Chapter 1 #2
Stepping to the side of the hallway, I call her back. She answers on the first ring, her voice low and urgent, “Bea?”
“It’s me,” I reply. Though really, who else would be calling her from my number, only minutes after she left me a message? “What’s going on?”
“I…” She stops. “Can you meet? Tonight?”
“Sure. I’m almost done. Do you want to meet at Calliope’s?”
Calliope’s is the go-to restaurant for a lot of people who work here. It has sandwiches the size of my head, enormous chocolate chip cookies that total my calorie allotment for the day, and the servers all know us there, so they never try to rush us out.
While I wait for Jenna to respond, I mentally reshuffle my evening.
It won’t be the quiet night I had planned, eating stir-fry or sushi while camped in front of the TV watching the newest episode of Top Chef, followed by a quick FaceTime chat with my college friends before bed.
Instead, I’ll be camped at a booth at Calliope’s while Jenna unburdens herself.
Which I don’t mind, really. While Jenna isn’t one of my closest friends—that honor goes to Aidy and Fiona, who were my sophomore year roommates at the University of Pittsburgh—I still like her a lot. And out of the people I work with here at the VA hospital, she’s one of my favorites.
So if she’s having boyfriend trouble, there’s no question of me being there for her.
“No,” Jenna finally answers. “Not Calliope’s. It needs to be private.”
Oh.
My stomach sinks.
What could she want to talk about that can’t be done at Calliope’s?
Unless… Did he break up with her? Is that why? If she’s upset, crying, she might not want other people from work to see her there.
I start moving again, heading back down the hallway towards the office I share with two other PTs, Hailey and Jonas.
I need to grab my purse from my desk, plus the coat I wore on my walk here, because even though the DC area is warmer than what I grew up with in Pittsburgh, the temperatures in January can still dip below freezing.
“Okay, no Calliope’s,” I say. “Where do you want to meet?”
Jenna lets out a shaky sigh. “The locker room. On the second floor. I’m there now, and it’s quiet.”
“Okay.” I put on my most reassuring tone, the one I use with my patients when they’re really struggling. “Give me ten, fifteen minutes. I need to update some files first. But then I’ll head right there.”
“Okay,” she replies, “I’ll be here.” And then, just before the call ends, “Thanks, Bea.”
Since I’m almost to my office, I pick up my pace as I close the final distance to it, then hurry inside and shut the door behind me. Hailey’s at her desk, her head down and attention glued to something on her laptop. As the door clicks shut, she lifts her head and turns towards me.
“Hey, Bea,” she says with a smile. “How’s it going?”
“I’m good,” I reply. “How are you?” Sinking into my chair, I pull my lanyard from around my neck and locate the tiny key that unlocks the bottom drawer of my desk. Then I open the drawer to retrieve my purse and drop my phone inside it.
I look at my laptop bag, torn by indecision. I have a few files to update, like I told Jenna. I’d prefer to finish my work here rather than do it from home later, although I could if I wanted to. It’s just that I like keeping my little apartment slash sanctuary separate from work as much as I can.
But if Jenna needs me…
She doesn’t have close friends like I do.
Homeschooled until she graduated from high school, she had a harder time making friends in college and afterwards.
Not that she isn’t nice, but making friends doesn’t come naturally to her.
Which I get. If not for lucking into a three-person suite sophomore year with Fiona and Aidy, I might have ended up the same way.
So if she doesn’t have someone else to talk to about Greg—assuming he’s the problem, which is my best guess—I hate making her wait.
“Something wrong?” Hailey asks. Concern clouds her features. “You look upset.”
“Oh, no.” I work my mouth into a smile. “Just thinking, really.”
“About what you’re making for dinner?” She grins. “Are you making some ridiculously fancy meal that would cost a fortune at an actual restaurant?”
“Hardly. And it’s not like I’m an expert chef or anything. I just enjoy cooking.”
I glance at my laptop again. It’s just sitting there, visible through the open zipper of the case, silently reminding me of the work I still need to complete.
Do you really want to do this later, it seems to ask, when you’d rather be watching Top Chef? Do you want to be up past your usual bedtime updating files when you could get it out of the way right now?
Well, no, if I’m being honest. I’d rather not do it later.
