Chapter 5
FIVE
LUCY
By the next morning, I have looked at the clinic door so many times that I’m starting to annoy myself.
Every time the bell above it gives that soft little jingle, my eyes lift before I can stop them, and every time it’s not him, a little disappointment curls low in my stomach.
I pretend I was only checking to see who came in because that’s literally part of my job.
It should be easy to forget about a sick man who walked in with tissues shoved up his nose and almost passed out in the waiting room, especially when the phones keep ringing off the hook and patients keep needing forms and Sophie is running behind because half the town apparently woke up coughing.
But I can’t forget. I keep seeing the way his huge hand braced on the counter like it was the only solid thing in the room, the way his voice went rough and ridiculous when he told me he was dying, and the way he asked my name like it mattered even though he looked like he could barely remember his own.
My skin still tingles where his fingers brushed mine when I handed him the clipboard.
I stack intake forms into a neat pile and try to focus on the insurance card in front of me, but my mind drifts again.
Tiny. The name does not fit him at all, which I’m sure is the point, but it keeps circling in my head anyway.
He is enormous, all broad shoulders and tattoos snaking down his arms and a voice that’s too deep for the quiet clinic lobby, but he looked so miserable and almost boyishly harmless sitting in that chair with his hoodie pulled up and his face pale.
I should not think the word cute about a man like that.
I definitely shouldn’t feel this warm flutter every time I picture him trying to joke through the fever.
“Lucy.”
I jolt and look up so fast I nearly knock my pen off the desk.
Scarlett is standing on the other side of the counter with a chart tucked against her chest and one eyebrow raised, and the look on her face tells me she has probably said my name more than once.
I feel heat climb up my neck before she says anything else.
“Sorry,” I say, grabbing the pen before it rolls off the edge. “I was just going over Mrs. Langley’s paperwork. Did you need something?”
Scarlett’s mouth curves like she knows every single thought I’m trying to hide. “Mrs. Langley’s paperwork is upside down, babe.”
I look down and my stomach drops because it is. The entire form is turned the wrong way. I flip it around quickly, but that only makes Scarlett’s smile wider, and I wish the floor would open just enough for me to slip through. “I was organizing it,” I say, but I don’t even believe me.
“Sure you were.” Scarlett leans her hip against the counter and lowers her voice so the waiting room cannot hear. “You’re awfully distracted today. You wouldn’t happen to be thinking about a certain dramatic giant who came in yesterday acting like he was dying, would you?”
My cheeks go hot enough that I want to press the cold side of my water bottle against them. “No,” I say too quickly, and then I hate myself because that ‘no’ sounds more like a confession than a denial. “I mean, I was only wondering if he’s okay. He seemed really sick.”
“He’ll live,” Scarlett says, still watching me too closely. “Sophie said he has the flu. He’s home resting, or at least he better be because I told him if he showed up at Perdition last night, I would personally drag him back to bed.”
I picture her trying to drag him anywhere and a laugh slips out before I can catch it. “Could you actually drag him?”
“Not even a little,” she says, and then she grins. “But I’m scary when properly motivated, and Tiny knows better than to test women who have already survived the men in this club.”
I smile down at the desk because it's easier than looking at her. The club still feels strange to think about after the other night, not strange in a bad way, but strange because it’s nothing like I'd been taught to expect.
Dad would look at those men and see danger and assume the worst. Instead, I watched Wyatt kiss the top of Hadley's head while they talked.
Then Steele kept a hand resting on the back of Erica's chair and Cole stole cherries from Tessa's drink like teasing her was his favorite pastime.
Then there was Tiny, looking like he was one cough away from collapsing, but still trying to make me laugh while he sat in the clinic feeling absolutely miserable.
None of it fits inside the narrow little box Dad built for people like them, and that leaves me wondering what else he's been wrong about all these years.
The thought makes my chest feel strangely light.
Scarlett taps the counter lightly, pulling me back to her. Her teasing softens, but the sparkle in her eyes does not disappear completely. “He asked about you, by the way.”
