But it’s a job that comes with an expiry date. Best case scenario, Sarah will stay near the top of the tour for another ten years, but that’s not guaranteed. She could get injured, or get sick of tennis. Or slip in the rankings and lose her endorsements, to the point that it no longer makes sense for her to pay a PA.
The bottom line is, Sarah won’t need a PA forever, so at some point I’d find myself out of a job. I could try to get a job with another athlete, but it’s probably a competitive field. And as I get older, the travel would probably get tiring.
So nursing is the sensible choice, and a practical nursing diploma could be a stepping stone to a lot of things. I could work for a few years, then go back and do a bridging program to get my RN. And after a few years of that, I could apply to a nurse practitioner program, or do an MBA. Heather Larkin got her start as a nurse; maybe one day I’ll have her job.
The sort of job where I could date a surgeon and no one would be surprised.
I fire up my laptop and pull up the community college’s nursing admissions page. I don’t have the prerequisites to apply through the regular stream—I’m missing a math credit. But since I’m over twenty-one, I can apply through the mature student stream, which doesn’t need the math. This seems a bit nonsensical, since my math skills didn’t magically improve when I turned twenty-one, but I’m not going to question it.
Unfortunately, the mature student stream requires two reference letters. I hate the thought of asking people to write them, but the prospect of trying to get the math credit is even worse. I can ask my former employer, Dr. Lisa Harrington, but there’s no great choice for the second letter.
So I guess I’ll have to ask Heather Larkin. It’s not ideal, since I’ve only worked for her for a few weeks, and I’ll have to tell her I’m thinking of leaving my current job. But on the plus side, she’s a nurse herself, and maybe that will count for something with the college.
And when I ask Heather about it on Monday, she’s very gracious.
“I’d be happy to write you a letter, Alexandra,” she says, beaming at me. “I think you’d be a wonderful nurse.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “I’m hoping to start in January, and the deadline to apply is in two weeks. I know it’s short notice, but?—”
“It’s no problem,” she cuts in. “I imagine the submissions are electronic, right? You can email me the link to upload it.”
“Thank you,” I repeat, breathing an inward sigh of relief. I expected this to be much more difficult. “I really appreciate this, Heather.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she says with a smile. “I’ll be sorry to lose you, of course, but I understand.”
“Well, I might not get accepted,” I point out. It’s why I haven’t mentioned this to my family, or to Drew. If I get rejected from nursing school, I’d rather no one else knew about it.
“They’ll accept you,” Heather says kindly. “I have confidence in you, Alexandra.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
ALLY
“Damn,” Drew mutters when his phone pings with a text. It’s Wednesday evening, and we’ve just finished dinner and turned on the TV.
“Do you have to go in to work?” It’s not his usual call night, but he’s covering for a colleague.
“No,” he says, scowling at his phone.
There’s a beat of silence as I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t. He’s seemed distracted all evening, like something’s eating him. I almost ask him what’s wrong, but decide he’d tell me if he wanted me to know.
“Do you still want to watch something?” I ask instead.
Drew shakes his head. “My sister’s here,” he says with a sigh.
“What? Now?”
“Yeah, with my niece. They’ve just parked. Breanna says Charlotte needs help with her math homework, and they took a chance I’d be home.”
“Ah. And you’re not in the mood to do math?” This, I can understand.
“It’s not that,” he says. “But ever since Breanna saw us together, she’s been nagging me for details about you. I’ve pretty much shut her down, for obvious reasons.” He rakes a handthrough his hair in frustration. “And Breanna’s pretty good at math.”
“Oh.” It makes sense now. He thinks Breanna’s really here to nag him for information, and he resents being manipulated.
My eyes sweep the condo, noting the three pairs of my shoes on the rack by the door, and my purple throw blanket on the couch. I remember that the bathroom off the hall is full of my toiletries, and it’s the one guests would use. If I’d had some notice, I’d have put my stuff away, but if they’ve already parked, there’s no way I’ll have time.
“They’ll know I’m living here,” I say slowly.
