CHAPTER FOUR
JAMES
I sit there in the rumpled bed, surrounded by the scent of her perfume and sex, and realize it’s not fine. The room feels emptier and colder without her presence. As if all the warmth had left with her.
Cold and sterile. Isn’t that how I’ve been described before?
“Dr. Alexander, how can you be a cardiologist when you don’t have a heart?” It had taken a long time before that bereaved man’s words had stopped echoing in my head. Now they pop up again, and I wonder if he was right.
I sigh. All the more reason it was best not to lead Holly on. She deserves a man with a heart to give her.
So why does my chest hurt so much?
Pushing myself out of bed, I go through my morning routine, aware that the clock is ticking and I need to be at work before nine.
In the shower, the hot water beats down on me, loosening my tight muscles, but doing little to alleviate the tightness in my chest. If I didn’t know better I’d be worried.
But I do know better. Sadness and heartache might be real things but they’re not physical.
Stress is. I’m just stressed because I obviously hurt Holly.
Sleeping with her was a mistake, one I take full responsibility for.
I should have been upfront right from the start that nothing could come from us having sex and that it was a purely physical and casual thing.
Somehow that doesn’t quite ring true.
I take the time to carefully shave and trim up my goatee, avoiding my eyes in the mirror. One glance at the haunted, hollow look in them was enough.
Packing my overnight bag, I check it twice, ensuring I’m not leaving anything behind. The hotel room looks impersonal again, no trace of the magic from last night except the rumpled sheets I can’t force myself to touch.
The conference was an obligation, something I got roped into by my practice partners.
Dr. Stevens loves these events: the schmoozing and networking.
I find them tedious. Now I wish I could just go home, take a long run to clear my head and help me forget about bright green eyes and a smile that lights up a room better than any Christmas lights could.
But I can’t. I have obligations.
And when Monday rolls around, I still can't forget the magical woman I spent Friday night with.
I'm in my office between patients, staring at the computer screen without seeing it. A file is open, but the words blur together. I keep seeing Holly's face. The way she looked at me in the bar when I ordered the same drink as her. As if we were in on a secret together.
“Dr. Alexander? Your ten o'clock is here.”
I look up to find Taylor, my nurse, standing in the doorway.
She's worked with me for eight years, efficient and unflappable, her midnight black hair always pulled back in a neat bun and a pleasant smile permanently etched on her face.
She's currently looking at me with concern, and I wonder how long she’s been standing there for.
“Thanks, Taylor.” I force a smile and quickly focus on the patient’s file. Seventy-two-year-old male, a follow-up after a stent placement two weeks ago. Straightforward and simple. The way my life was before Friday night happened.
The day passes in a blur of appointments.
I see eight patients, review test results, and consult with colleagues.
But through it all, Holly is there in the back of my mind.
That moment of hurt in her eyes when I let her down is like an icepick to my chest. The pain is sharp and clear.
I made a mistake, one that is clearly determined to haunt me.
By Wednesday, I'm irritated with myself. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man, I’ve had good sex before.
Yes, it was exceptionally good, and despite only just meeting, we clicked, but those few hours aren’t worth this level of distraction.
I have patients who depend on me, a practice to run, and responsibilities that matter.
There’s no room in my life for me to be moping about like some broken-hearted teenager.
This wasn’t some epic romance; it was a single night.
“You're grumpy,” my colleague Dr. Stevens says during our lunch break. We're in the practice's small break room, eating sandwiches from the deli down the street. “More than usual.”
“I'm not grumpy.” I take a bite of my turkey club, not tasting it, merely chewing because I know I need to eat.
“You snapped at Taylor this morning for no reason.
You're definitely grumpy.” He studies me over his pastrami on rye, his blue eyes far too perceptive.
Stevens is in his late fifties, married for thirty years, with three kids, two grandsons, and a granddaughter on the way.
He thinks everyone should be as happily coupled as he is. “Woman troubles?”
“No,” I snap, grabbing my bottle of water.
“Liar.” But he drops it, which I appreciate. He launches into a story about his grandson's winter concert instead, and I let the familiar rhythm of his voice wash over me.
