Page 8 of Compassion

You. Shh.

“Her?”

“There’s no her, either.”

“Them?” His eyebrows lift in curiosity. “I won’t judge. My boy Vinnie back home has a relationship like that. To each their own and all that shit.”

Them?! I could barely make it work with one other person. I cannot imagine juggling two.

“I’m good, McCoy, but thank you for the offer.” After presenting him with a warm grin, I cradle my bag closer to my frame and change the subject. “You know I haven’t really seen you since the holidays. Did you enjoy your break?”

“Mostly.”

“Do anything special?”

“Went home with Jo and visited family, both hers and mine. Hadn’t heard from or seen my brothers in a few months so you could say that was special.”

Moving closer is done at the same time I innocently question, “You guys not close?”

“We’re really fucking close,” his reply comes with a crooked smile. “Just…had a small communication hiccup that’s over now.”

Huh. Wonder what kind of communication hiccup would make you stop talking to your family for months? Someone refuse to pay the cell bill, maybe?

My mouth opens to ask for more details, when he cuts me off, “What about you, lovely library lady? You enjoy your break?”

Spending Christmas dinner for the third year in a row with my dead fiancé’s parents who also happen to be my parent’s best friends is how every twenty-nine-year-old woman wants to spend her time off from work. It’s not too hard to find the holiday spirit when you’re staring into the eyes that gave birth to the person you had planned to spend the rest of your life with yet somehow can’t seem to move past fast enough despite your own mother’s demands that you do so. Oh? Too much sarcasm? Should I tone that shit down before speaking to this poor unsuspecting colleague?

“It was nice,” I blatantly lie. “Thanks for asking.”

He skeptically nods prior to pulling his paint cart inside the massive room.

“Need anything before I go?”

McCoy shoots me a teasing smirk. “Not to kill me if paint drops on your books? The leaves on the reading tree mural are always such a bitch to touch up.”

“Oh…,” a sweet, humor-filled coo comes from me, “playful painter boy, while I understand your problem, we both know if you harm my books that’s a murderous offense.” My body turns to maintain eye contact during my exit. “And we also both know I’ll be examining every last spine I know you were nearfirstthing in the morning. Punishment will be served accordingly.”

“I’ve been threatened more for less,” he loudly chuckles as he turns his black baseball cap around. “Have a good night, Jaye.”

“You too, McCoy.”

On the drive home, the mundane routine of being stuck in rush hour traffic gives my mind more time to aimlessly drift the direction it can’t seem to refrain itself from going.

Are you wondering the same things I am like how did he become homeless? Is he a drug addict? And if so, what kind of drugs? Is he another victim of the opioid crisis? Maybe some sort of drug mule who has an easier time moving product by ‘blending in’ with the homeless? Hm? Yeah. You got me. That was the plot to an organized crime novel I started yesterday after I finished my favorite author’s – Sloan Mathers – latest book. While I know it’s probably not the latter, he honestly didn’t seem like the former, either. I didn’t see or sense any of the signs of drug use or withdrawal symptoms, which I am pretty good about identifying given what both of my parents do in their respective careers. The real question is why I do care so much? It’s not like he’s the first homeless person I’ve ever come across and sadly, I know he won’t be the last. It’s just…they don’t usually show up on my doorstep, ya know? That was definitely a first. And me actually speaking to him was too. That was the first I’ve ever given an actual second thought about someone in his position. Is it because he was literally so close to home? Or because he was attractive? A combination of both? Guilt over bitching about my mother’s cooking when there are plenty of people who have no food at all? Fuck, am I seriously that emotionally callous? Self-absorbed? Insensitive?

The horn behind me blares spurring my foot to slam on the accelerator, anxious to bridge the large gap between me and the SUV far ahead. Desperate to get the unknown male off my mind, I prepare to turn up The Lumineers song just seconds before the Bluetooth in my car alerts me to an incoming call from my mother.

Does it make me a bad daughter for wanting to hear them rather than her?

All it takes is a single push of a button for my mother’s voice to flood my vehicle in full surround sound. “Tell me he called.”

Taken completely off guard by her demand, I quietly croak, “Who?!”

“Dmitri.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Dmitri Chappell, the verysingle,verylooking for love,pediatric doctor I told you about at dinner the other night. Remember?”

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