By the time I leave for work, my head is spinning. I sit in my car in the clinic parking lot for a minute with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel. Friday evening is already waiting for me now, placed neatly in my life by two men who never asked if I wanted it there.
Inside, the front desk is already busy. I step behind it and let the rhythm of work take over—answering calls, pulling charts, handing out forms. It’s easier to be useful than it is to be upset.
Scarlett appears from the hallway about an hour later and stops the second she sees my face. “You okay, hun?”
“I’m okay. It was just a weird morning.”
She studies me for a second, then her mouth curves. “Did a certain dramatic giant text you last night?”
Heat climbs into my cheeks. “A little.”
“A little?” Scarlett repeats, delighted. “What does that mean?”
“It means we texted for a while.” I straighten the appointment cards even though they’re already straight. “He said he survived barely, and then there was something about soup respecting the performance.”
Scarlett laughs. “That sounds painfully accurate.”
“He’s strange,” I say, but I’m smiling when I say it.
“He is. But in his defense, he’s usually a little more coherent when he isn’t actively losing a battle against cold medicine.” Her expression softens. “Did he make you laugh?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Scarlett taps the counter. “You deserve to laugh more.”
The morning keeps moving until Sophie steps out for a chart. I hesitate, then ask, “How’s Tiny feeling?”
Sophie’s eyebrows lift. Scarlett makes a quiet sound like she’s trying not to laugh. My face warms again.
“Miserable, I’m sure,” Sophie says with a knowing smile. “He texted Cole claiming he was on the edge of death, so I’d say he’s recovering exactly as expected.”
I let out a small laugh. “He said you called him dramatic.”
“I did, and I stand by it.” Sophie leans closer. “He’s a good one, though. Dramatic, stubborn, and entirely too big for my exam rooms, but good all the way through.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Oh, honey, yes.” Sophie’s voice warms. “He used to come over when Cole was in high school. They’d pile into my kitchen like starving wolves. Tiny was always the first one to help carry groceries in, and he’d stand there with four grilled cheese sandwiches on his plate and still ask if I needed help with anything before he sat down.”
The image makes something soft unfold in my chest. “Four grilled cheese sandwiches?”
Sophie laughs. “That boy could empty my refrigerator before dinner and still ask what we were having later. He was short and scrawny back then, all elbows and awkward energy. He hadn’t grown into himself yet.”
I hesitate, then ask softly, “His real name is Jacob Wellington… right?”
Sophie nods. “Jacob Wellington the Third.”
That doesn’t fit him. Tiny fits him better.
“Money doesn’t always mean a child gets what he needs,” Sophie says quietly. “He found more love around this club than he ever found in that big house.” She pats my hand. “He has aheart about twice the size of the rest of him. Don’t let all that leather and noise fool you.”
My phone buzzes in my cardigan pocket just before lunch.
Tiny: Good morning, Buttercup.
Buttercup?
Me: Buttercup?
