Chapter Thirteen - James
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
James
"Just hold her arm gently," Mrs. Chen instructed, watching James attempt to help Mrs. Peterson into a chair. "She's not a business merger you're trying to strong-arm."
James adjusted his grip, hyper-aware of his Italian suit against Mrs. Peterson's polyester sleeve. He'd scheduled this "community service" between his 2PM call and 4PM meeting, certain that an hour of helping the elderly would ease the knot of guilt in his stomach.
It wasn't working.
"A little to the left, dear," Mrs. Peterson said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Though perhaps if you stopped holding yourself like you're afraid I'll break… "
James felt his ears burn. He was doing this right—he'd researched proper methods of assisted walking, had even watched a YouTube video on senior care. This should be simple. Manageable. Like everything else in his life.
He stepped back and wondered if he could ask Mrs Peterson if they could practice it again.
"Mr. Park." Mrs. Chen's voice cut through his thoughts. "The chairs need arranging for bingo. Unless you'd prefer to stand there looking uncomfortable?"
"I can handle chairs," he said, perhaps too quickly. Chairs were straightforward. Chairs didn't require gentle touches or understanding smiles or—
"That's Hannah's usual spot," Mr. Thompson called out as James reached for a folding chair. "She likes to sit where she can see everyone's cards, help them if they're struggling."
James's hand froze above the chair. Of course it was her spot. Everything in this room seemed to revolve around her—the way the residents kept glancing at the door, their inside jokes he didn't understand, their casual mentions of her name like a gentle rebuke.
"I'll... take a different one."
"Afraid of her ghost?" Mrs. Chen asked sweetly.
"I'm not thinking about her at all." The words came out sharper than intended. "I'm just trying to help."
"Are you?" Mrs. Chen's eyes saw too much. "Or are you trying to prove something?"
Before James could respond, he caught himself against a table, knocking over a cup of water.
"I'll get paper towels," he muttered, feeling their eyes on him. Judging his gracelessness, his obvious discomfort, his complete inability to handle simple tasks that Hannah probably did in her sleep.
In the supply closet, he took a deep breath and tried to regroup. His suit looked absurd here. His cultivated professional distance seemed pathetic in a room where real connections happened every day.
"B-17!" Mr. Thompson's voice carried from the main room. "Hannah usually does the funny little dance when she calls that one..."
James closed his eyes on a groan. This was supposed to be easy. One hour of community service to balance his karma. To prove he wasn't the villain in their whispered conversations.
Instead, he felt more exposed with every passing minute. More aware of his own inadequacies. More conscious of the genuine warmth these people shared—warmth he'd never bothered to notice before.
"Need help finding the paper towels?" Mrs. Chen appeared in the doorway. "Or just hiding?"
"I'm not hiding." But his voice lacked conviction. "I'm trying to..."
"To what? Show us what a good person you are?" She shook her head. "Hannah doesn't help because she wants to prove anything. She helps because she cares."
"This isn't about Hannah."
Mrs. Chen's knowing smile made him feel about two inches tall. "Of course not, dear. Just like you're not wearing your most expensive suit to volunteer at a bingo game."
James looked down at his Tom Ford ensemble, suddenly aware of how performative it all was. Even his attempt at kindness came with a price tag.
"The paper towels are on the bottom shelf," Mrs. Chen said finally. "Unless you'd rather stand here questioning your life choices?"
He really would. Instead he grabbed the towels and followed her back to the bingo tables, where Mrs. Peterson's spill was already cleaned up—probably by one of the other residents while he'd been having his crisis in the supply closet.
"Thirty more minutes," he reminded himself under his breath. Thirty minutes, and he could check "community service" off his mental list of penance.
James was starting to suspect that real redemption wouldn't be found in a carefully scheduled hour of performative helping.
He just had no idea what else to do.
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"...and that's when my Harold proposed," Mrs. Peterson was saying, her arthritic fingers smoothing a worn photograph. "Right there on the dance floor at the Starlight Ballroom."
James made a noncommittal sound, half-listening as he sorted bingo cards. He'd started staying after the official games. It was just easier than dealing with rush hour traffic. It had nothing to do with the way Mrs. Peterson's face lit up when she talked about her late husband, or how Mr. Thompson's tremor eased when someone took time to really listen.
"He was a terrible dancer," Mrs. Peterson continued, laughing. "Stepped on my toes through the entire song. But he was trying so hard to be perfect for me..."
James's hands stilled on the cards. "What did you do?"
"Hmm?"
"When he stepped on your toes. Were you... disappointed?"
Mrs. Peterson looked at him curiously. "Disappointed? Oh, no, dear. I was charmed. Because he wasn't trying to be the best dancer in the room. He was just trying to make me happy."
Something uncomfortable shifted in James's chest. "But if he knew he wasn't good at it, why would he—"
"Choose that moment? Make himself vulnerable?" Her knowing smile reminded him of Mrs. Chen. "Because sometimes the most precious gifts are the ones that cost us our pride instead of our money."
James thought of Hannah, her hair styled, wearing a new dress. Of how she'd made herself vulnerable, believing in him, while he'd been focused on creating the perfect Instagram moment.
"Here," Mrs. Peterson held out the photograph. "Look at Harold's face. See how nervous he is? But look at how he's holding my hand..."
James leaned closer, actually looking. The black and white image captured something raw and real—a young man gazing at his partner like she was the only person in the world.
"You know," Mrs. Peterson said casually, "Hannah helped me organize all my old photos last month. Made little notes about the stories behind each one."
James could picture it perfectly—Hannah bent over the albums, her hair falling forward as she wrote in that neat teacher's handwriting of hers.
He could see her settling onto the floor without caring about creasing her clothes, cross-legged like she sometimes sat in the community room when helping children with art projects.
She would have had that look of total concentration she got when really listening to someone—head tilted slightly, eyes soft with attention, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"This isn't about Hannah," James said automatically, but even he could hear the lie in his voice.
"No?" Mrs. Peterson's eyes twinkled. "Then why did you just smile when I mentioned her name?"
"Mr. Thompson," he called out suddenly, surprising himself. "Do you need help with those newspapers?"
The elderly man was struggling with his reading glasses, squinting at the crossword. "Oh, I couldn't trouble you—"
"It's no trouble." The words felt strange in his mouth. Natural. "I have time."
And he did, he realized. His phone had been buzzing with emails and messages, but for the first time in his life, James Park wasn't checking it every two minutes.
Instead, he pulled up a chair and listened as Mr. Thompson explained the crossword clues, as Mrs. Peterson shared more photos, as Mrs. Chen watched it all with barely concealed amusement.
It wasn't until much later that James realized he'd spent three hours in the community room without once thinking about how it would look on social media or what anyone would think of his good deed.
He'd just... wanted to be there.
"This isn't about Hannah," he told his reflection in the elevator doors. But he knew it was a lie.
Because Hannah might not have been in the room, but her influence was everywhere—in the way these people opened their hearts, in how they shared their stories, in the simple act of taking time to really see each other.
And maybe James was finally learning to see too.