Page 10 of The Boyfriend Effect (Frisky Business 1)
The morning sun streams pleasantly through the tall windows that face the inner courtyard, luring me across the floor. There, I find one of my favorite people, Donald, relaxing in an orange armchair. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling as he dozes peacefully.
I set my tray on the coffee table as quietly as I can. Lifting my sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwich to my lips, I take a cautious bite. The crunch is loud enough to wake the dead.
“And this is the lullaby I deserve?” Donald grumbles as he cracks open his eyes, the perfect picture of a crotchety old man.
But I know he’s not actually grumpy. There’s always a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes, promising good humor and endless banter. I could use a little entertainment today.
“Sorry, Don.” I chuckle, covering my mouthful with one hand. “The bread is toasted.”
“Toasted? From that crunching, I would have guessed it’s made of gravel.”
“I sure hope not.” I feign concern, inspecting the sandwich.
“You’re new here, kid. You’ll get used to it,” he tells me with a wink.
We share the same smile that we always do whenever he brings up how new I am. To Don, a couple of years here means I’m still new. But I don’t feel new. Either way, I don’t mind the teasing, and I sure don’t mind being called kid when it’s Don doing it. I guess, out of all the residents here, he reminds me of my grandpa the most.
“How are you holding up today, Don?”
“Oh, the obligatory question,” he says, straightening his posture like the good student I’m sure he was. “Fine. Very fine. And how are you?”
“Oh, I’m good.” I smile unconvincingly, and he raises a wiry white eyebrow.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, a stern edge to his voice.
Once upon a time, Don was a college professor, and a strict one at that, I’ve been told. There’s no use hiding anything from the man. But we technically haven’t gotten the green light to talk to residents about Riverside’s financial woes, so I’ll have to beat around the bush.
“I’m just tired. Spent the last few nights up late, trying to figure out a predicament.”
There. It’s true, but vague enough that it shouldn’t raise any red flags. Don is skeptical, however, squinting at me like he’s trying to read my mind.
Not a chance, Don.
Eventually, he relents, leaning forward with a huff and reaching out one hand. I take his palm in mine, soft and scratchy at the same time, his papery skin marked with age spots. My heart hurts whenever I remember just how old he is. Ninety-four on his last birthday. I can’t handle much more loss in my life, but I also know he won’t be around forever.
“I’ve been alive for over ninety years, Maren. And I haven’t seen many people work as hard and as long as you do. If you work for it, it’ll happen.” With that, he pats my hand lightly and leans back into the armchair with a sigh. “Now, eat your breakfast so you can get back to it.”
My eyes prick with tears, but I blink them away. I haven’t cried in front of a resident yet, and I don’t plan on crossing that line today.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper with a wry smile.
Without another word, I finish my breakfast while Don resumes his morning nap. On the way back to my office, I flag down a CNA and ask him to check on Don in an hour. His neck cramps up if he sleeps on it wrong, after all.
Back at my office, Peggy is waiting at the door.
“I’m sorry, did I forget a meeting?” I ask, reflexively reaching for my phone to check my calendar app.
“No, no, not at all. Just wondering if we could chat for a second,” she says, sounding worried.
“Of course.”
Peggy follows me inside, closing the door behind her before slumping into the chair across from my desk with a heavy sigh. The moment we make eye contact, she bursts into tears.
I spring into action, grabbing the tissues from on top of my filing cabinet and sliding them across the desk toward her. She takes a tissue with a soft thank-you and wipes the tears from her flushed cheeks. The bulky beads on her necklace clatter with each shuddering breath.
“What’s going on?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat as I prepare for the very worst she could say.
“Oh, you know,” she says with a sniffle. “Accounts payable says we’ve got until the end of the month before we have to cut payroll. I’ll be forced to lay off so many employees,” she says, then dissolves into another puddle of tears.
It takes every ounce of stone-cold professionalism in me not to give in to the tragedy of it all and cry with her.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” I ask, my throat tight. “There’s got to be something.”
