“Where the fuck is Jesse? His truck’s here and his phone is off.”
“Who are you?” I demand, not opening the door further than a small sliver.
“James Bod,” the man says through gritted, grinding teeth. “His boss.”
I hear Jesse’s tread behind me. “Yo, James, what up?”
“Why’s your phone off, you fuckin’ tool?” James demands, his voice an angry bark.
“Whoa, back off, James,” Jesse says, sounding taken aback. “Take a breath, man. What’s crawled up your ass?”
“The plumber fucked up at the Thompson job. The whole fucking basement is flooded! I need all hands so we can save the project, and my top employee has his goddamn phone turned off!”
Jesse shoulders past me and opens the door all the way, talking to James through the screen door. “Okay, well sorry for actually having a fucking life, James. Jesus.”
“The basement is flooded, Jesse. Waist deep.” James runs his hand through his hair. “It’s a clusterfuck, buddy. It’s gonna mean a total redo on the entire basement.”
Jesse groans. “Fuck, man. Seriously? We were damn near done with the basement. All but paint and switch plates.”
“Right, which is why I need you to get your ass over there.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
James turns around on a heel and trots down the steps, but then halts at the bottom and trots back up. “Sorry I was a dick,” he says to me, looking sheepish. “It was unprofessional of me, and I apologize.”
I smile at him. “Thank you for the apology, Mr. Bod. I accept. And it’s fine. Emergencies are like that.”
He juts his chin at the interior of the house. “My brother-in-law fix you up all right?”
I frown. “Your brother-in-law?”
James jerks a thumb at Jesse, who had jogged into my kitchen to retrieve his tool belt. “That joker. My brother-in-law.”
“Jesse is your brother-in-law?”
Jesse nods at me as he pauses by the door. “Yep. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the day and his mood.” He turns to face me. “Sorry about this. Thanks for dinner.”
“It’s okay. Duty calls, right?” I smile up at him, feeling a stupid, annoying, persistent flutter in my belly—and regions southward—at the smile on his lips and the promise in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll find something else for you to fix.”
Jesse laughs. “Imogen, babe—trust me, there’s plenty around here for me to fix.”
“Hey, Don Juan, let’s go,” James growls. “Flirt with the clientele on your own time. Or better yet, don’t flirt with the clientele at all.”
Jesse nudges open the screen door, giving me a brilliant grin and a sly wink. “The job’s done, Jamie. So she’s not a client at the moment, just a former client. And don’t be a dick.”
James shakes his head as the two of them jog toward their trucks, still bantering. “I’ll show you a dick if you don’t get your ass in your truck.”
“Yeah, and I’d need a scanning electron microscope to even see the damn thing, you fuckin’ micro-peen chump.” Jesse whacks James upside the head. “Douche.”
“Hey, asshole. I can fire you, you know. Brother-in-law or not, best friend or not, I will fire your ass.” James reaches his truck—it’s almost a match for Jesse’s, being huge and black with every accent chromed out, sporting huge knobby tires and a lift kit, a back rack, and toolbox.
Jesse just laughs. “I’d love to see you fire me. Your little company would fall apart in ten seconds without me.”
James snorts, yanking open his truck door. “Funny, cause I seem to remember it was going just fine without you.”
“Oh yeah? And who, pray tell, found you your CPA to sort out your messy-ass books?” Jesse demands, climbing up into his own truck. “And who has the supply contacts at Pella and Kohler, hmm?”
James starts his engine, and then leans through the open window, shouting, “One word, asshole: Lunchbox!”
“That was second grade! Let it go already!” Jesse shouts back.
I laugh at their banter, which continues even as they drive away. When they’re gone, I head back inside, clean up dinner, put the leftovers in the fridge, and pour the rest of the wine into my glass.
Feeling at loose ends, I wander around my house, sipping wine and mooning about Jesse like a lovesick teenager.
He’s just so dreamy!
5
My phone rings while I’m in a room with a patient. I’m happy and mad all at once. Happy because it seems to be working, and mad because I’m with a patient. My luck being what it is, it was in the back pocket of my scrub pants this morning, when I pulled my pants down to go pee and my poor phone took a swim. I fished it out within seconds of it hitting the water. I blew it dry and stuck it in rice in an effort to get it working. It still works…sort of. But it won’t go to silent, the screen is marbled and watery, and it won’t charge. So now, with my phone ringing in my pocket, it sounds like it’s…well…still at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
I’m in the middle of checking my patient’s blood pressure.
“You need to answer that?” he asks. The patient is a seventy-five-year-old man, a regular, and a mild hypochondriac. And a serious crank.
“No, it’s okay. I dropped it in the toilet this morning and now it won’t go into silent mode. Sorry, Mr. Christensen.”
“Shoulda left it at home, then, or in the car,” he grumbles as I write down his blood pressure. “Unprofessional, is what it is. Damn cell phones ringin’ all the damn time. Everybody staring at a screen insteada interacting with folks.”
“Your blood pressure is still pretty high, Mr. Christensen,” I said. “It’s one-thirty over eighty-seven. You’ve really gotta work on getting that under control.”
