Chapter Two
A few minutes later, I come out of the bathroom and smooth a hand down my hair, put together for the second time.
Between cracking the window and the ever-present humidity, the natural wave is fighting to break free, and there’s not enough blotting pads in the world to avoid looking a little shiny in the forehead.
Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to get ready only once in a day, no sticky, soupy air working against you every time you step outside.
Since that’s a problem not even I can solve, I lift my chin and stride through the lobby.
My shoes clack against the earth-toned flooring, the staccato beats helping me step into my confidence.
Problem is, it’s shaky. Also, that it’s never been very sturdy in the first place, as my worth’s always been wrapped up in what services I can provide people before they grow too weary of me.
Baggage for another time.
Clusters of people stroll the wide hallway, chatting with one another or talking on speakerphone and, given the demographic, there’s not a lot of volume control going on.
Something I understand, for the record. But I’m not sure the same can be said for Gary, as everyone in the vicinity just overheard about his bowel cancer, the removal of one-third of his colon, and how “now he has to carry around a shit sack.”
I veer toward the open archway to my right to avoid a collision, pausing to read the gold placard declaring it the Lakeview Medical Clinic.
“Can I help you?” The voice is smooth and masculine, and I turn to see a man in a white doctor’s jacket leaning an elbow on the counter of a tall receptionist desk.
A stethoscope hangs around his neck ever-so-casually, and my heart thumps a little harder and faster, as if to prove it’s working just fine.
With hair that borders on black, russet eyes, and dimples set in bronze skin, the best description for him is droolworthy. So, here’s where they’ve been hiding all the hot doctors—it’s either Grey’s Anatomy or the retirement community.
“I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be.” Frowning, I cross the threshold, walking through the archway and onto the shiny white floor of a medical clinic. “I mean, of course I know where I’m supposed to be. I’m just trying to figure out where that is.”
Ugh, why weren’t words working today? It probably had something to do with crossing the paths of two of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen in the most unexpected of places.
This man appeared to be mid-to-upper thirties, nowhere close to the requisite fifty-five age minimum, although plenty of people worked inside the community without residing there.
“Hi, my name is Mia Andrews,” I say, extending my hand and then wishing I’d waited until I’d crossed the lobby. “I’m starting a position at the village today.”
Dr. Droolworthy takes a step to meet me, his arm outstretched. “Nice to meet you, Mia. I’m Dr. Vasquez. This is Zuri.”
A woman in navy scrubs and fuchsia lipstick that matches the headband holding back inky coils lifts her hand in a wave. The two of them have a quick aside, and I catch his “the admin building across the courtyard?”
Then Dr. Vasquez slides his hands in his pockets, rocking onto his toes as his attention returns to me. “I’ll walk you.”
I fight my first instinct—to insist he not bother. Mostly so I won’t end up asking the person I’m supposed to impress for help next. An antsy sensation crawls through me, bordering on frantic from several weeks of living with it. Get a job, get a job, get a job.
Fix it, fix it, fix it.
The flirty smile the doctor aims at me lifts his lips a little too naturally, but it’s a really nice smile, so I decide to let him act as my guide.
“Like a sexy Gollum.” Through a neighborhood of senior citizens in middle Florida. It’s about as hot and bizarre in this community as Mordor, if not quite as volcanic.
“What was that?” the doctor asks, and I quickly clamp my lips. Guess I’m not the best at regulating volume, either, as I’d meant for the nerdy commentary to remain under my breath.
Engaging my filter and volumizing mascara, I bat my lashes and say, “Nothing. Just thank you. For your help.”
Okay, so now I was talking like a robot, but I hadn’t completely botched it. Yet. “How many doctors work at the on-site clinic?”
“Requesting a second opinion already?” Dr. Vasquez says teasingly.
His joke startles a laugh out of me, and as we near the stone fountain in the center of the open-air courtyard, I marvel at the plants bringing in color and oxygen.
Tables and chairs sit under a line of misters next to a deli, and I note the coffee cart, currently as unmanned as I am undercaffeinated.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll keep you as my tour guide until you get us lost. I’m just gathering information for my new position—hazards of my publicity brain kicking in.
” I tap a temple, as if otherwise the doctor would be unfamiliar with my anatomy.
With that dimple of his popping in his cheek and leaving me weak in the knees, I’m afraid desperation’s practically wafting off me.
It’s been months and months of never making it past a third date; a year since I was laid; and two since it’d been done properly.
“Publicity, huh?” Dr. Vasquez says.
