Chapter Nineteen Will
Chapter Nineteen
Will
The Missoula Fire Department gets called by the US Forest Service dispatch to help with a wildfire eight miles south of town. I spend my forty-eight-hour shift on that fire. By Monday, it’s still at zero containment.
As I climb into my Bronco to head home, I get a text.
Fitz: Heard your house got called
Will: Yeah. Heading home to crash. U?
Fitz: Just sent out a group. Staying at the base today
Fitz: Jamie said there’s sexual tension between u and the Dr
I slide my sunglasses onto my head to make sure I’m reading his text correctly.
Will: WTF
Fitz: That’s what I figured. Go sleep
I grumble a few expletives and then drive home. After removing my boots at the back door, I glance up and freeze. My kitchen is a disaster again. Dirty dishes in the sink. Crumbs on the counter. An open bottle of AriZona tea on the coffee table beside a pair of wadded pink socks.
“Sleep first,” I mumble on my way to the stairs, “and kill her later.”
Four hours later, I awaken to the vacuum running downstairs. I pull on jeans and follow the high-pitched hum. Halfway down the stairs, I stop, squinting at the stranger cleaning my house.
“Hello?” I yell.
The young, dark-haired woman jumps and turns off the vacuum. “Hi. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Well, ya did. Who are you? And why are you in my house?”
“Oh, I’m Alba. Dr. Reichart asked me to clean your house. I own a cleaning business. I’m an ex-patient of hers, but she said I shouldn’t tell you that, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I needed her. She helped me so much. You must feel privileged getting to be her roommate. She’s brilliant.”
“Agree to disagree. Listen, Alba, I worked a forty-eight-hour shift, and I need sleep. So maybe you can come back tomorrow afternoon or anytime Wednesday or Thursday.”
“Sorry, sir. I only have Mondays available.”
I pull in a deep breath and hold it while returning a tight smile. Letting it out, I stomp back upstairs, grab a T-shirt, socks, and a hat. Then I breeze past Alba and head to Dr. Reichart’s office.
“Oh! Sir!” The same blond as before follows me down the hallway.
But this time, I know where Everleigh’s office is.
“Sir? Uh, Will?” The blond chases me. “Dr. Reichart is not to be disturbed for another fifteen minutes unless it’s an emergency.”
“It’s an emergency,” I say, opening her office door.
It’s dark except for the light from the hallway. There’s spa music playing. And Everleigh is on the leather sofa under a blanket with a sleep mask over her eyes. I slam the door shut behind me, and she jumps, sliding her mask up her forehead.
“Will?” She squints.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re sleeping while one of your patients is vacuuming my house so that I”—I jab my thumb into my chest—“the firefighter who just completed a forty-eight-hour shift, can’t sleep?”
She wrinkles her nose while standing and pulls her hair back into a ponytail before tucking her black blouse into her cream skirt. “I told her to wait until afternoon. And she’s not my patient anymore.”
“Well”—I smack her M&M dispenser several times, sending some rolling off her desk and onto the floor while a few land in my hand—“I sleep until mid to late afternoon following a two-day shift.”
“You’re making a mess,” she says, picking up the M&Ms from the floor.
“Oh, I’m making a mess? You’re a pig. My kitchen was a disaster when I came home this morning. I think your hidden tattoo says a lot more about you than your favorite childhood book.”
Everleigh tosses the M&Ms into her sleek gold trash bin. “I’m very sorry. I tried to check with you, but you didn’t answer your phone or return my text.”
“I was working the Travelers’ fire. Sorry I didn’t have time to discuss chores with you. I was busy saving homes and possibly lives.”
“Thank you for your service,” she says, holding out her hand.
I stare at it. “I’m not shaking your hand.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m pissed off.”
“Go home and sleep. I’ll call Alba and tell her to dust and clean toilets. I’ll vacuum tonight when I get home. Does that sound like a good idea?”
I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging it while trying to shake this building frustration. “You know what sounds like a good idea to me?”
“What?”
“You staying out of my business. You not telling my friends that there’s sexual tension between us. There is tension between us, but it’s not sexual. It’s the kind of tension that leads to a Dateline murder mystery episode.” I drop my hands to my sides.
“Have you ever taken a Xanax or Ativan?”
“What?” I squint.
“They’re fast-acting benzodiazepines for panic attacks and acute anxiety.”
“I’m not having a panic attack, and I don’t have acute anxiety. I don’t need drugs. I need you to move out of my house and never contact me again!” I stalk toward the door, but she jumps in front of me before I can open it. “Get out of my way.”
She slowly shakes her head, wide-eyed gaze locked with mine. I’m not sure what her game is, but it’s not me. I’m tired of being played.
“Dr. Reichart would tell me to step aside and move out of your shed immediately. She hates seeing grown women chase men who don’t want them. So can we just keep this between us?” she asks in a weird third-person narrative.
“Keep what between—”
Everleigh shifts all of her weight onto her tippy-toes and grabs the back of my neck to kiss me. I could stop her because I’m stronger than she is. But I don’t. Instead, I let her kiss me. And for a few seconds, that’s it. Her kissing me.
She doesn’t stop. No giving up. Everleigh has never been a quitter.
So I kiss her back. Just my lips move at first, then I slide my hands around her tiny waist and pull her to me. Her breasts press against my chest, and I feel a low hum from her before I hear it. I don’t know what’s happening. This is not the beginning of the 00.01 percent scenario.
No.
It’s a kiss.
