I wasn’t looking forward to my evening alone in the apartment. It would likely be spent trying to drown out fantasies of Nico and the weird shortness of breath I was beginning to associate with thoughts of him.

I pulled on my coat, hat, and gloves. Now that I was no longer busy with the day’s tasks and the taking care of others, the first inklings of decisional-doubt and regret began to plague me. I had a vague impression that was quickly morphing into a very large, Godzilla-like monster of a feeling that I’d made a monumental mistake agreeing to a benefits-only relationship with Dr. Ken Miles.

I was wrestling with myself about the decision. From one perspective it made a lot of sense: sex, no feelings to hurt, total honesty, itch scratched. But, from a different perspective, the perspective that liked to pretend from time to time that I was a decent human being, the agreement was making me feel like a piece of foolish poo.

The internal stubborn versus pigheaded struggle for dominance warred within me as I distractedly strolled to the hospital exit, and it followed me outside. But, my brain froze as soon as I stepped onto the pavement.

My paralyzed state wasn’t due to the biting April wind that pelted my face as one might guess. Rather, it was due to the crowd of photographers loitering along the length of sidewalk outside main ER doors.

I locked eyes with one of the crowd and he, only hesitating for a split second, lifted his camera and started snapping pictures as he jogged toward me. His sudden movement alerted the rest of the paparazzi. The first man’s head start was soon usurped by a younger, more athletic appearing photographer.

I heard one of them shout, “It’s her, Nico’s girlfriend!”

Thankfully, my wits returned before they reached my position. I backed up three steps then darted back into the ER, jogged through the staff only marked double doors and stepped into a vacant clinic room. I shut the door behind me and leaned my forehead against the partition.

I was wrong. Mondays were so much worse than Sundays.

Chapter 14

I escaped from the hospital by hitching a ride with one of the ambulances; they dropped me at my train stop. The evening alone at my apartment was much how I’d envisioned it: trying to repress Nico fantasies.

Then the next eighteen hours were split into two distinct segments.

The first twelve were spent in a cyclic wish-wash of excited expectation, then anxiety riddled dread, then excited expectation. I couldn’t wait to see Nico again. I even contemplated wearing makeup and doing something with my hair.

I also dreaded the encounter, felt like I would need to explain Dr. Ken Miles’s behavior and my relationship with Dr. Ken Miles. I planned to be honest but then seriously wondered for the first time in a long time if honesty were overrated.

The second segment occurred after Angelica’s clinic visit and screening tests. Rose brought her in. Nico was not with them. When I realized he wasn’t coming I felt a foolish amount of disappointment. Rose explained that he’d gone back to New York to tape several shows and do some interviews, publicity.

Rose spent most of the visit scrutinizing me with her intrepid, foxlike gaze. The lady was difficult to evade. Every so often she’d say: “Are you okay?” or “Is there anything you want me to tell Nico?” or “He’ll be back soon.”

In my defense, after the initial let down, I was able to conceal and tuck away my disappointment.

And I endeavored to take excellent care of Angelica, this little girl that Nico loved. I used a butterfly needle—smallest gauge—when drawing blood and insisted on conducting the entire exam myself. I told her all the kids’ jokes I knew, surprising myself with the vastness of both the number and subject matter.

Before Angelica and Rose left I was rewarded for my efforts with a small hug and shy smile from Nico’s niece. The simple display of gratitude did strange things to my brain and heart, made them both swell in unison. I started mentally sizing her up for a hand-knit kid’s sweater; I’d placed it in my Ravelry queue two weeks ago.

At the time, I’d added it for no reason at all other than I loved it, but now I was happy that I did. It would look lovely on her, maybe in purple hypoallergenic yarn, like bamboo, or maybe linen.

She was really very loveable for a kid. I made a mental note to discuss her illegal levels of cuteness with Nico when he returned.

If I got a chance; if he wanted to see me.

Just before they left, Rose gripped me by the arm until I met her gaze. She smiled at me; it was only because I knew her my whole life that I discerned the penetrating quality to her gaze masked behind a motherly façade.

She pressed a CD case into my hand and leaned in close as though to share a secret. “Oh. I almost forgot. Nico asked that I give this to you.”

