Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Who––Calvin?” She arches a dark, well-groomed eyebrow in a ‘don’t be stupid’ look I know all too well. “Yeah, he is.”
“How do you feel about him?”
“I don’t feel anything. He’s my boss. For the next month and a half at least.” That thought sits in my gut like bad fish.
“Hmm,” she says, her eyes returning to her book.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Camilla, you’re a young woman. What happened to you was a tragedy. But at some point you need to move on with your life.”
“What does that have to do with Calvin?” I say sharply. Okay so I sound a little defensive.
She takes a long, hard look at me and says, “Nothing.”
“And at what point is that?” I push on. “Who gets to determine what a sufficient amount of time is to grieve?”
“So sarcastic,” she chides, her short hair bouncing as she shakes her head. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy…Matt would agree.”
At this, my anger boils over. I have always suspected that my mother was not a fan of Matt so for her to bring his name into this irks me beyond measure.
“Don’t bring Matt in to this. And let’s stop pretending––you never really approved of him.”
“I had nothing against Matt.”
“Oh really?”
“You could have done so much more with your life. You’re smart, you’re talented. You gave up on softball. You gave up on getting your Masters. For what? To make his dreams come true. And look what happened.”
Finally––the truth comes out.
“Ma, Matt didn’t make me do anything. It was all my choice. Even if the choices were wrong, they were mine to make.” The truth of those words crash down on me all at once. I had enabled Matt’s behavior. The thorn that has been needling me for the last three years is so obvious now.
“All I’m saying is don’t let a good thing get away. Matt’s gone. Don’t waste your youth grieving for him.”
Tears prick my eyes. Part of me knows she’s right. The rest of me, however, wants to yell and scream and rail against the world. Why is it that everyone has the answers when they aren’t the ones in pain?
My mother glances around at the two other people in the cafeteria. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss this.” I can’t say another word, lost in the knowledge that I may have been just as much to blame as Matt was, that I may have sanctioned his behavior.
Shortly afterward, my father is admitted and moved to a room in the cardiac unit. When my mother informs the nurses that she has no intension of leaving, they set up a cot for her. More for my own sake than theirs, I decide to hang around a little longer, until they both start to nod off. A hot ball of fear large enough to choke a water buffalo gets stuck in my throat as I watch my father sleep. It’s so hard to see a man I have only thought of as indomitable, suddenly look so vulnerable.
Fighting back tears, I walk out and find the lounge area down the hall. The clock on the cable box nailed to the wall flashes midnight. For the first time all day, I have a chance to stop and think and realize that, in spite of the bone deep fear I felt when I got the text, I didn’t have a panic attack. I guess that’s something to celebrate out of this mess. I’m so lost in thought, basking in the relief of this newfound discovery, that I barely grasp what the nurses standing just outside the door in the hallway are saying.
“He’s soooo hot,” murmurs nurse number one.
“Is he married?” nurse number two tosses up for discussion.
“Divorced, no kids.”
“I’ll give him some babies, some pretty, cocoa colored babies,” joins in nurse number three, followed by a peal of feminine laughter.
“Shhh. He’s coming this way.” The laughing immediately ceases.
“Can you tell me which room Tom DeSantis is in?” says a man in a smooth baritone.
“Calvin?” I call out in a strangely high voice. His head pops into the lounge and his alert eyes meet my curious ones. For a fleeting moment a burst of pure joy steals over me. This is so not good. I have absolutely no business feeling anything about him.
Taking the seat next to mine, he extends his long ass legs straight and crosses them at the ankles. He has nice ankles, of course. This definitely warrants an eye roll. He drums his thumbs on the armrest of the chair while his eyes travel over the dingy room.
Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted and my defenses are down, maybe it’s because I’m a shallow, superficial creature at heart…all I know is that I can’t stop myself from drinking in the sight of him like he’s an oasis and I’ve been wandering the desert for thirty days.