“It usually starts something like,Sorry for being such a dick. Throwing in ayou were rightnever hurts either. And eye contact,” she says.
I lift my gaze from the cup in my hand.
“I was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve that.” My throat tightens, but I muscle through it. “I’m not used to letting people see me like that.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“I don’t think I am.”
She crosses her arms, her foot tapping. She’s got no right to be this difficult and disarming at the same time.
“I need your help. I don’t like to admit it, but I do.”
“You’re a real pain in my ass, but if that’s the best you’ve got—apology accepted.”
She deserves more. I know it, and I hope she does too.
I take a seat, setting her coffee down. It’s too sweet for me, but it was definitely worth the reaction.
She leaves me to get her kit.
Without her to distract me, an uncomfortable buzz starts under my skin, heat spreading from the base of my skull down my neck. My foot taps against the wood.
I last maybe ten seconds before I’m gritting my teeth and standing from the chair to pace the length of the kitchen a few times until I find myself in the attached living room.
Photos sit framed on every shelf. The smiling faces are a stark reminder of the things missing from my life.
Being inside someone else’s house like this is too personal.
I’m forced to do it once a year—each spring, when Carl hosts a cookout.
He calls it team building. I call it torture.
Forced socialization should be illegal—something I’ve told him many times.
Standing in Aspen’s living room feels a little like how things were with Carl at first, yet nothing at all like that.
She cares, without asking permission first, like him. I never knew what to do with that—someone giving a damn without demanding anything in return. Still don’t. But with her, it’s less suffocating. Part of me welcomes it, the smarter part fears it.
I scan the room, trying to figure out who Aspen is when she’s not wearing scrubs. There’s not much to go by, beyond pictures. I move toward the mantle to get a better look at the framed photo above the fireplace.
Aspen’s flanked by two guys who couldn’t seem more different if they tried. Both tower over her tall frame, but one wears a scowl that matches his all-black outfit, and the other smiles warmly, looking like he stepped out of a board meeting, with styled hair and an expensive watch.
Photo after photo showcases Aspen with family and friends.
I turn and look for more, but there’s no abandoned coffee mug on the end table to tell me if she gets caught up in the mornings relaxing. No blanket haphazardly thrown over the back, by the window, with her favorite view.
I expected something more lived-in for someone as warm as Aspen.
Only two things give me any hint of who she is when she’s not working:
A crisp paperback, thespine unbroken, with a bookmark obscuring the cover, and a pair of crisp white running shoes by the sliding door, like she meant to find time for herself but didn’t.
Based on the hours I’ve seen her keep at the hospital, that tracks.
For someone who gives so damn much, it feels too empty. And for a reason I can’t name, that sticks under my skin like a burr.
“Snooping?” Aspen asks from the hallway, interrupting my thoughts. Her steps slow and her head tilts, looking past the surface.
