Full Package(31)

But he’s not Josie, and she’s quickly become the person I want to talk to.

Scratch that. She’s been that person for a long time.

Especially since she’s a great listener, and she has access to much better medicine than I do some days. The strawberry shortcake cupcake I eat as we walk home can cure almost any sadness.



Later, I lie awake in bed.

Darkness has fallen over our home. Moonlight cuts through the blinds, casting stripes of light over the navy bedspread. Outside, a horn bleats and a garbage truck slogs along the avenue, lifting and dumping, lifting and dumping.

I flip to my side, the sheets slipping to my waist.

The green lights on the clock flash 11:55 at me.

But I can’t fall asleep easily like I usually do. I can’t blame the events at Mercy. I’ve had to let them go. Tomorrow is another day, and I need to be sharp for whatever comes my way. I’m not a superstitious man, but bad news comes in waves, so I need to be girded for a possible roulette wheel of destruction tomorrow.

So it’s not the patients—may Blake, and the gunshot guy, too, rest in peace—that I’m thinking of anymore.

It’s the woman on the other side of this wall. What’s keeping me up is the part of me that insisted on seeing her at the end of the day. The part that demanded I go to Sunshine Bakery, that I buy her flowers, that I tell her what happened.

I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining a patient is presenting with the same symptoms I have. What would I conclude?

I list them in my head—heart beating faster unexpectedly, nerves appearing incon-fucking-veniently, desire to see the woman after a shitty day.

When I get to the last one, I stop. On desire. Because there’s the embodiment of it in my doorway.

In shadows, she stands. She raises her hand and waves. “Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.”

“You awake?”

“No. I’m sound asleep.”

She laughs and leans her shoulder against the doorframe. She’s in her usual asleep attire. Boy shorts, like the kind you’d find in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Material as thin as a spider web, and just as wispy. She pairs them with a loose pink scoop-neck shirt. No bra.

I’m so fucking screwed.

I prop my head in my hand. “I thought you were the queen sleeper. What’s the story there? Insomnia visiting you?”

She quirks her lips. Holds out her hands. “Lot on my mind.”

I push up higher. “Yeah?”

She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I keep thinking about your day.” Then she rolls her eyes. “You know me. Everything is all mushed together.”

“Like cake batter, huh?”

She nods. “I’m all blended,” she says, then mimes mixing up some goodies.

“Do you want to . . . talk?”

“I don’t want to keep you up.”

“I’m already up.”

Her eyes drift to my bed. My breath escapes my body. Shit. Fuck. Hell. Heaven. There’s no excuse for what I’m about to do. But I do it anyway.

I pat my bed.

A small lift of her lips is her answer.

Then a step forward. Her bare feet pad across my floor. Every moment is a chance to turn back. But every moment she comes closer.

And closer.

And now she lowers herself to my bed. She’s barely wearing anything. I’m only in briefs. She lies on top of the sheets. I’m under them. But she’s inches away.

Technically, I can play my mind games with myself. I can rationalize this choice in a simple, logical way. We’re still dressed. A sheet separates us. She lies on her back. I’m propped on my side.

But the moonlight, and the hour, and this aching in my chest won’t let me lie to myself anymore.

I’m buzzed.

I’m totally fucking tipsy on the possibility. We’ve hugged, we’ve touched, we’ve been like two middle-schoolers tapping shoulders and tickling waists.

Tonight, we’re adults in bed.

“I was thinking about your patient tonight.” Her tone is introspective. “You said Blake was thirty-four. And the heart attack was out of the blue. I’m only twenty-eight.”

“You’re not going to have a heart attack, Josie.”

“Right. I know. I mean, I think I won’t. I don’t eat too many treats,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. Her hand drifts to her belly, and she pats it. “I mean, maybe a few more than I should.”

“Stop it. You’re beautiful,” I say before I can think better of it.

She arches a brow. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I could lose five pounds. Maybe ten.”

I roll my eyes. “If you lost five pounds, you wouldn’t be you. You’re a baker. No one wants a skinny baker. And trust me, wherever these five or ten pounds are that you want to lose, I don’t want to see them gone.”

She smiles. “Thank you. The funny thing is, I think I’d regret not tasting and sampling the things I make more than I’d enjoy being five pounds lighter. So, honestly, I’m happy with my five or ten extra, I suppose. I feel like at the end of my life, whether it’s at age thirty-four or ninety or twenty-nine, I won’t be saying, ‘I wish I ate less cake.’ Or ‘I wish I had fewer seven-layer bars.’ And I don’t think I’ll be saying, ‘I should have spent more time on Facebook or Twitter or Snapchat,’ either.”