Page 31 of The One Timer

“About finding his girl from last night,” Sabien says. “You have her name, and you know she’s from Boston. How hard could it be to find her.”

“I’m not looking for her.” No one looks convinced, not even me. I shrug. “Besides, I don’t know her last name. It just never came up.”

“Where does she work?” Jason asks.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for her. All I know is she works in some branch of Bank of Boston as a teller.”

“There you go. Buy a bouquet of flowers and start with the bank branch down the street.” Jason attacks his pile of food that makes mine look like a bunny hill compared to the Mount Washington on his plate.

Sabien snaps his fingers. “Why don’t you ask your grandmother? That’s where she got the tickets, right?”

“Don’t you think I already asked, dick-wad?”

Jason laughs. “What the fuck is a dick-twad? You reverting to eighth grade out of frustration?” He shakes his head.

“He must have it bad,” Link says, talking about me as if I’m no longer in the conversation. “After only one night. That’s big trouble. Maybe she did him a favor by leaving without a trace.”

I give him the finger. Because he’s right, damn it.

Chapter Ten

EMERY

Shit, shit, shit. My worst nightmare. Mrs. W has caught me red-handed.

“My birthday was fine. I…” I hate lying. “How was your evening?”

“I watched Chase’s hockey game at home. It’s not as much fun by myself.”

I reach out and touch her arm. “You must miss your husband terribly.”

She nods. “Yes, but I truly feel like he’s always with me, in my heart and mind.” She pauses and smiles, looking me over like she notices I’m wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Shit.

“I should get started with⁠—”

She waves a hand. “No hurry. Enjoy your coffee and sit with me.” She gestures toward the kitchen table and the floral upholstered overstuffed chairs at the whitewashed wood table that looks like it’s some kind of French design. It’s likely some kind of expensive imported heirloom.

I should try to think up an excuse not to join her, even though I like her company. I don’t want her to ask questions, and if she talks about Chase, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hide my feelings. Yes, there are feelings, damn it.

But she’s my boss, and more importantly, I can’t resist her warm smile. So, of course, I join her.

Chatting over coffee isn’t exactly in my job description, but I put the warnings aside to draw a professional line between myself and my clients. The agency drilled the need for a wall into me, but I don’t work for them anymore, do I?

Ignoring the fact that directives not to get close to clients was a big part of the CNA training, I push back at my stupid conscience.

It’s hard for me to care for someone without actually caring. Downright impossible, in fact. And my smiles are genuine, down to my heart, not superficial pleasantries. We were told to have empathy, the kind of generalized empathy we would have for anyone, not specific or personal.

How is that even possible? I always wondered why it was necessary—until now.

As I gaze at Molly Whittier across the table, sipping her coffee and staring back at me with eyes that tell me she’s wiser than I’ll ever be, I get it. Because, in reality, I only work for Mrs. W. She’s lived the kind of life I’ll never know, in a world I can only see from the outside. I’m not her granddaughter or niece or friend or even a long-time neighbor like Sheryl Foster next door.

That’s a fact I need to remind my heart of as I look away from my boss’s wise old eyes. They remind me of Chase’s eyes, dark, deep, and fathomless, the eyes of a decent, kind person—with a generous spark of mischief.

“I much prefer to have company to cheer with when I watch the games on TV, and going to the games in person is the best.” She smiles like she’s remembering. “You like hockey, right? How would you like to come with me to the next game? I’d appreciate the company of a true fan. Most of my friends aren’t as interested. My brother-in-law Henry and my granddaughter Katherine are always too busy, and now, the Fosters are preoccupied with a new baby.”

My first instinct is to search for someone else more worthy of the invitation, but I immediately reject the idea of her long-time housekeeper, Mrs. Uvi. She’s not as old as Mrs. W, but she’s not exactly a ball of energy and complains regularly about the cold. Truthfully, I find myself helping her with her tasks half the time.

So, I opt for the truth and tell her what’s deep in my heart.