Page 7 of Book Boyfriends
“I’m aware they’re not all like Will.” A hard lump chokes my words.
Pilar reaches out and squeezes my forearm. “Sorry I mentioned Will.”
“It’s okay.”
Concern knits her brow. “Is it? With the?—”
“It will be,” I interrupt and force a tight smile.
Like an amulet warding away bad spirits, I cling to that mantra. It’s how I’ve always got through life’s murky waters with my gaze tethered to the shore.Mom is sick.It will be okay.Dad’s not coming.It will be okay.This isn’t what I want.It will be okay.
I clear my throat. “Davis may be attractive, but he’s a jerk, and someone wise once told me not to waste my time on jerks.” I pull a hair tie out of my purse and fingercomb my long hair into a messy bun.
“They sound very wise and extremely beautiful.” She waves her hands and strikes several sassy poses.
“Their intellect and beauty know no boundaries,” I say cheekily.
She crinkles her forehead. “Besides him fitting your hot nerd type—minus the finance bro faux pas—why do you think Jackson selected him for you? Your brother isn’t so vain to use looks as the sole criteria to set you up on a blind date.”
That question had rattled inside me for the entire drive here. What was it about Davis that Jackson thought was a good fit for me? Not to mention, the date with me was a promise. My younger brother thinks I’m so pathetic that he needs to get his coworkers to do him a solid and take me out.
It’s humiliating.
I rub the center of my forehead. “I think he played musical chairs with the single men at work, and Davis lost.”
“Davis is a loser, but that didn’t happen until he showed up for your date and acted a fool.” She taps her shoe against my bare calf. “Don’t forget that, Georgia Lane. You’re the prize.”
A prize nobody wants.I don’t let the negative thought breech my lips. I won’t allow one man’s rejection to toss me back into that deep well of insecurity. A well I so recently climbed out of. Even if I’m the one who walked out on Davis, the sting of rejection still twinges inside me. I had been attracted to him from the start, but his lack of interest was apparent.
“You’re right.” I offer a small smile beneath my mask.
“At least this one didn’t give your dog chocolate.”
“How do these men keep finding me?” I almost whine.
“You gotta kiss a lot of frogs.” Pilar leans back, stretching her slender arms over her head.
“Says the woman that met her wife at sleep-away camp in the tenth grade.” I roll my eyes.
“Perhaps we should explore an adult sleep away camp for you,” she deadpans.
“Sleep away camp wouldn’t be necessary if she’d take me up on my offer,” Henry teases, striding toward us.
“To run off with you,” I sass.
He pats his chest. “My ticker couldn’t handle you, Peach.”
The nickname akin to the perfect cup of tea. Most of St. Philip Nerri’s—or SPN—volunteers drift in-and-out. They tend to be students in need of extra credit or resumé padding. Henry Lincon; however, is part of the facility’s foundation. This former SPN chief physician retired on a Friday fifteen years ago only to return the following Wednesday as a volunteer, saying his wife told him to get out of her hair.
For thirty-five years, Dr. Lincoln, or Doc as most people call him, hasn’t just been part of SPN’s fabric but the thread that holds it together. Besides me and Kerry, most of the staff have worked here for ten-plus years. Within a single shift, ever the bloodhound, he sniffs out who is SPN material. If, by the end of your first day, Doc bestows a nickname on you, you’re in. It’s not scientific, but there have been several nurses, one psychologist, and a handful of physical therapists with no nicknames after day one. They only lasted a few months.
“Doc, are you still trying to betroth her to your grandson?” Pilar shakes her head.
“Kenny and Peach would be perfect for each other,” he says, assuredness almost glints in his dark brown pupils.
“You mean the mythical grandson from Canada nobody has ever met.” I bump his shoulder.
Doc, a Black man in his early eighties, has the sturdiness of a strong oak with his tall, broad physique. Unlike my grandparents, who seemed to wither into wisps of their once healthy selves after retirement, Doc, and his wife, Estelle, maintained an active lifestyle of travel, volunteering, and morning park tai chi classes. They may be in better shape than me.
