4. Omar
Chapter four
Omar
“Hey there.” Matty hopped up from the faux leather recliner in the NICU waiting area.
I walked toward him, fidgeting with the clean scrub shirt Carlie had found for me to change into, only looking up when I heard his voice. The guy had just shown up. Who does that? Was he some kind of ambassador for the hospital, trying to make all new staff feel welcome? Had I done something to concern management enough to send me a guardian angel? Question after question whirled in my head as I drew near.
“Oh, hey,” I said before my gaze fell to his shoes, like some schoolboy terrified of the girl standing before him.
“Come on. You have a half hour, right?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, just enough time for me to get lost on my way to the cafeteria.”
“You’re not getting lost on my watch.” His thick Southern accent wrapped around me almost as fast as his hand snaked inside my arm and pulled me toward the double doors that led out of the department. “I figured you could use a guide on your first week. Besides, my normal lunch date flaked out on me.”
Staring down at our entwined arms, I wondered, for the second time in less than a few minutes, who did that? We didn’t even know each other, yet here we were, arm in arm like Dorothy and the Scarecrow skipping toward Oz. Then his words made it through the noise of my brain to land somewhere near conscious thought.
“Date?”
Matty giggled. “Figure of speech, sweetie. Take a breath. There’s enough Matty love for everyone.” He gave me a brilliant grin, then picked up the pace. “Besides, you can’t take half of what I say seriously. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”
I wasn’t sure how to take any of that—or any of this bloke. He reminded me of the super queeny guy on Queer Eye . Chiffon didn’t fall out of his mouth every time he spoke, but it wanted to.
“We’ve gotta move if we’re going to get you fed and back on time. You’re Omar, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. And you are Matt, if I recall correctly?”
“Matty,” he amended. “And aren’t you just the most proper little Brit the Queen ever made? I could just eat your accent up. Say something else for me.”
What was it with Americans and their obsession with British accents? If I added a tiny smile to my voice in a weak attempt at an Irish brogue, Yanks all around would faint. It was such an odd, almost parochial affectation, but it had grown on me since my days at uni.
A tiny grin threatened one corner of my mouth, but I beat it back into a thin line.
“What would you like me to say?”
Matty slapped his free hand to his chest and pretended to swoon. “That was good enough. No more, please. I might catch the vapors right here in the hallway.”
I spat a laugh. “You know that means you would become gassy and emit, right?”
He stopped walking, jerking me to a halt with our hooked arms. Faster than the Flash, he whipped toward me and narrowed his eyes. “Are you messing with me? Seriously? That phrase means—”
“To fart at an inappropriate time. Though I am unsure when it is appropriate to do such a thing in public.”
Matty staggered back against the wall like he’d been shot, again gripping his chest, then spoke in the worst approximation of a British accent I might have ever heard, “You wound me, good sir.”
“Dear God. Please go back to sunshine and sweet tea. Elizabeth might return just to slap that accent out of your mouth.”
Matty’s eyes widened, then a mouthful of musical laughter tumbled out. His bellows, high pitched as they were, bounded down the hallway, turning heads of cloaked physicians and guests alike.
“I will have you know,” he continued in his vile imitation. “I have a wonderful British accent. I watch shows on BBC America all the time.”
He crossed his arms and pooched out his lower lip. It was almost as cute as the twins had been gripping my finger earlier. Again, I fought—and lost—at hiding my smile. This guy, this outrageous man, had a way of bringing out the joy in me.
It was such an odd feeling.
As though he’d just settled the argument, Matty hooked our arms again and glided—no, he practically skipped—down the hall, looking as happy and carefree as he had in orientation. He’d spoken to our group for a little over an hour. His smile never faltered. His positive aura never dimmed. I sat there, surrounded by medical professionals, seated beside the Grinch himself, and marveled at how Matty’s light shone so brightly. His golden, almost white hair made him appear angelic, though the curls dribbling down the sides of his head spoke more of playful Puckishness than cherubic goodness.
Something about that made me want to smile, too.
Turn after turn, hallway after hallway, we delved deeper into the beast that was Piedmont Hospital. Despite management’s best attempt at large, very clear signage, I was confident I would’ve ended up in some distant wing without Matty’s guidance. I wouldn’t have made it to the cafeteria in time to eat lunch.
