A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(4)

I’m halfway down the aisle, moving toward Sarah, who looks horrified, when I hear the padding of feet behind me.

“Excuse me,” Maureen says, rushing past, not turning to me. She is out the door and into the sunlight by the time I reach Sarah. When I do, she shakes her head.

“‘Stanley was a good guy’?” Sarah repeats, her right eyebrow raised. “Were you trying to look insane and unbalanced?”

I laugh and loop my arm through hers, my tense muscles all relaxed, leaving me almost euphoric. I flinch at a sudden burn on my shoulder, but it fades almost instantly.

“Let’s go grab something to eat,” I say, not looking back. “I’m starving.”

Chapter 2

Sarah dips her fry in my ketchup—why? Not because I have the last ketchup packet on earth, but because she says the smell makes her gag. She can enjoy it only from a distance. And apparently two and a half feet across the table is enough for her.

I inhale the cheeseburger (no onions) that I ordered and gulp my diet soda. After a Need I find myself completely ravenous. I’m staring down at my plate, still thinking about the funeral, when Sarah says my name.

“What?” I answer, looking up at her.

“I asked if you had to go into the clinic tonight. God, I swear, you don’t listen to a thing I say!”

It isn’t true, but I can understand why she thinks that, especially now. Our normally Sarah-centric friendship has been competing with my increasing Needs. When I disappear on nights we have movie plans or show up late for our shopping trips, Sarah thinks I’m blowing her off. But I can’t tell her how often the Need hits, because if I did, she might rethink her clairvoyance theory. And I don’t have a better one to offer.

“Of course I listen to you,” I murmur, sipping from my drink.

“Then what did I say?”

I smile. “That you’re the hottest thing to ever walk the halls of St. Vincent’s and everyone wants you?”

“Close enough. Now, do you have to volunteer at the clinic tonight or not?”

“I was supposed to, but I asked for it off. Let me check.” I take out my phone and dial up the office, waiting through the easy listening instrumental until the receptionist answers.

“Burnside Clinic,” Rhonda says.

“It’s Charlotte.” I dip my fry in the ketchup. “Is Monroe around?” I eat while I wait for Monroe—Dr. Swift—to get on the phone.

“Tell Monroe I miss him.” Sarah puckers her lips and makes a loud kissing noise. She likes to visit when I’m volunteering at the clinic, mainly to get a look at my boss.

Monroe Swift is barely over forty with slightly graying blond hair and a British accent. The Portland homeless community regards him as a saint. In fact, he’s probably performing a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen right at this very moment. I personally find him brash and full of himself. Then again, he’s been friends with my family so long it’s like we’re related.

“Yes, Charlotte?” Monroe’s smart British accent rings through the phone. “What can we do for you?”

“Just checking to see how it’s going tonight,” I hint, hoping that if the waiting room is remotely calm, I might not have to go in.

I’ve been volunteering at the free clinic a couple nights a week for the past few years. I mostly enjoy it—filing papers, making copies—and I know it’ll look good on a college application. At least that’s what Monroe tells me. But now I just want more time for myself. Scratch that, more time for Harlin. There’s never enough time for Harlin.

But instead of giving me time off, Monroe added shifts to my schedule. Instead of three nights a week, it’s five. I’ve complained a few times but they pull the whole it’s-for-a-good-cause card. Not. Fair.

More than anything, I just really hate working until ten. A free clinic in the middle of Portland doesn’t exactly attract the best crowd when it’s dark out. And yet, I can’t imagine Monroe working anywhere else. He likes to play savior whenever possible.

I sigh. “Can I have today off or not? I asked you yesterday.”

Monroe’s silent for an excruciatingly long time. “I haven’t had to perform CPR on the sidewalk out front, so it seems to be a slow night. Why, do you have plans?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, then. Don’t let the sick and incapacitated of Portland stop you. Run. Frolic.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Why, thank you. To make it up to me you can come in tomorrow. Six sound good?”

“I knew there was a catch.”

“Always is, sweetheart.”

When I hang up, Sarah widens her brown eyes at me before popping a fry into her mouth. “Time off for good behavior? Monroe is feeling generous tonight.”

“I have to go in tomorrow instead.”

“He’s a bastard.” She pauses in her chewing. “So . . . I heard you and your boy toy whispering about sneaking around. Planning a sleepover, Charlotte?” She grins deviously. “And how will Mercy feel about this plan?”

Mercy Hernandez—my adoptive mother—splits her time between volunteering at a woman’s shelter, working nights as an ER nurse, and raising foster kids as her own. Then again, with a name like Mercy, what else would she do?