I’d rather knock out the files now so once I get home, I can cuddle in my bed with a mug of golden milk and watch talented chefs create masterpieces in the kitchen.
“Your version of porn,” Fiona told me once, “doesn’t involve a hot, naked man.
It’s a guy in a chef’s coat sweating buckets in the kitchen. ”
While I love watching all sorts of cooking shows, I wouldn’t consider them porn. And if I had to choose a man to hook up with, he wouldn’t be all sweaty and covered in food.
No. He’d have curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes and strong features that soften when he risks a rare smile—
Wait.
Why am I thinking about him? And after so long…
“That reminds me,” Hailey says, jerking me away from the memory of a man I shouldn’t still think about. “My fiancé works with this guy. His name is Winston, and he loves food—” She laughs. “That doesn’t sound right. What I mean is, he’s a foodie, like you. He’s really nice, good-looking, single…”
Oh, no.
Hailey means well. Everyone who thinks they know the perfect person for me to date does. They’re all convinced if I just meet the right guy, it’ll end my years of singlehood.
What they don’t know, because I don’t tell them, is it’s not that I can’t get a date. I get asked out plenty—at the grocery store, the farmers market, the gym—but I never accept.
Sometimes I consider it, but then the doubting voice in the back of my head reminds me, Sure, he’s interested now. When he doesn’t really know you. But what about later, once he learns the truth? Is it worth it when disappointment is inevitable?
Logically, I know that’s not true. That not every man would care. But I can’t seem to make myself take the risk. It’s just easier—safer, really—staying single.
And I like my life the way it is, anyway. I have a good job. A cute apartment. Friends. Parents who love me. Isn’t that more than enough?
Belatedly, I realize Hailey’s still waiting for my response. “Sorry,” I blurt. “I’m just distracted today. Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m not really looking to date right now.”
The direction of the conversation decides the work debate for me.
“Actually,” I add, pushing up from my chair, “I have to meet someone, so I’m going to finish my work later.” I grab my purse, laptop bag, and coat. A quick glance at my watch shows it’s been five minutes since Jenna’s last text. “I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Hailey stares at me for a second. A flicker of sympathy moves across her face. “Sorry, Bea. I wasn’t trying to push him on you. I just thought, since you’re both single…”
I give her a bright smile. “It’s fine. Really.” Detouring past her desk, I pat her shoulder reassuringly. “I appreciate you asking. And if I change my mind about dating, I’ll let you know.”
Will I ever change my mind about dating? I ask myself as I head towards the elevator.
The alternative doesn’t seem terribly appealing.
Yes, I’m happy with things as they are right now. But does that mean I want to spend the rest of my life single? What if I want to buy a house? Have a baby? I could do both on my own, but would I want to?
I know women who are happily single and doing it all by themselves. Like Fannie, one of the psychiatrists on staff—she lives in a lovely little house out in Kensington and has an adorable three-year-old son that she had thanks to a sperm donor.
In theory, I could do the same thing.
Well. If I made more money, that is. Because houses in the DC area are expensive. And so is having a baby.
“We could lend you money for a house,” my parents offered during my last visit to Pittsburgh. “Real estate prices are so much more affordable around here. And there are some great family-friendly neighborhoods. Just something to think about.”
But I don’t want to buy a house in Pittsburgh. And as much as I support women raising children on their own, it’s not for me. If I have a baby—emphasis on the if—I don’t want to do it by myself. I would want a partner. Not just a partner, but a man I love.
The elevator dings, the sudden sound jolting me back to the present. Hurrying inside, I press the button for the second floor while trying to shove wistful thoughts of houses and hypothetical children aside.
As the elevator descends, I remind myself that I’m only thirty-three. Not over the hill yet, despite the implications my grandmother makes every Christmas as she bemoans her lack of great-grandchildren.
“You’re so pretty,” she likes to tell me. “With that beautiful blonde hair and your cute little figure. You could find a nice man if you wanted to. And then I could have great-grandchildren before I die.”
Talk about a guilt trip.
The elevator jerks to a stop on the second floor, and a few seconds later, the door slides open. There’s no one in the hallway when I step out into it, which is surprising given that there are plenty of offices on this floor, along with the employee locker rooms.
But we are between shifts, so that might explain it. I know I never come down here after my shift, preferring to either head home or over to Calliope’s with some of my coworkers.