“So, I have to warn you,” Matty said as we rounded the last turn. I caught sight of the cafeteria’s entrance at the end of a long hallway. “There are three primary stations: Italian, Make-it-in-Front-of-You Sandwiches, and Burgers. Just trust me and steer clear of the Italian food. It looks like congealed brains after a botched surgery and tastes even worse.”
I must’ve scrunched my brows, because Matty pulled back and both hands flew to his chest. I think it was the Matty version of “clutching his pearls,” though from the way his hands waved through the air on their way to his sternum, “showering the pearls with glitter” might’ve been more apt.
His mouth flew so wide I thought he might break into song right there in the hallway. “Oh, baby Jesus, no. I’ve never had roadkill. That was another figure of speech.”
I rubbed my face with a palm as I stifled another laugh. Matty’s face brightened, and his eyes twinkled.
“You are something, you know that?” I said, earning the Captain Obvious Award for the day.
His laugh was full and free. Whatever magic was released by his mirth had every person who glanced up grinning. He had such an effect on people . . . with just a laugh. It was no wonder he went into nursing, into a field that required good humor and a caring heart.
Still, as I glanced at those looking our way, something blindingly obvious struck: Matty wasn’t putting on an act or pretending to be someone else. Sure, there were layers there, waiting to be peeled back and understood; but this gregarious, infectious, brilliant creature standing before me was who he claimed to be, nothing more and nothing less.
Perhaps most astonishing to me, there was no shame or fear in his eyes.
My whole life, I’d been in the background. My father was the diplomat, the man everyone looked to for advice or guidance or leadership. A devout Muslim, he ran a strict household in which we observed the faith with respect and honor. In public, my mother was submissive—we all were. There was no room for shining lights or outshining Father. The reputation and face of Egypt depended on our family playing its part.
And so I hid or erected a shell, whatever one might call such an action from the teenage son of a prominent figure. I wasn’t hiding from people or the world; I just wasn’t the one in the spotlight—or whatever extroverted people called it.
“Oh, there’s always a salad bar in the middle of the madness,” Matty’s voice cut through my mental musing. “That’s the safe bet for a quick in and out. It’s usually well stocked, and you can’t go wrong with lettuce and shit.”
I chuckled. “Hold the shit, please. It might be too heavy for lunch and cause the vapors.”
Matty gaped, then slapped my arm playfully. “He’s adorable and has a sense of humor. Be still, my little gay heart.”
He snaked his hand into his shirt and made a beating gesture through the fabric. It was ridiculous and childish and completely stupid . . . and I cracked up.
Then I heard his words echo in my head.
He thinks I’m adorable.
Nobody had thought I was adorable in, well, ever. I mean, Americans were bedazzled by an accent, and mine was a proper one the King himself would find most agreeable. I had that going for me.
But me? Adorable?
“Salad time,” Matty said. We whisked through the salad bar, piling veggies into plastic containers, then made it through checkout into a dining room already buzzing with conversation. Matty led me to a table at the far end, nested between the glass wall of the corridor and a large booth made to seat a small village. In a restaurant, this would’ve been the “romantic table” the ma?tre d’ saved for those celebrating anniversaries or other special occasions.
Was Matty trying to be romantic in the hospital? With me?
“Here we are, good sir,” he said, giving the table his best Vanna White wave. “It’s the only spot in the whole darn room where we can hear each other talk. When this place is packed, it’s louder than a Kiss concert.”
Oh, right. He wanted to talk .
Why did I always overthink things?
He was just being nice, calling me adorable and making me laugh. None of that was meant as flirtation or anything other than a seasoned staffer taking the rookie out for one of his first lunches, making him feel welcome in his new hospital. The table in the corner was just for convenience and conversation.
My chest deflated just a touch as I sat across the two-top.
Why did it do that?
Matty settled into his chair and waved at me with a cherry tomato stuck to the end of his fork. “So, tell me about yourself. I know you’re not from Atlanta, with that accent and all. It’s dreamy, by the way. If you ever want to just read out loud, let me know, and I’ll sit and listen. Seriously.”
