“Really.”
A woman flies out of the ER then, shouting Sora’s name. “There you are! You’re on the wait list, but they say it’ll be a couple of hours.”
Must be Sora’s younger sister, Nami. She rushes over and then skids to a stop in front of me. She glances at me, shocked, craning her neck upward like she’s trying to see the top of a hundred-year-old oak. Nami is striking, too, just like her sister, but if they stood up in a beauty pageant, I’d crown Sora every time. “Uh, who’s your friend?”
“This is Jack. Jack Mann. We were in grade school together. Nami was two years behind us,” she tells me. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention Piggy Jack.
We shake hands. Nami’s the thinner, frailer version of Sora with longer, straighter hair and much more eye makeup. I vaguely remember her from grade school, waiting at the busstop with her sister. But two years might as well have been ten back then. Fifth-graders and third-graders did not hang out.
“Jack,niceto meet you.” Nami glances at Sora. “Andyoutold me you were swearing off men.”
“I seem to have that effect on women,” I joke.
Nami’s smart watch pings and she glances at it and gasps. “Oh my God! The cake tasting! I forgot all about it! It’s in ten minutes!”
“You don’t have to stay,” Sora says.
“I should, though.” Nami glances at me.
I realize I can actually help. Maybe. “I can stay with her.” I glance at Sora. “But only if that’s okay with Sora.”
Sora nods.
“Would you? That would be great! I don’t really want to let Mitch pick out the cake. He’s hopeless without me.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Sora asks me.
“I can’t leave you alone,” I joke. “Who will protect Chicago’s sidewalks from you? Someone has to think of the taxpayers.” I offer Sora my arm.
“You’re right. We have to think of the poor sidewalks,” Sora says, as she loops her arm through mine.
Ten
SORA
We’ve been programmed to believe that someday Prince Charming will just waltz into our life. Slay the dragon or whatever. But what if Prince Charming never arrives? We need to be able to save ourselves.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Jack steers me into the ER waiting room and gently helps me into the only open spot, an old maroon chair covered in geometric shapes and one mystery stain, which I desperately hope isn’t blood. Not too far from me, a man holds a frozen bag of peas to his eye. He flashes a grin at me, and I feel light-headed. I don’t think it has anything to do with my throbbing ankle.
“Wait here and I’ll go see if I can find my brother.”
“Hey.” I glance up at Jack. Wow, the stubble. The angled chin. Those amazing chocolate fondue eyes. Warm. Kind. For a second, I forget what I was going to say.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Uh… thanks. Really.”
“Not a problem,” Jack says, flashing me that toothpaste-commercial grin. “I’ll talk to the nurse.” He leaves me to saunter up to the nursing station, his shoulders so broad they take up all the air in the room. He’s really going to do it… save me from my exorbitant co-pay. What next? He does my taxes? Negotiates my next car loan? Makes sure I orgasm first?
Men like him don’t exist.
They’re like flying unicorns. Or diets that work. Or Thanksgiving dinners where no one talks politics.
They’re figments of an optimist’s imagination.
I glance at his back as he walks away. His jeans hug his perfect butt.
