Page 63 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
Noone stops.I don’t have sex.I need details.Also, where is the man?
Me
He’s been making night rounds for the past three days.I barely saw him.When does he even sleep?He might be a vampire.
Julie
Or a zombie.
Claire
An iZombie.Ha.
Me
And I'm out.
The coffee note isn’t the only note Adam’s left me.We barely see each other—he’s on night rotation, I’m on days.
It’s weirdly familiar, this dance of written words and missed connections.Like our late-night chat days, except now my skin practically hums with the ghost of his touch.My body has developed an embarrassing Pavlovian response to his voice, his notes, his scent because it remembers.Oh yes, my traitorous body remembers.
His notes are clinical and funny, like those online ones years ago:“Dorothy tried to organize a prison break with three Labs and a Pomeranian.Blanche was the lookout.Operation Biscuit Heist failed when the Pom fell asleep mid-escape.”Or“Medical diagnosis: LoverBoy suffering from acute attention deficit.Prescribed treatment: extra belly rubs.Will monitor closely.”
As I drink decaf coffee, I pressSendon another application, this one not in downtown Chicago but in the same hospital system.Another ER position.Another coordinator position.
And I ignore the unknown number text that tells me to “Get a grip.And start acting like a grown-up.”The dedication Chuck has to getting that ornament reminds me of the time he found me in the living room in the middle of the night.Blanche and Dorothy next to me, after Blanche had whined to go out.I was sitting cross-legged by the tree, speaking softly to that glass heart glowing in the colorful lights.
“I deserve better,” I’d whispered to it, not realizing he was there.“Someone who sees me like Papet sees Mame.Someone who holds my hand through the hard parts.”My grandparents bicker like cats sometimes, but they’d built a life together, holding hands still today, making sure not to belittle one another.My grandparents laugh to this day until their stomachs hurt.My parents, too.
Chuck cleared his throat, startling me.“Talking to Christmas decorations now?”His smile didn’t reach his eyes.“Very clinical, Nurse Foster.”The next day, he started cataloging our belongings for “insurance purposes,” lingering over the ornament, calling it “a collector’s piece”and insisting Papet’s work was“wasted”hanging on a tree.Now I understand, he heard everything that night.He knew I was already pulling away, realizing he wasn’t the partner I deserved.
When I wore holiday-themed scrubs once (cute little snowflakes around the collar), Chuck berated me for being“unprofessional” and“reflecting poorly on him.”Adam?He spotted me in the candy cane scrubs Dr.Harrison gave me yesterday and texted a photo of himself in his clinic coat with a Santa hat and LoverBoy, looking unfairly hot as he leaned against the exam table, captioned: “You’re making it very hard to focus on my patients, Nurse Foster.Those candy canes remind me of your pajama and are giving me ideas that would land us both on the naughty list.”
So, I left him his favorite chocolate coconut cookies from Rosie’s with a mug of herbal tea by his research notes.He’d mentioned once during our calls years ago that his mom made similar ones when he pulled all-nighters studying.This morning the empty plate had a smiley face and another “thank you.”
What I haven’t told him though is what I write in myProgress Report:
Day 2 at work: Sucked.Again.I tried to make a patient smile as I delivered good news, and brought them to tears, instead.And then wasn’t sure if I should hug them or not?Stood there like an idiot with my arms half-raised until they grabbed a tissue.Dr.Harrison explained to the patient the rollercoaster of emotions was totally normal as they apologize and said I did fine, but he’s too kind to tell me if I didn’t.
Day 3: If Adam’s Dad doesn’t fire me, I might fire myself.Who can’t warm up their own hands before drawing blood?Me.That’s who.Way to make it uncomfortable for everyone, Eve.And got another rejection email from Memorial West.And a text from Chuck asking if I’d “calmed down” about the ornament yet.Like I’m the one being unreasonable.
And yet, I haven’t given up.
I stare at the coffee tower, and wonder what it says about me that I’m this excited to try them all.That I want to write detailed tasting notes to leave for Adam.
When did coffee become that intimate?And why does afor younote and a simple “Thank you” pierce through my defenses more than any grand gesture ever could?
As I head downstairs, a woman in boots so pristine they’ve definitely never met salt slush is artfully adjusting a mug of hot chocolate on the foyer table.She lifts it an inch, tilts it toward the Christmas lights, then takes a few shots before rearranging the candy-cane garnish.
“Coming through,” Sally calls out as she brings a tray with warm cookies to put on the small table by the fireplace.When she steps back to me, she whispers, “I think she likes it here.”
“The reviewer?”
Sally nods gravely.“Travel Lovers.Two million followers.Gave the Maine Lobster Love Inn a two-star takedown for ‘inconsistent cocoa flavoring’ and a slightly chipped nutcracker.Their winter bookings vanished like snow in April.”
I glance toward the reviewer, who is now photographing a fireplace angle I didn’t even know existed.
“So… everything’s fine?”I ask, because it’s clearly not.
