get to work, opening cans and arranging the vegetables in the warming trays. Soon, the metal serving trays steam, and I’ve loaded all the utensils into bins, along with napkins. Taking my place in line, I prepare to help as the first guests arrive. Many are familiar faces, but a woman and her daughter, about five people down in line, catch my attention. They’re new here.
As they draw closer, I notice the woman has a black eye. It’s healing now, but it’s still ringed with streaks of yellow, green, and purple. I force myself not to stare, but it’s hard to look away. The little girl beside her clutches a worn rabbit, its big, floppy ears matted from too much love. Her wide eyes sweep over the trays of food with such wonder that it makes my jaw ache from clenching. She looks at it like a child who hasn’t had steady access to food in a long while.
“What do you like to eat?” I ask her, forcing my voice to remain calm while anger claws at my insides, urging me to punish whoever let it get this far because they deserve far worse than hunger.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “I can have whatever I want?” she whispers in disbelief, and my heart aches a little at her question.
“Of course,” I assure her softly, but before I can say more, her mom steps in.
“Rose Daniella, just get a couple of things that you know you’ll eat. We don’t want to waste any food.” I freeze with my serving spoon suspended mid-air. She looks up at me and points eagerly to a dish of pasta.
“I’ll take that one!” Her little hand extends toward it, and that’s when I see it—a bruise. The handprint is an angry purple and wraps around her entire wrist. I fight the surge of anger rising inside me. I grip the spooner tighter, fighting to smother it down, to keep my face composed while every instinct screams out to find the bastard responsible.
She looks at me with those kind, trusting eyes that have probably seen more than her fair share of injustice. Instead, I keep my voice calm for her. “Dani, do you want something else with your pasta? We’ve got meatballs and some sauce, too,” I offer as an afterthought. She nods quickly, her little eyes wide, watching intently as I place a generous scoop onto her plate.
She takes the tray, confused by my nickname for her, but I can’t help it. It’s too close to home. “Thank you, sir,” she offers politely, and her mom gives me a small, timid smile before they leave and settle at a tiny table in the corner. I watch them as Dani—I mean, Rose—holds onto her bunny tightly as she eats her spaghetti, sauce smeared across her face. But for now, at least she’s fed and smiling.
When the line dwindles and the cleanup is done, I step back out into the city streets. The air is cool and brisk against my heated skin. It isn’t much—just a few meals served and some donated hours of my time—but I feel good about having spent my afternoon doing something that makes a difference in someone else’s life. Still, as I walk home, I can’t shake the feelingthat Dani lingers at my side. Sometimes, I can swear I feel her, though I know that’s impossible. I’ll just have to settle for the ghost of her.
TWENTY-THREE
DANI
I’ve been in the Boston area, waiting for a job to open in the hospice department. I was told that they’ll have something soon, as the woman currently holding my dream position is finally expected to retire. From what I hear, I have some very big shoes to fill. For now, I’m settling into a per diem nurse role in the emergency department, which is just as busy as the one I left in Houston. There are a few differences in the lingo, but the job itself is the same. The first time one of the nurses asked me to pass her a “Johnny,” I stared at her like she had sprouted two heads. Only when she pointed at the blue-striped hospital gown did it click.
“You mean the gown?” I asked, brow furrowed.
She laughed. “Yeah, that. It’s a Johnny. What do you guys call it down South?”
I tilt my head sideways, giving her my bestAre you seriouslook. “Um, a hospital gown,” I deadpan, because isn't it obvious?
She chuckles, “Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” she teases, walking off and down the hall. Hell, don’t I know it. When I first moved here, people kept asking me if I was “all set,” and I had no idea what they meant. A water fountain is called a bubbler, and soda? They call it tonic. Back home inTexas, everything is just Coke. Want a Coke? Which kind? A Sprite? You got it. Coming right up. So I guess she’s right. I’ll get used to it…eventually. Though if someone offers me some Dunkin' Donuts caffeine through an IV line, I might get on board with that. Speaking of, where is my coffee order?
I’m searching for Shioban, who should be coming with my beverage any minute, when I see him. All the air is punched right out of my lungs, leaving only a hollow pit. He prowls down the corridor, a dark presence radiating a “devil is a gentleman” vibe. His polished black shoes and flashing red soles strike the floor with sharp, commanding strides, abruptly coming to a stop at the central nursing station. He lifts a clipboard, flipping through it with focused precision, until he stops, almost mechanically, and extracts a 12-lead EKG tracing. His cold, calculating obsidian eyes scan it from top to bottom, assessing the rhythm. With his elongated fingers, he flips the paper aside, places another sheet on top, and saunters off with one hand clasping the chart as his white coat trails behind him. His athletic legs take him into one of the trauma bays, where he pauses briefly. His head tilts slightly before shaking it off and disappearing into the room.
For a minute, I thought he was going to turn, and his eyes would find mine. Did he feel it, too? The possibility makes my pulse quicken, and a restless energy sparks and electricity hums beneath my skin. An ache so profound consumes me, demanding that my body follow him. The sensation makes my skin prickle as I fight off my intense attraction to claim him here in front of everyone. My Vic. Mine.
Even after he disappears into the trauma bay, I remain frozen, rooted to the spot, my breathing left shallow from the encounter. I stare at the space he left behind, mesmerized, as my body finally awakens after feeling nothing for so long. This electric current of need and longing surges through me, revivingevery nerve, every synapse just from the sight of this man who’s tormented my dreams for years. Though he’s gone, my body still burns, branded from the mark he left on my heart years ago.
Just then, Shioban appears with my coffee. Her cool, green eyes study me with amusement. “I see you’ve had the privilege of witnessing Dr. Flores in action,” she teases. I turn my gaze to her, my face blank as I try to school my expression, but it’s no use. Shioban sees right through it.
“Um,” she says, lifting a finger and swirling it in the air toward my mouth. “You have a little drool—” but she doesn’t finish as I break into laughter, shaking my head. Popping the plastic tab of my medium regular coffee cup, the steam wafts upward, curling in the air. I take a long sip, letting the warmth seep down my throat, settling my stomach.
Shioban smirks with her arms crossed over her chest. “Don’t bother trying to hide it. Most nurses go weak in the knees when he walks by.” Shioban leans in closer, poised to tell me a secret. “Just watch out for Bethany,” she says coolly. My brows lift, silently asking her to elaborate. She lifts her chin toward a knockout of a woman walking toward Vic. She’s slightly older, but her face screams Botox. Her smooth skin is taut against her strong cheekbones, and her plump, collagen lips are shiny with a coat of pink lip gloss. I see Vic stop outside the trauma bay as Bethany places her hand on his arm. I watch and fight the urge to rip her hand away. He hands her the chart and strolls away as we all watch his tall, muscular form walk down a back corridor that leads to the darkened stairwell and up to the operating rooms, no doubt ensuring the staff is setting up his case in preparation for his patient.