I glanced from the CD to Rose then back again. Written on the disc in male script, I recognized it as Nico’s hand, were the words Good Music; then, in all capitals, LISTEN TO THIS.

“Oh. Thank you.” I turned the plastic case over needlessly, suppressing a smile and an excited fluttering in my stomach.

“You’re supposed to listen to it,” Rose said, still watching me.

I nodded, placed it in my lab coat pocket. “Yes. I see that.”

“You should listen to it.”

I glanced at Rose, gave her an obligatory smile. “I will.”

“Promise?” she pushed.

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

“Rose!”

“He’ll be back this week.”

I pressed my mouth into a firm line as she eyeballed me. After a long moment she sighed.

“Tra il dire e il fare c'è di mezzo il mare[3].” Rose rolled her eyes heavenward, turned, and left.

I couldn’t help but grin at her retreating back. Her matchmaking attempts were as subtle as a fire alarm. If she knew what I was like, who I really was, she wouldn’t want me for her son.

I spent the rest of the work day oscillating between the extremes of happiness that he’d made me a mixtape—in the form of a CD—and stomach-twisting restlessness.

I wanted to see him. I didn’t want to see him.

I couldn’t wait to listen to the CD. I didn’t want to listen to the CD.

Maybe being friends wouldn’t be so bad. I didn’t want to be friends.

The last time I’d felt such a dichotomous, swirling mixture of strangling emotions was the night I’d snuck into his room and handed him my virginity. It was like I was in a boat and that boat was both sinking and flying, but not floating. Nothing made sense, and I was preoccupied by my nonsensical indecision.

Therefore, I forgot until just before my shift ended, when my knitting bag stared at me from my locker, that it was Tuesday knit night with the ladies. For the first time ever I considered skipping, making an excuse, calling in sick and muddled.

Instead, mostly because I knew Ashley and Sandra would have a conniption fit if I didn’t show up, I switched my phone from airplane mode to cellular mode. I’d been keeping it on airplane mode since Sunday so that no calls could be received. If I left it on cellular mode for any length of time it would start ringing and buzzing uncontrollably with journalists and crazy horndog stalker women. This just wore down the battery.

I called Ashley and arranged to have her pick me up from a lesser-known entrance to the hospital, just in case any weirdoes with cameras were loitering at the entrance to the ER. She owned a vehicle and insisted on driving to work every day, using the excuse that, since she was from Tennessee, she didn’t trust public transportation.

This made no sense to me; however, Ashley was oddly unique in that almost nothing she said made a whole lot of sense but she was one of the wisest people I knew.

I exited the hospital and pulled my scarf over my mouth and nose while I waited for Ashley’s green pickup truck, tried to stay warm. I surveyed the parking garage without really seeing it, counted the number of white cars then the number of blue. There were a lot more white cars than blue cars.

Movement to my left snagged my attention, and I glanced at an approaching woman. She was dressed in a fancy jacket, wore fancy sunglasses, fancy boots, and her hair was also fancy—pulled back with sleek intricate braids at her temples. She approached me; she slowed then stopped.

She didn’t say anything at first, her face was expressionless. She just looked at me. I wasn’t wearing any sunglasses, and my eyes moved between the giant lenses of hers, then to the ground, over my shoulder, then back to her.

“Uh . . . Can I help you?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You are Elizabeth Finney?”

Bah. Fancy reporter.

I glowered at her, my hands fisted in my mittens. “Listen, lady, I don’t know who you are but I’m not interested in chitchatting about much of anything with anyone. So, please just leave me alone.”

Her mouth hooked to the side in a mirthless smile. “You’re short.”

My eyes narrowed further in an attempt at a Dirty Harry squint. “And you’re fancy. And the sky is blue. And the sidewalk is gray. Go away.”

She withdrew an envelope from her fancy bag and held it out to me. “Niccolò Moretti is a scum bag and so are you. You both deserve to burn in hell.” The sleek and slightly scary stranger poked me in the chest with the envelope. “Take this.”

“Okay . . .” My hands automatically closed over the envelope. I was so shocked by her words I would have accepted a hissing viper.