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Her manners are apparently very, very ugly.
What in the hell just happened?
Tampa, FL, September 8th, Tuesday
Carly
I slide the twenty-dollar bill through the hole in the plexiglass and give Bob a smile. “You can keep the change, but you have to tell your wife about my offer. I swear skiing is pretty easy to pick up if you have a great instructor like me.”
Bob laughs. “Okay, Miss Carly. I’ll tell her.”
“Perfect.”
He makes a move to open his door, but I cut him off at the pass. “Don’t worry about the bags. I can get them myself.” It’s only a duffel and my backpack, and I’m going to have to carry it into the hospital on my own anyway.
Bob nods, and I jump out of the passenger side door and round the car to the trunk as he pops it open. I grab my stuff, swing both bags over my shoulder, slam the lid down, and tap the surface two times like I’ve seen them do in the movies.
When he understands my signal and pulls away, a smile creeps onto my face.
Of course, when I turn to face Tampa Bay Medical Center, that smile slides right back off like melted butter.
Ugh. I hate hospitals.
They’re stuffy and boring and have a million and one rules that you have to follow or, you know, risk killing someone. And I’m not really about that kind of pressure.
I used to be, back in college, and for a little while after. But truthfully, my years at Georgia Institute of Technology—aka Georgia Tech—and in the corporate world feel like an entirely different lifetime for a completely different person.
You couldn’t pay me enough money to go back because, frankly, the only way I’d be able to fit back inside the “box” is if you chopped me into a million little pieces and ran them through a grinder.
Nevertheless, my mom is in there, and for as much as I tried to be the opposite of her in my younger years, we are very much two peas in a pod. Wild. Flighty. A little bit too carefree, if you ask some people. Cough, Willow.
And when I left my high-paying job at a freaking Fortune 500 company in California to move to Colorado and fly by the seat of my pants, my mom supported me. No judgment. No disappointment.
So, it’s my job to support her now. Like it or not.
I scrunch up my nose, hike my bags higher on my shoulders, and get to beating feet.
The glass doors at the front entrance slide open to the sides, and a semicircular desk with a security guard seated behind it beckons straight ahead.
I wait behind two other people, trying not to listen to them get weepy about whatever relative they’re looking for, and then finally, step up to the desk with a smile.
“Hi,” I say, my voice chipper in a way that makes the bald guy’s mondo-huge eyebrows shift toward each other. “I’m here to see my mom. Stella Page. I’m not sure of her room number.”
“I’m going to need your ID,” he replies, all business, like his face is carved from stone.
I shrug, shove a hand into my pocket, and pull out my wad of belongings. Cash, credit card, my crumpled boarding pass, and eventually, at the bottom, my Colorado driver’s license.
“Here you go,” I say, holding it out to him.
He studies it closely before clicking a few times on his computer and returning both it and a visitor badge across the counter. “Room 312. Elevator is straight back and on the left. Press the call button at the double doors, and the nurses station will buzz you in.”
Outwardly, I nod. But on the inside, I want to gag.
So dang stuffy.
“Thanks!” I say with a little skip as I grab both my license and the visitor badge, just to annoy him. “Have a splendid day!”
He pretty much ignores me, though, his eyes moving to the next person in line and waving them forward. I have to sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from laughing in his face.
The elevators aren’t far, and as I approach, I can see that the door is just starting to close. Not wanting to wait for the stupid thing to make it somewhere and back, I yell, “Hold the elevator!” and pick up my pace to a jog.
A hand shoots out, long, mocha-skinned fingers slapping against the side of the door I can see. My heart rate picks up a little bit at the kind of fine-ass specimen that could be waiting for me in there, and I plaster a smile on my face to ready myself to flirt. If necessary, of course.
The view isn’t disappointing as I round the hallway and into the cart. The man has a straight white smile that stands out like a skier on the snow and his gorgeous skin is the color of creamed coffee.