That evening, I sit in my quiet condo staring at my laptop. I tell myself I'm catching up on medical journals, but that's not what I'm doing.
I'm Googling her.
‘It's Always Something’ brings up way too many results, but putting in Holly as the owner narrows things down, and I find exactly what I'm looking for half-way down the page.
The shop's website is as cheerful as Holly herself, purple and pink with photos of the colorful interior, which is currently in Christmas mode.
Okay, that’s an understatement; it’s like everything Christmas exploded in the shop.
There’s even a picture of Holly and two other people in Santa hats posing near a vintage aluminum silver Christmas tree that is decked out with multi-colored glass bulbs.
I don’t pay attention to the others, my eyes are only for Holly.
Even in a picture, her light shines through clearly.
Her smile is welcoming and that now familiar pain in my chest intensifies.
I want that smile directed at me again. Those clear and bright green eyes filled with warmth for me and me alone.
Swallowing hard, I force myself not to jump to the shop’s Instagram for more pictures but instead go to the address. 127 State Street, downtown Dover, Delaware. Not even thirty minutes away from me.
I shouldn't go. I was clear about what Friday night was. Showing up at her workplace will give her the wrong idea. She might think I've changed my mind when I haven't.
But Thursday afternoon finds me leaving work early, telling Taylor I have an errand to run.
I drive through downtown Dover, the streets decorated for Christmas, with tinsel wreathes on every streetlight.
We had a bit of snow last week, and the slushy remains are still there in dirty piles along the narrow roads.
Right when I’m getting close, snowflakes begin to fall, just enough to look pretty, not enough to need the wipers yet.
I find the address easily. A storefront painted in cheerful purple and pink, standing out among the more subdued brick buildings around it. I grin. I bet the neighbors hate her.
The hand-painted sign reads, “It's Always Something” in whimsical letters, each letter a different color. The windows are decorated with Christmas lights, garland, snowmen and reindeer, and displays of colorful soaps and candles arranged to look like presents under a miniature tree.
I park across the street and sit there for a moment, watching through the window. I can see shelves packed with gifts and novelties, everything bright and cheerful.
And I can see her.
I’m out of my car and hurrying across the street before I can change my mind, my eyes are glued to the shop’s windows.
Holly is behind the counter, ringing up a customer. Her face is lit with that genuine smile I can't stop thinking about. She’s so animated as she chats, laughing and gesturing with her hands.
The shop's door has a bell above it that jingles merrily when I enter, announcing my arrival.
The space is small, maybe eight hundred square feet, but it's packed floor to ceiling with personality.
The walls are painted in warm pastel colors: purple, pink, and teal.
Shelves line every available surface, crammed with items. Hand-knitted scarves in rainbow colors cascade from hooks near the door.
Artisan soaps wrapped in brown paper and twine fill a vintage wooden crate.
Funny coffee mugs with sayings like “I'm not a morning person” and “Powered by coffee and Christmas cheer” crowd a shelf.
Quirky greeting cards showcase local artists.
3D-printed decorations, everything from miniature castles to abstract sculptures, occupy their own section.
Candles in every scent imaginable, from lavender to “Christmas Cookie Explosion,” line multiple shelves.
It smells incredible in here, and I pause just to breathe.
Cinnamon and pine, vanilla and something spicy underneath.
Christmas music plays softly from hidden speakers, Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas.” The silver tree from the picture on the website has a place of honor on a table in the center of the shop and I can’t help moving closer to it, staring in wonder as I recognize some of the ornaments as those my grandparents had on their tree when I was a kid.
I hadn’t thought about them in a long time, but seeing the colored glass bulbs with bits of silver tinsel inside them brings it all back, and I have to swallow back the sudden lump in my throat.
It's overwhelming and delightful, and despite barely knowing Holly, I understand at once that this shop is so completely her.
The customer she was helping leaves, and Holly looks up from the register and freezes, her green eyes going wide. “James?”
“Hi.” I feel suddenly awkward, standing here in black dress pants and a white button-down shirt that comprise my work attire, completely out of place among the colors and chaos. A middle-aged woman browsing the greeting cards glances over with interest.