Page 33 of Really Truly Yours
I clasp my hands between my knees. That’s wrong on so many levels.
The freezer door closes hard and she heads toward me. “By the time I got better, I’d lost my place in the nursing program.” She hands me the cup of ice.
“Can’t you reapply?”
“I could, but ever since…” She fixates on the cup in my hand as if she’s formulating the precise way to say something. “Nursing takes a lot of energy.”
“You said you’re better now.”
“I’m on the mend, but anymore, I get tired just thinking about it.”
Man. My problem is only a messed-up, overrated throwing arm. The rest of my health is great, and if my career tanks, I’ve got options, good ones.
I steal another glance around the miniscule house. Options are not what I see. “So now what?”
She lifts a thin shoulder. “Keep working, take some classes. When I can.”
The last part feels tacked on yet significant. Like, when she finishes paying off medical bills?
In other words, it could be a while. “What do you do, Sydnee?”
She reseats herself. “I work customer service for an online retailer.” She nods to a laptop and headset in the center of the pocked coffee table. “I like working from home.”
Yeah, but this home? Besides, she’s awfully young to shut herself away. Small town, small house, small job. Sorry, no disrespect, but to shift from a full-fledged nursing career to placating rude malcontents on the phone? I don’t see it.
But even I know when I’ve pressed enough for the time being.
Time-being? I say that like she and I are more than a couple of passing ships. This thing with Donny is a wrap, and once I leave here tonight, stick a bow on, and done.
“Grayson?”
“Gray.” It’s a moot point, but why must she keep doing that? “Yeah?”
“How is your shoulder?”
“It’s fine.” Or will be after I fish the bottle of ibuprofen from the console of my car.
A twinkle sparkles in her non-squinted eye. “Who’s not giving honest answers now?”
I feel a grin. Well, looky there. Do I detect spunk?
“Really, how does it feel?”
What the hey. It’s not as if I have to put on a front for Sydnee. “It hurts like that word that rhymes with double hockey sticks.”
She clamps her palm over a spurt of genuine laughter.
I waggle a finger between us. “But let’s keep the great AC escapade under our hats, can we do that?”
“Done. We wouldn’t want your fan club knowing you did yourself in.”
I huff. “It isn’t my fans I’m worried about.” Breech of contract, anyone?
As I enjoy her smile, I realize she has intentionally moved the conversation away from herself.
“Oh, wait there.” She disappears down the hallway.
If she says so. I’m in no hurry.