“Oh, save it for the real doctor,” he grouses. “Don’t need a lecture from some damn nurse.”
I roll my eyes at him, but go through the rest of the visit in silence.
After I’m done with Mr. Christensen, I stop by the desk and shove my phone at the bottom of my purse—because he was right about it being unprofessional to have my phone ringing in the room with a patient. Then I have three more patients—an embarrassed high school senior with a gnarly STD, a toddler with a cold and a helicopter mommy, and a middle-aged woman with swimmer’s ear.
By the time I’m done with all of them, Dr. Bishara is finished with Cranky Christensen.
“Imogen, a word with you please?” Dr. Bishara says, indicating his office.
I sigh. Here we go.
I follow him in, close the door, and lean against it, refusing to play his power game, the one where he sits on the corner of his desk and tries to intimidate me.
“Sit, please,” he says.
I smile. “I’m fine, thanks. I have patients to get to. What’s up, Dr. Bishara?”
He glares at me through his thick glasses. “Mr. Christensen said your phone rang while you were with him. We have a very clear policy regarding cellular devices, I do believe.”
“Yes, Dr. Bishara, I’m aware. But I dropped it in the toilet and now it won’t go on silent mode. It’s in my purse, now.”
“If your phone cannot be silenced, it should remain at home.”
“I have aging parents who live in Florida, Dr. Bishara. I can’t just not have my phone.” Which is true enough.
“Then replace it.”
“I can’t afford to, at the moment.” I hesitate, and then go for it. “Which does lead me to think…I’ve worked for you for ten years, Dr. Bishara. I’ve never been late, never called off, and I cover more shifts than anyone else. I’ve also never asked for a raise.”
Dr. Bishara removes his glasses. “Imogen, I do not think this is the right time for this conversation. I am in the middle of reprimanding you for violating our cell phone policy and you ask for a raise? What kind of logic is this?”
“Reprimanding me?” Oh—now I’m pissed. “Reprimanding me? I’m your best employee! How many other times
has this happened? What about Tiffany? She’s literally always on her phone! She answered a call while she was with a patient, and you said nothing. But my phone goes off one time—something I can’t fix right now because my phone is broken and I can’t afford a new one because I haven’t had a raise in six years—and you reprimand me?”
“Now wait a moment—”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “You know what? No. Seriously?” Don’t be dumb, I tell myself; but it’s too late. My ire is up. Time to do something stupid. “Dr. Bishara—I quit.”
“Imogen, don’t be ridiculous.”
I remove the stethoscope from around my neck and set it on his desk. “What’s ridiculous is that I haven’t quit before now. I can make double at the hospital doing the same thing I do here. At this point, I’ll take the extra hours and extra stress.” I give him a sarcastic, cutesy finger wave and fake smile. “Good luck without me, Dr. Bishara. You’ll need it.”
I shove the door open, ignoring his protests. I grab my purse, and walk past the front desk. Amber hurriedly puts a call on hold and chases after me.
“Did he seriously just fire you?” she asks, following me out to the parking lot. “For your phone going off?”
I laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. “No, I quit.”
Amber halts in place. “You—you quit?” Her voice rises about an octave on the last word. “You can’t quit! You’re the only reason this entire office is able to function!”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m done.” I pause with my hand on the handle of my ghetto-ass car. “Also, Amber, you should know your husband is cheating on you. Tiffany saw him at a restaurant with some other woman, making out and stuff. I told her she should tell you, but she didn’t. So…there you go. Sorry.”
Amber sniffs. “Dammit. I suspected, but I haven’t been sure.”
“Tiffany has pictures, actually. But she said you were a bitch to her about covering for her that one time she got wasted and no-call-no-showed, so she wasn’t going to tell you.” I laugh, not at all kindly. “Good luck with her. She’s a real treat.”
And with that, I climb into my car and drive away. Instead of going home, though, I go to the nearest cellular service provider and buy a new phone. Apparently I was due for an upgrade anyway, so it didn’t actually end up costing me a full arm and a leg. Then, with shiny new phone in my hand, I decide to keep splurging. Nothing like quitting your job to make you feel like celebrating.
I decide on Mexican. Chips and guac and margs and a smothered burrito.
My phone rings halfway through my second margarita. This time, I can see the screen, so I know who it is: Jesse.
I make him wait—make myself wait—before answering. Don’t want to seem too eager.
“Hello?” I say, as if I don’t know who it is.
“Hey, Imogen. It’s Jesse.”
“Oh, hey.” I try for breezy and end up sounding overly breathy. “What’s up?”
“I tried calling you a bit ago, but your voicemail is full and you weren’t answering messages.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I was at work. I dropped my phone in the toilet.” I laugh. “My voicemail is full because my douche of an ex-husband left a bunch of messages on it right after we got divorced. He got drunk and drunk-dialed me, I guess. Nobody ever calls me, and nobody ever leaves voicemail, either, so I never thought about deleting them.”
“Dropped your phone in the toilet, huh?” His voice crackles with humor. “Let me guess—it was in your back pocket?”
“Shut up.”
“They should have back pocket insurance specifically for women.”
“Is there a reason you’re calling, other than to make fun of me?” I ask. “Because I’m busy celebrating, here.”