A twinge reverberates through my chest at the word, and not the sexy kind I was just enjoying. I absently rub at it, thinking about all the skipped sleep and meals and missed events that my job had required.
Why wasn’t it enough?
I quickly glue my arm to my side, not wanting to appear nervous when I’m not.
When I wasn’t two seconds ago.
Dwelling on past mistakes can do that to a gal, and so I put on a front I haven’t worn since getting fired.
I meet Dr. Vasquez’s gaze head-on and tell him I’ve worked with several players from the Miami Heat.
Not only to remind myself I’m qualified for my new position, but also because most people thought it was cool, and I so rarely got to be cool.
“Seriously?” he asked as we neared the other side of the building. “You know Ezekiel King?”
My heel catches on a groove in the floor, making an awful screech as it drags over the grout and stonework. Yeah, I probably should’ve seen that coming.
“Is it true that he—?”
“Surely you understand the importance of client/patient confidentiality,” I quip, glad it comes out sounding lighter than I feel.
He grins as though I’ll spill the deets that easily, but I take privileged information as seriously as I assume he takes his Hippocratic oath.
“All I will say is that after athletes and musicians, switching to a bunch of grandparents is going to feel like a total cakewalk.”
Dr. Vasquez’s stride slows, and there’s something I don’t like about the tilt of his head.
But the muffled noise beyond the doors grows louder as we reach the far side of the courtyard, distracting me. My attractive guide shuffles ahead of me to open the door, and I thank him as I step outside and squint against the glare of the midday sun.
While my eyes need time to adjust, my ears ring with the shouts, cries, and chants of… an angry mob?
In rocking chairs?
Outlines and profiles solidify and separate into a large group of seated protesters. Rockers, lawn chairs, and a few plastic pool loungers crowd the sidewalk and front steps of the building, so I’m glad I didn’t start at this entryway.
With the scene sharpening before me, I immediately wish for the return of hazy oblivion. For reasons I’m not sure I want to know, the majority of the geriatric dissenters are in their skivvies.
My gaze darts from sign to sign, my mind shifting into assessment mode in a flash.
Taking a Stand for Our Pools and Our Land!
Gray Hair Don’t Share!
Senior Zone: Off-limits to whippersnappers!
Our Village is for Golden Years ONLY!
The Stranger Danger sign seems a tad misguided—or a lot melodramatic—but outsiders coming in is definitely at the heart of this protest. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, drawing my attention to a commotion at the back, and I groan at the news van pulling up to the far side of the demonstration.
Great. I haven’t even started my job yet, and I might be seconds from losing it.
Panic squeezes my lungs, crowding out enough of my oxygen that dizziness sets in.
Whether it’s a lifetime of coping with Generalized Anxiety Disorder or a shift that automatically happens in a crisis, I pride myself on how outwardly cool I remain under pressure.
Sure, my duck legs are paddling wildly beneath the surface, but it’s much easier to engage my pervading sense of logic on the behalf of others.
Taking charge also means being my best and bossiest self, granting me more of the control I’m forever chasing.
My worries could wait until I crawled into bed alone, where I’d process my feelings and use the cover of night to shed any necessary tears.
I glance at the handsome doctor at my side to see how he’s doing, only to find him idly scrolling away on his phone, acting as if this is business as usual.
Seriously, Doc?
Then I hear my name, shouted in a voice that’s sung me lullabies, told me stories, and melded with mine in laughter.
Warmth floods me the instant it tickles my ears, a slightly raspier version of the voice that also taught me how to swear—first by accident, and later on, with more creativity and purpose.
“Mama Mia!”
“Mia Bo-Bina!” Wanda, no question.
“Mia Mija!” Only Tia Rita calls me that.
Chairs are scooted, not lifted, the scrape of cement creating an awful racket as the gray-haired sea parts. Rushing forward are Grandma Helen, Wanda, and one of the bubbies from down the street. Right as I’m wondering where Tia Rita is, I spot her coming from a different section.
Within a handful of minutes, the media will descend, but that’s not the scariest part of this moment.
It’s that my grandmother and her friends are bounding up the steps, and though I’m all for freedom of expression and body positivity, there’s not nearly as much support—or coverage—as I would’ve preferred, is all I’m saying.
Everyone’s had the nightmare where they find themselves out in public only to realize they’ve forgotten to get dressed.
But the thing I wish I could go back and unknow is there’s a worse variation of that nightmare, where the people in their underwear…are actually your grandparents.