After Hours (InterMix)(13)
“I’m paying.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get to pick.”
He made a puzzled face like I was speaking Chinese, and took another sip of his beer.
I decided to drop it. Maybe it’d been some kind of ignorant chivalry, antiquated bull, like choosing your date’s order off a menu. Not that this was a date, of course. Surely Mrs. Kelly Robak would have something to say about such a notion, same as I would. Same as Kelly ought to.
I rubbed the spot he’d touched, finding my forehead greasy from the day’s long shift. I ran the heel of my hand across it, more tired than ever. My stomach gave a gurgle, anger pooling in my belly as I began to suspect maybe Kelly hadn’t brought me here to be understanding. Maybe he’d brought me here because I seemed vulnerable, amenable to a roll in the hay with a married colleague just because he’d deigned to buy me a four-dollar glass of chardonnay.
But I was also exhausted, and not thinking clearly. It was a Mom-thought, as Amber and I had years ago christened our impulsive suspicions, the little embers that could burst into blazes with the mildest provocation.
Time for a nice, neutral change of subject, before my tinder went up.
Wanting Kelly’s own answer to the question I’d posed Dennis, I asked, “Why do you wear gray, like the patients? Isn’t it confusing?”
“Sure, but the free benzo jabs are a decent trade-off.”
“Why, really?”
He shrugged. “I think it’s helpful for some residents, seeing me in their colors. It’s my job to restrain them, and I’m good at it. It’s easy for me to be the enemy, when it’s my role to physically dominate them. Just a way to say, ‘Hey, I’m on your side. Trust me.’ Because I know I don’t look like the most sympathetic guy.”
No, he didn’t. He’d been born with a cruel face, just as my little sister had been born with a deceptively wide-eyed, innocent one. Both their faces said things to men—in Kelly’s case, Don’t even f*cking try me, and in Amber’s, Lead me astray. If only my sister’s choices more often contradicted the invitation.
For a while we sipped our drinks without speaking. The bar was warm, and Kelly shed his jacket. He’d swapped his gray tee for a black one, and the scars and bruises decorating his arms looked like blurry tattoos in the dim light. I could have studied them for an hour, but I forced my gaze onto the muted TV behind the bar and pretended to read the news headlines. Those arms are spoken for, I reminded myself. And you wouldn’t know what to do with them if you got the chance.
Kelly leaned over me to grab a napkin from a nearby stack, his bare forearm brushing the clothed one I had propped on the bar. The wine commandeered my lips to announce, “You don’t look like a Kelly.”
One of his brows twitched. “No? What do I look like?”
A Lance, maybe a Butch. Brutus. Killer. “I dunno. Just not a Kelly.”
He sipped his drink. “It was my grandfather’s name.”
“What does your wife do?” the wine blurted.
“I’m not married.”
“Oh.” Something different in my middle squirmed, some troublemaking attraction embryo wriggling, kicking aside the anger that had been pacing there. “You still wear your ring. Has it been a long time?” Since his divorce, or maybe since she’d died, who knew? I’d let him fill that in as he wished.
He shook his head. “I’ve never been married.”
“Well, your ring is misleading. Is it to keep female patients at bay?” I teased.
He teased right back, the shadows of a smile playing about his lips as he leaned closer. “Female patients and half-drunk nurses.”
I rolled my eyes, but a hot flush crept up my neck. “Work Kelly” had clearly clocked out, and I wasn’t sure who this man was. “I’m not even a quarter drunk.”
He straightened, looking at his hand. “It was my grandfather’s ring. Same one I’m named after. My mom gave it to me when he died. That’s the finger it fit on, and I was wearing it around for a while after I got it, thinking I’d buy a chain to put it on or something. Then I wound up in a grapple with a resident and got my hand slammed against a metal door. Finger swelled up, haven’t been able to get it off since.” He presented the finger in question as if he were flipping me a lesser bird. I gave it a tug, but his thick knuckle kept it from so much as budging, corroborating his story.