“Celebrating? Celebrating what?”
“I quit my job, and got a new phone.”
A long silence. “Congratulations? What are you going to do now?”
“Be able to use my phone, for one thing. The screen has been shattered for like two months.”
“I meant about work.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “I don’t know. Probably apply at the hospital. It’s a higher stress environment, but they pay more than an office. I took the office job because I wanted less stress. With my experience and my RN credentials, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t have, but I was pissed. I dropped my phone in the toilet, like I said, and the ringer wouldn’t go off, it wouldn’t switch to silent, so when you called I was with a patient. My boss, Dr. Bishara, has a very strict no cell phone policy, but it appears he’s okay with other people violating it, just not me. I’ve worked for him longer than any of the other nurses, and he reprimands me for my phone accidentally ringing one time—once! I’ve worked for him for almost ten years! So I just…I quit.”
“Because of my call?” he asks, sounding worried.
“No!” I say. “Well, yes, but it was time. I like being a nurse, but that place was driving me crazy.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry my call came at an inopportune time, regardless.” He pauses. “So, the reason I’m calling is because I wanted to know if you’d be okay with me swinging by your house today while you’re gone. I have something I want to do, and I want to surprise you with it.”
“You’re calling to tell me you want to surprise me?” I ask, laughing.
“Yes. I need your permission. And access inside.”
“What are you doing?”
He chuckles. “Um, well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Just…trust me, okay?”
I consider. For all of, like, fifteen seconds. “There’s a spare key.”
“Let me guess—under the welcome mat?”
“Nope.”
“In the flower pot by the front door?”
I laugh. “No! I’m not that stupid, Jesse. There’s a little equipment shed in the backyard.”
“I see it,” he says.
I sit in silence for a beat. “Wait, you’re there now?”
“Well…yeah. No time to get shit done like the present, amiright?”
“I guess. So, in the shed there’s a shelf on the back wall, near the ceiling. Way high up.”
“I see it.”
“There’s an old box of strike-anywhere matches on the left side of the shelf. Inside that is a spare key lockbox…”
I hesitate, because giving a man who is, truthfully, still an unknown—a stranger, if you will—the key to my house…? Am I dumb? Naive? Too trusting? Yes, perhaps. But I just have this feeling about him. An innate instinct that I can trust him.
“Um.” His voice breaks my silence. “The code?”
“Sorry, I just…”
“You know, if you’re not comfortable with me being in your house when you’re not there, I totally get it. Just say so.” He waits a beat or two. “I do hope you feel like you can trust me, though. I know we haven’t known each other long, but—”
“Six-six-oh-eight,” I blurt. “My anniversary. God, I need to change that.”
“Yeah, you do. How about you change it to eight-one-one-eight?”
I frown, not recognizing the date as anything significant to me. “Why? What does that signify?”
“I’m hurt, Imogen. Deeply wounded.” He laughs. “It’s the date we met.”
“Oh.” I’m blushing hard, now, for some dumb-ass reason. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”
“I’m teasing,” he says, still laughing. “Okay, I’m inside. So, can you stay away from the house for a few hours?”
I hesitate. I was thinking of going home after this and changing into a bikini and sunning in the backyard. But why not give him a chance to surprise me? God knows that hasn’t happened enough in my life. Well, good surprises, at least.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m out of a job now, so I’ve got nothing but time on my hands.”
I hear tools clanking, and a rustling as if he’s shifting the phone to clutch
it between ear and shoulder. “You’re an RN, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, our big project we’re doing? That custom build in your neighborhood? The wife is a doctor, and she’s actually a department head. The ICU, I think. I could give her a call for you.”
“Not that I doubt a call from you would do any good with her, but—”
“But I’m a construction worker building her house, and why would I have any sway with the department head of a hospital?”
I laugh. “Exactly.”
“She’s mentioned several times how understaffed her department is, just in the course of making small talk while she’s on-site.” I can almost hear the shrug in his voice. “It’s worth a shot, right? If you can get a new job right away without having to go through rounds of submitting your resume, that’d be a good thing, right?”
“It would be amazing,” I say with a sigh. “Sure, give her a call.”
“You’re an RN, with what kind of experience?”
“I’ve worked for the same private practice for the last ten years, and I worked in the ICU in the University of Illinois Hospital for eight years before that.”
“Damn, girl. You’ve been nursing for a minute, haven’t you?”
I blush even harder. “I, um…I started taking college courses during my sophomore year of high school. I worked with counselors at the community college and my high school so I could work out how to take all the prerequisites in the right order so by the time graduated…” I trail off. “No need to explain all that. Point is, yeah, I knew early on that I wanted to be a nurse and went after it.”
“You know you literally cannot bore me, right? Like, it wouldn’t be possible for you to ever bore me.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure me talking about how I took anatomy and microbiology and developmental psych and all that would bore you to actual tears. Manly tears, but tears nonetheless.”
I hear tools being set down. “You’d be surprised.” A long, significant pause. “I may not be interested in nursing or whatever, but I’m interested in you, so, therefore, I’m interested in nursing degree prerequisites.”
“Are you sure you’re a real person?”