I took a sip of sweet tea. Being with Matty was like watching a tornado or hurricane. I knew where the center was, the calm part, but everything around it moved so fast I could barely decide where to look.
“Well,” I said, stabbing a bit of lettuce. “I was born in Cairo but lived most of my life in London.”
“Cairo? As in Egypt?”
That threw most people for a loop.
“Right. That one.” I nodded.
“I always wanted to see the pyramids when I was little. They seem so big and, I don’t know, sandy.”
I’d just stuffed my mouth when he said that and had to cover my lips with a hand to keep from spewing lettuce everywhere.
“Things tend to get sandy in the desert.”
He nodded, as though I’d just imparted wisdom.
“Anyway, my dad’s a diplomat, so we moved where his job took us. I came to the States for uni and disappointed my parents by going into nursing. There is nothing like parental guilt to motivate one for success, right?”
“Oh, fancy you!” Matty said, making what I assume he meant to be a regal gesture and ignoring the part where I rankled my parents with life choices. “Have you seen a lot of the world, then?”
I shook my head. “Not really. A lot of kids like me do, but my dad has been with the Egyptian embassy in London for twenty years. We made that one move from Egypt and haven’t had to uproot since.”
“But you’ve met totally cool people, right?”
I finished another bite and wiped my lips. “Does the Queen count?”
Matty’s chair scooted back so fast, he slammed into the glass wall. Both hands flew over his mouth as he shot to his feet and shouted. “Oh . . . my . . . God. The Queen? As in Elizabeth? You met the Queen? Before she died, I mean. Of course, you couldn’t have met her after . . . sorry . . . that’s silly, and this is amazing and exciting. Rainbow glitter on a stick!”
His excitement was endearing, but that last phrase about sticks and glitter meant nothing to me, so I pressed on.
“Several times,” I said through chews. “I’ve met most of the royals, every PM since we moved to London, more ladies and lords than I could count, and, well, England loves titles as much as Egyptians love monuments. And that’s just the Brits. On occasion, Father got called in to meet some visiting president or premier, and I got dragged into those receptions or dinners. There is nothing like having one’s obedient little boy by one’s side to complete the diplomatic picture, is there not?”
I hoped that last bit didn’t sound as bitter as it tasted on my tongue.
Matty’s eyes were so bugged wide I thought I might need a doc to check him out. He let out a wild squeal, flailed his arms in the air, and tried to hop a few times, though he just bumped his chair into the glass and adjacent booth, earning annoyed glares from the doctors eating there.
He threw himself back into his chair, scooted it forward, and leaned toward me with his elbows on the table. “What was she like? Oh, my God. The Queen. Was she funny? Did you have to bow or curtsy or whatever? Were her dogs there? Was she wearing her crown? What about all the jewels? I bet her train goes on forever. Is she super serious or a funny little grandma who makes everyone laugh? I bet she’s a grandma. When was this? Did you meet William and Harry? Harry is so freakin’ cute.”
The royal word salad spewed so quickly I could barely keep up. I wanted to crawl under the table. Doctors and nurses seated nearby turned to see what had worked him up so, but Matty’s enthusiasm refused to be contained.
“So, um, yes, I met Queen Elizabeth. I only saw her once in her official robe and crown. We were presented to her several times as part of the Egyptian delegation. A few times, we were invited to attend one party or another at the palace.”
“The palace? Like, the palace?”
“The one where the Queen lives, yes.”
He squealed again, this time clapping just the tips of his fingers faster than a hummingbird flaps its wings.
“Did you feel like a princess? Or a prince, that’s okay, too. I would dance and drink champagne. They had champagne, didn’t they? They had to. It was a royal party.”
I tried not to laugh again, but Matty made keeping a straight face difficult. “Yes, there was champagne. And no, I did not feel like a prince or a princess. They have those roles covered quite nicely. Most of the minor royals are quite douchey.”
“Douchey?” His brows rose. “Did you just make a very un-diplomatic reference?”
I chuckled. “Most un-diplomatic, but most accurate .”
“What about Harry and William? Did you meet them? Is Harry as wild as they say? He’s so dreamy. I’m not into redheads, but I could tear that one up. Well, he could tear me up. I prefer to be torn, not the tearer . . . Was that too soon? It’s our first lunch and all. Would that kind of question be proper at court?”
