Chapter 3 #2
“Sadly, no.” We head over to the two porch chairs overlooking the one-way street. “Not until I strip out of these scrubs, anyway.”
Carly has come at the perfect moment, no doubt intentional.
Falcon Haven’s sunsets are almost famous.
We’re at the time of day when the pure blue becomes a watercolor painting of pinks, oranges, and reds, their brushstrokes reaching high over roofs and treetops, coating the town in a dreamy glow.
One of the neighbor’s kids brings out a basketball and starts dribbling and shooting for the net, the sound of rubber meeting asphalt a comforting backdrop to weekend beginnings.
“You look like death,” Carly observes as she perches on the chair next to mine.
I force my attention away from the view. “Gee, thanks.”
But I don’t deny it. I’ve scraped my brown hair into a bun, I’m pretty sure I put on mascara this morning but not confident it’s stayed on my lashes, and I’ve spent more time trying to hydrate Mrs. Stalinski than quench my thirst. I’m sure my dry skin shows it.
“Man, I couldn’t do what you do.” Carly rests her head back, the warm September wind doing a fine job of blowing her auburn strands around her face. Unlike me, none of her healthy locks fly into her mouth.
“Doesn’t it suck on your soul?” she asks.
“Not really.” I shrug. “Everybody needs someone when they’re at their most vulnerable. I prefer to think of it as a comfy blanket over my spirit.”
Carly turns her head in my direction, smiling softly. “Sweet Noa-Lynn. You haven’t changed a bit since high school.”
My best friend doesn’t mean it as a dig, but it smarts.
Too many times, I’ve tried to convince those important to me I could have claws if I really wanted them (case in point: melting to my ex’s face with coffee last week), but ever since senior year, when I should’ve stood my ground with him but didn’t, my arguments have fallen on deaf ears. And that was ten freaking years ago.
“Mrs. Stalinski was a fire-breathing dragon at school,” Carly continues, oblivious to my critical inner monologue. “It’s honestly heartbreaking to see her now. Cancer is such a fickle fucking bitch.”
I nod in somber agreement, sipping on my drink as we watch the neighborhood kids hop on their bikes and skid out onto the road to catch the last rays of sun before their parents call them in for dinner.
“That’s why I do what I do. To help. She doesn’t deserve this. No one does.”
“On that, we agree.” Carly holds her drink to the side for a cheers. I meet it with a clink .
Carly gets a cheeky glimmer in her eyes before reaching into her small Chanel purse and pulling out a flask.
At my amused scoff, she shakes it lightly, the liquid inside sloshing. “Sure you don’t want to partake?”
I look at the flask longingly. “Positive. I’m on the clock.”
“When do you get off? We could go to the Tipsy Falcon tonight, see who’s driving through our town on this lonely Friday night …” Carly’s brows jump suggestively. “We haven’t had a girls’ night where we play with a bunch of boys in much too long.”
“I wish I could,” I say, and I mean it. Ever since taking on Mrs. Stalinski, I haven’t been up for late nights of drinking and partying, and Carly can usually be called upon to help me forget a tough day. With this patient, though, it’s different. “I’m pretty sure I’m staying here tonight.”
“Really? Overnight?”
“Uh-huh.”
Carly leans over the arm of her chair, her focus bouncing to the front door and back to me. She whispers, “Is it … time?”
I nearly choke on an ice cube. “No! Nothing like that. Mrs. Stalinski needs more help, that’s all.”
Carly raises an unconvinced brow. “Does Mrs. Stalinski know that?”
I raise my glass until it covers half my face. “Not until I magically appear next to her when she needs someone.”
“Hmm.” Carly rests against the chair, rocking softly. “You’re terrible at duplicity.”
“What’s wrong with it? I think it’s a good plan.”
“Yes, refusing to bend to the will of a terminally ill woman. Look at you, so rebellious.”
Carly winks. I smack her arm, then we both laugh.
It’s dark humor, but I learned long ago that finding humor in the worst of moments is one of the best ways to cope.
“Well, well, would you look at that?”
Carly’s curious drawl turns my head in the same direction as hers.
A dark sedan turns into our cul-de-sac, but to have grabbed my friend’s attention, it’s not any old car.
It’s sleek, fancy, black, and sticking out like a big fuck you to most—no, all—of Falcon Haven’s residents.
It would impress only one person with such a flashy show of wealth, and she’s sitting beside me, her red-painted mouth open in an impressed O of want.
I put two fingers under her chin, clamping her mouth shut.
“Probably some tycoon looking to buy up more land,” I say, crossing my legs and preparing to enjoy the show of whatever door this poor sod’s planning to approach.
I hope it’s Mrs. Lu’s next door. She’s straight from the 1950s, using her gardening shovel to shoo away trespassers and kids who dare to trample her gardenias.
On cue, I see her scowl emerge from between the lace curtains of her front window.
“Interesting.” Carly straightens. “Why’s it turning our way?”
“What?” My focus goes from Mrs. Lu to the drive leading to Mrs. Stalinski’s home. The car approaches us with the quiet stealth of a gorgeous black panther.
“I … don’t know,” I say, straightening my back away from the chair.
Even as I say it, a large, jagged rock lands in my stomach with a plop .
“Is Mrs. Stalinski expecting visitors?” Carly asks with forced innocence.
My ribs are actually calcifying over my heart. “She didn’t mention it.”
The car slows to a stop, close enough to see the driver if someone didn’t illegally tint all the windows to the point of opacity. It idles for a minute, then two, then three.
“Salesman,” I muse to fill the silence. “It’s gotta be Mrs. Stalinski’s insurance provider. Something.”
Carly wisely stays silent.
At last, the driver’s door opens. A man in dark clothing and black-tinted sunglasses steps out.
He doesn’t see me at first. His back is to us as he slides his glasses down his nose and surveys the landscape, his broad back rippling under his expensive custom suit when he moves.
He runs a hand through his thick chestnut hair as he rests his other muscled arm on the roof of the car, and every part of me that’s held on to his memory quivers.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“Girl,” Carly says slowly, “You sure you don’t want some of what’s in this flask?”
He turns, and our eyes meet across the drive.