My fingers tighten around the pen. “He did?”
“He did.” She says. “Tiny asked if it’d be okay to have your number. Before you panic, he wasn’t weird about it. He just asked your name first, and then he tried to act like he didn’t care too much, which was a terrible performance because Tiny is about as subtle as a dropped toolbox.”
I bite the inside of my cheek because smiling feels too obvious.
I picture him sitting in that chair, tissues in his nose, looking so embarrassed but still careful not to lean on me when I helped steady him.
He barely knows me. Neither do I, I think, and the thought feels strangely cute. “He was probably just being polite.”
Scarlett lets out a quiet laugh. “Tiny is a lot of things, but casually polite about pretty girls is not usually one of them.”
Everything inside me goes still and for a second all I can hear is the question Scarlett did not exactly ask but is waiting for me to answer. My number. Tiny wants my number…if it’s okay with me. My pulse thuds in my ears.
“I don’t know,” I say, because it is the only honest answer I can give when my heart is suddenly beating too hard.
“I mean, I don’t really… I’ve never…” I trail off and look down, embarrassed by how young I sound.
Nineteen should feel older than this. It should feel like I know how to answer a simple question without getting tangled in my own nerves.
Scarlett does not laugh at me. She does not make me feel silly, and somehow that makes my throat tighter. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she says. “And you don’t have to say yes just because I asked. Tiny’s a good man, but that doesn’t mean you owe him access to you.”
I look up at her then because the words hit me in a place I am not used to anyone touching.
Access to you. I have never thought of myself that way, like my time and attention and phone number are things I can allow or not allow.
At home, Dad decides what is appropriate.
At church, people ask him about me before they ask me.
Even Daniel smiles at me like my answer is less important than Dad’s approval. “He won’t be mad if I say no?”
Scarlett’s expression shifts into something firmer. “No. He’d be disappointed, not mad.”
The tightness in my chest loosens a little. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all you need to do.” She straightens and lifts the chart against her chest. “And, Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
Her voice drops, not sad exactly, but careful. “You’re allowed to think about what you want before you think about what everyone else expects from you.”
I don't answer because I can't. I just watch her walk back down the hall while her words keep circling around in my head, showing up again every time I try to think about something else.
I finish the rest of my shift with my phone tucked into the front pocket of my cardigan.
Every time I reach for a patient's chart or answer the phone, I'm aware it's there. Every time I schedule another appointment or hand someone a clipboard, my mind drifts back to Tiny asking…if it’d be okay.
The possibility feels terrifying and electric at the same time.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my feet ache from standing behind the front desk all day, and all I want is to kick off my shoes and crawl into bed. Instead, I sit in the car with my hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at the house.
Nothing looks different.
The porch light is already on even though the sun hasn't completely gone down, and the living room lamp glows through the front window. Mom's car is in the driveway, and Dad's truck is parked beside it even though he's usually home later on Thursdays.
I don't know why that bothers me.
It just does.
I grab my bag and head inside.
The second I step through the front door, I know I wasn't imagining it.
The house is too clean.
Mom keeps everything spotless anyway, but this isn't normal clean.
The throw pillows are lined up perfectly across the couch.
The coffee table is empty except for the decorative bowl she only puts out when people are coming over.
Even the dining room table is already set with the cream tablecloth and the nice dishes we only use on holidays or when Dad wants to impress somebody.
Mom appears in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. She smiles when she sees me, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Hey, sweetheart. You're home."
"I am."
She glances toward the living room before looking back at me.
"Why don't you go upstairs and change before dinner?"
I look past her toward the dining room.
"Are we having company?"
Her fingers tighten around the towel.
"Your father invited the Harrises over."
My stomach sinks.
Of course he did.
Everybody at church knows the Harrises. Mr. Harris owns the insurance office near the courthouse.
Mrs. Harris runs every women's committee like she's preparing people for inspection.
Their son, Daniel, always stands beside Dad after church, smiling and shaking hands like he's already practicing for public office.
I've talked to him before.