“No, that would be very improper. I never saw any wildness in Harry, but yes, I met them both.”
He stared, eyes wide, his mouth still covered with both hands. I wasn’t sure if I should keep talking or grab a defibrillator.
“Harry was quite nice. We chatted for quite a long time. William . . . well . . . not so much. He is very tall, if that helps.”
“I always wanted to be tall.” Matty sighed and deflated back into his chair.
“The King is nice, too. He’s a lot wittier than one might think. Quite the mischief maker, if you ask me.”
Matty waved a dismissive hand. “Who cares about Charles? He hurt my Dianna. They should’ve skipped him and given the crown to William.”
“ Your Diana?”
His face grew stern. “Yes, my Diana. We gays claim her. She is ours, by right.”
I laughed. “I am certain that is not how the succession works, and millions of Brits might argue the point, but I suppose you could take that up with the Royal Court.”
Matty’s smile returned, and I swear, his eyes sparkled in the fluorescent lighting.
“You’re super cute, you know that, right?”
My fork clattered as it hit my plate.
I blinked.
Matty stared as my mental faculties imploded.
“I, uh, well, thanks, I guess.” I couldn’t look down at my uneaten salad fast enough.
Matty hooted and raised his hands above his head like he’d just scored a goal in the World Cup. “I made a diplomat stutter.”
“Diplomat’s son,” I corrected quickly, then mumbled, “Not the same thing.”
“Oh, pish!” He swatted the air again. “You’re a diplomat to me.”
Why did those words tickle my chest with warmth? It was an odd, unexpected sensation.
“So,” Matty said, drawing the word out several syllables beyond the one God had given it. “I’m gay.” He fingered his lanyard like it was a hidden clue I might have missed.
“I noticed.” I smiled, then added. “And I saw your lanyard, too.”
His face blanched, then brightened, as he reached across the table and play-slapped my shoulder. “Did you just make a joke at my expense? Are you secretly caddy? Sweet Jesus, we need to hang out more often!”
I gave him a weak smile and moved salad around my plate without looking up again. “I am not a very good gay. Or, I suppose I should say, I am not very good at dating. I have the liking boys part sorted.”
When I finally stopped rearranging lettuce and looked up, Matty was staring. Tiny wrinkles creased his forehead, and I could tell his examination of me had deepened.
“Why would you say that?”
I looked past the glass wall at the people walking by, then caught sight of a clock on the far wall.
“I like your hair,” was all I could think to say.
I had suddenly regressed to the awkward days of elementary school when boys were expected to make gangly gestures toward girls in class. God, I felt like that discomforted little boy just then.
Matty flicked his curls. It was odd how they bobbed. I couldn’t look away.
“I’ll take that. My hair has brought men to their knees.”
My mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Metaphorically, of course.” Matty snorted without even acknowledging his inappropriate innuendo.
We were professionals—in uniform—in our hospital! We weren’t supposed to talk about knees or men or . . . whatever!
“Oh, look, the time. We should head back. The twins will need lunch and changing.”
Matty stared at me a moment, then nodded once. “I will let you out of this line of questioning for the moment, but don’t think you’re free of me. I’m a nurse. I need to understand. It will keep me awake at night, and you don’t want grumpy puss showing up in this hospital, do you?”
“Grumpy puss?” I chuckled and stood, tossing the rest of my lunch back onto my tray.
“He’s a real piece of work. Honestly, he just needs a little coffee and his frown turns upside down, but don’t tell anyone that secret. I want all the others in the ER to fear my moods.”
And just like that, I was smiling again. How did Matty do that with so little effort?
We dumped our trays and dropped them onto the belt, then headed back down the hallway. Matty prattled on, offering one bit of hospital gossip after another, mostly about who the doctors were sleeping with or which ones might be gay. The boy rarely came up for air, which was fine because, despite everyone in this country loving my accent, his Southern dialect was like drinking sweet iced tea on a summer’s day. I liked listening to him—and it kept me from having to answer more of his questions.
It also gave me time to think.
Which was rarely a good thing.
And in that moment, it was a very, very bad thing.
Because all my lizard brain could focus on were five tiny words:
Matty thinks I am adorable.