I know how to just kiss, the way I know how to just have sex. These skills of mine have kept me unmarried and unattached for forty years.
The problem?
This might be the longest kiss of my life. The fraction of space between us fills with the forced breaths through our noses. Her hands slide into my hair, fingers curling to grip it as mine drop a few inches to grab her ass. This makes her hum turn into a moan that I swallow.
Why does she have to smell like a bouquet and taste like a candy cane?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. After it quits for a few seconds, it vibrates again. Everleigh’s firm grip of my hair feels like an accelerator, fueling whatever is happening, and I don’t care who’s calling me.
But again, it vibrates. Someone’s antsy to reach me, and just that thought sobers me up enough to release her. We stare at each other, eyes unblinking, lips parted, breaths labored.
Everleigh slowly lifts her hand to wipe the smeared lipstick from her face, and I mirror her because it must be all over mine as well. What the hell do I say?
Oops?
Sorry?
My bad?
She started it.
Again, my phone vibrates, so I pull it from my pocket. “Yeah?” I answer it, turning my back to Everleigh while combing my free hand through my hair. My dick is hard. Mind jumbled. And the voice coming from the phone does nothing to comfort me.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks in his slow Eeyore voice.
“Uh, I’m . . . nothing. Errands. Uh, what’s wrong?” I ask because something must be wrong for him to call me so relentlessly.
“There were raisins in the cookie.”
“What?” I flip the shades and stare out the window overlooking a sports field. Hopefully, Everleigh has a patient waiting, and she’ll disappear before I end this conversation.
“At lunch. The cookie had raisins. You know I hate raisins. I don’t know why God invented them. I told the lady I needed a cookie that didn’t have raisins. She said she’d see what she could do. That was almost two hours ago.”
“Dad.” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and rub tiny circles. “Are you really calling me about a cookie?”
“Yeah. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Did you call Mom?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Tough cookie.’”
I pinch my bottom lip to hide my grin. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“I want you to call the main headquarters and find out what’s taking them so long to bring me my cookie.”
Main headquarters?
“Dad, you won’t die without a cookie.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not stuck in a jail like I am. You can buy a whole box of cookies.”
“Well, maybe I can arrange a cookie delivery. I don’t know yet. I’ll have to see what I can find.”
“Chocolate chip. No raisins. No oatmeal. No cranberries. No coconut. No nuts.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I got it. No promises.”
“Do you know my room number?”
“I do—”
“It’s thirteen. Unlucky number thirteen.”
“Thirteen. Got it. I’ll check back with you later.”
“Okay. I’ll just be here doing nothing. Waiting for a cookie.”
I close my eyes for a second and nod. Oh the guilt. I don’t want him to die, but I wouldn’t mind if he misplaced his phone. “Understood. I love you.”
He replies with a “Hmm” as if he’s not sure if I do.
Please be gone.
I turn to discover my prayer has gone unanswered.
Everleigh’s fingers fly across her computer’s keyboard. It’s as if I’m not here. And maybe I can lower to my hands and knees and crawl out of her office before she notices I’m gone.
“The best way to know if you’ve successfully raised good humans is to see how they take care of you when you become the child again.” She taps a key with her index finger three times, then rolls back in her chair and rests her hands on the arms.
I don’t know what to do with that pose because her hands are neither behind her nor folded in front.
“Your parents raised a good human,” she says.
“That’s interesting coming from the girl who thinks I crushed her heart eleven years ago.”
She returns a soft smile. “I’m not your mother. Perhaps how you treat me isn’t as important as how you treat her.”
“Did your parents raise you well?” I ask, casually taking a few steps closer to the door as if I can discreetly exit the stage when there’s a break in conversation—the end of an act.
“I don’t know.” A flash of something crosses her face. What? I’m not sure.
She quickly smiles through it. “It’s easy to think that you’ll rise to the occasion, but caring for older people is challenging.
You can’t change a diaper, feed them, stick a pacifier in their mouth, and put them down for a nap while you get things done.
The milestones aren’t exciting like a toddler walking or saying their first words.
It’s reversed. It’s frustrating and sad.
The guilt is unrelenting. There can be deep feelings of resentment and loneliness.
Caregiver burnout. And other things you can’t anticipate.
You’re not bringing a life into the world.
You’re easing the transition into a life ending,” Everleigh says, lifting her gaze for a mere second before looking at her watch.
Maybe talking about the kiss would be easier.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
A slow smile tugs at her lips. “For the depressing dose of reality or the kiss?”
I shrug. “They feel like one and the same.”
Everleigh rolls her eyes with a tiny headshake.
“I should not have kissed you,” I say in all seriousness.
“You didn’t. I kissed you.” She folds her hands in her lap.
“I participated.”
She studies me for a few seconds before returning a slow nod.
“I can’t forget the past,” I say. “But more than that, I’m still twelve years older than you. And I am a good son, so I might have to move to Somers to help take care of my dad. And let’s be honest, you’re too smart for me.”
Again, she offers a single, slow nod. So I turn and open her door.
“Will, I’m scared too. And I know the night that stands out in your head is our last night together, but I will never forget the rehearsal dinner.”
My lips part, and I take a quick breath as I prepare to turn back toward her and make a case for why I’m not scared despite what she thinks. But I don’t want to argue with her. It won’t change how I feel, and I doubt it will change her feelings either.
“I shouldn’t have cockblocked you. It won’t happen again.” I open the door without looking back. It’s time to get laid.