11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Biscotti, Business + a Tomahawk Missile
Aspen
“No! He is ugly! And sweaty! And just overall icky! I will not continue with this show if you make me date or kiss or…or…just ew!”
There’s a huge grin on my face as I pull supplies from my medical bag.
It’s my first official day as my own boss.
No hospital board breathing down my neck, no shift supervisors to check in with, or people to manage.
It’s just me, my stethoscope, and my newest client, Ms. Lilly Rose.
Since I’m not on anyone’s time but my own, we allow ourselves a few minutes to remain fully engrossed in our shared guilty pleasure—reality TV.
Ms. Lilly Rose lets out a dramatic gasp, her eyes welling with tears as we watch the recap of the latest episode of SightUnseen.
Apparently, after falling head-over-heels for James in the pods, Hilary is now having visceral second thoughts about the man she once called her king.
The transition from emotional connection to physical reality has been, to put it mildly, a train wreck.
“It’s not kind to call someone ugly,” we hear one of the producers say from behind the camera on the screen.
“It’s also not kind to tell someone you look like Tom Hardy! That man looks like he’s been hit by a tomahawk missile!”
Ms. Lilly snorts. “I hate to say it, but that man is ugly.”
We start laughing again.
Ms. Lilly is seventy-five years old with a heart of gold and a mild case of hypertension that seems to spike only when her favorite contestants make questionable choices.
Being here in her sunroom on Billionaire’s Row feels worlds away from the frantic pace of Centennial Memorial.
It’s warm and cozy in a way I can’t quite explain, but this is exactly why I started this mobile nursing business.
For the personal touch, the real connection, and, apparently, a front-row seat to the best reality TV commentary in the city.
I sober my thoughts and return to work mode, determined to maintain my professionalism.
“Let’s get started with your initial intake, shall we?” I ask. She picks up the remote and turns the volume down on the television, the dramatic soundtrack fading into the background.
“Guess we’re getting down to business now,” she says with a playful sigh.
“Well, you don’t pay me to gab, Ms. Lilly.”
“I could be,” she counters. “Sometimes, company and laughter are the best medicines for us old folks.”
“Well, your nephew Eros said you’ve been doing far too much while your hip isn’t fully healed, so I need to keep a special eye on you. The laughs are a bonus.”
Ms. Lilly was actually the first person I approached with my business venture.
I hadn't gone to her as a potential client, but as an established businesswoman who had built her own empire, she was also someone I could glean wisdom from.
I needed a mentor who wouldn't criticize me for chasing a dream that my own parents viewed as a reckless gamble.
It wasn't long before she had her nephews, Ares and Eros Beaumont, on the line, and the three of them were coaching me through my next steps.
Ares even hooked me up with a connection to find suitable transportation for my supplies.
It’s an older ambulance that was no longer in use, but you’d never know it now.
Thanks to Kevin Spencer’s generous investment, it’s been repainted in turquoise and purple—my two favorite colors—with the name Aspen & Oak Private Care emblazoned on the side in elegant lettering.
It’s the first of its kind in our community.
A clinic on wheels. Driving it through the suburbs and streets of Cinnamon Grove makes the dream feel more real with every mile. It also adds pressure by the day.
Every time I catch my reflection in the side mirror or see a neighbor point at the vibrant colors, the anxiety builds.
I have to win. I have to succeed. Because if this fails, it’s not just a business that goes under, it’s the hope of every person in this neighborhood who is waiting for someone to finally show up for them.
Ms. Lilly waves me off. “My nephew worries too much.”
“He loves you,” I say.
I’m documenting her vitals and reviewing her blood pressure numbers from the previous week, when she reaches out and covers my hand with hers.
“You haven’t said much about your new man since you’ve been coming around,” she says softly.
I sigh, the sound heavy even to my own ears. “Because I’m not sure what to say. Or what I can say.”
“I understand about the NDAs, sweetie. But what about your heart? How are you feeling inside of married life these days?”
“That’s a loaded question,” I say, stalling. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to go down this path with her. Or with anyone.
Most people in my life don’t know the full truth of what’s going on with me lately. I’ve been slowly breadcrumbing the news that I’ll be on SightUnseen for the world to see. And, oh yeah, that I’m technically a married woman.
But Ms. Lilly is different. She champions my debauchery like she’s my slightly more wrinkled older sister.
I’ve already told her more than I’ve told my own mother—how I went to Vegas and accidentally married a stranger, how it’s probably not even legal, and how I couldn't find him after one incredible night. Still, I’m keeping the rawest parts of the story tucked away.
I can’t bring myself to admit the rest—to say out loud that the man I fell for in a single night seemingly wants nothing to do with me. Since things fell apart with Luca and subsequently Croix, I’ve been living in a state of comfortable denial.
I don’t want to face the reality of it because, frankly, heartbreak is a foreign language to me. I’ve always been the type to view an ending as a syllabus. A clear list of lessons learned and behaviors I’ll never tolerate again. Usually, I process, pack up, and pivot.
But this pain is different. It lingers, dull and constant, like a low-grade fever I can’t break. I don't know how to handle a wound that refuses to scab over, so I do the only thing I can and I talk about anything else.
“I’m managing, Ms. Lilly. One day at a time,” I say, gently steering the conversation toward safer shores. “Actually, I wanted to thank you again for the hook-up with Chapman Park for the Young Strikers event. It was a lifesaver.”
Tatum had been in the middle of planning one of her signature community events for the Atlanta Strikers when the original park developed a literal sinkhole.
In the midst of her panic, I’d promised to help find a new location.
Ms. Lilly happened to overhear the drama while I was at the hospital and took it upon herself to make a few calls.
She managed to secure Chapman Park for us with the event only a few short weeks away.
“If we can get the permits finalized, I’ll be able to host a mobile vaccination and flu shot clinic right on-site,” I add.
“You just make sure you send me pictures of those babies in their uniforms,” she chirps, her eyes twinkling. “And the men, if you really want to thank me.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I will. I promise.”
As I pack up my bag, I can’t help but notice the blueberry and chia seed yogurt sitting on her side table—the specific brand she gets that I’ve become borderline addicted to.
“I’m taking this,” I announce, snatching it up with a grin.
“Go on then, thief,” she laughs, waving me off.
I head out into the afternoon sun, plastic spoon in hand, trying to focus on the cooling sweetness of the yogurt instead of the quiet, empty ache waiting for me at home.