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Too bad I have no choice but to meet their demands—a twenty percent price increase to their already exorbitant monthly costs. Which insurance and all the governmental things only cover nominally to begin with.
Where am I going to get an extra twenty percent? What evenistwenty percent of her current monthly payment? I need a calculator. What I would love is not to be the sole adult left to handle these details.
I often miss my parents with a deep, throbbing ache. Their voices, the sight of them bent over books or the laptop glow reflecting in Dad’s glasses. But in moments like this, when I have to be moreadultthan I feel qualified for, I miss them with a sharp tang of bitterness. Usually accompanied by a few moments ofwhy meandpoor little orphan Bailey before I tell myself to shut up and deal with the hand I’ve been dealt.
Which is: losing my parents to a car accident just months before college graduation and now being the sole caretaker for Gran on a nonexistent budget.
“Oh, Bailey …”
The moment I hear Beth, my most favorite and also most nosy coworker, sing-song my name, I shove the letter into my bra.
Just like the completely normal, fully functioning adult I am. One of the paper’s sharp corners immediately pokes delicate skin where no woman ever wants a paper cut, and I wince.
It’s the same knee-jerk reaction I would have had as a kid when caught with my hand in the cookie jar. A cookie jar wouldbe a lot more fun—and tastier—than this missive. Why, exactly, do I feel the need to hide the letter?
And why did I shove it into my bra? That’s easier to answer—because scrubs don’t have pockets. Or, at least,minedon’t. They’re the bargain scrubs. No pockets. And made of a fabric only a stone’s throw from burlap. I really wish I could afford the softer, pocketed kind. Because as I turn to face Beth, I am rewarded with what is most definitely a paper cut on my nipple.
“Yes, Beth?” I echo in an equally melodic voice.
I know from the smug grin on her softly lined face exactly what she’s going to say. My heart, already racing a little, picks up the pace again, clearly going for a PR on its late afternoon sprint.
“Your boyfriend's here,” Beth says, clasping her hands over her chest in a gesture that somehow makes her look about fifty years younger, like an elementary school girl with a crush.
I can’t blame her. But I also won’t reward her teasing with an acknowledgment.
“Hot Puppy Guy,” Beth clarifies after a moment. Clearly, my response of staring blankly is not what she’s after.
Like there’s more than one man she teases me about.
“Oh, him.” I roll my eyes. But I also move to the door to see for myself. There’s a tiny window in the door separating the reception area of the shelter from this multipurpose room. I have to stand on tiptoes, but peeking through the glass, I confirm there is a veritable Viking bouncing on his toes with his flannel-clad back turned toward us.
Hot Puppy Guy. Also known by his real name, which Beth pointedly and forever pretends not to know: Eli.
I allow myself a moment to indulge in the view. Impossibly broad shoulders. Perfectly messy golden-blond hair. And if he were looking this way, I’d see blue eyes that somehow manage to be warm despite their deep blue color. He just needs a littlebit longer hair—perhaps with some tiny braids—and an ax to complete the look. A leather skirt wouldn’t hurt.
Vikings do wear leather skirts, right? Or … kilts? Historical accuracy aside, I’m sticking with this mental image.
Eli’s face is the kind which could both launch a thousand ships or sell out whole product lines from a print ad. Sharp, chiseled features softened by full lips and a perpetual smile. The varying levels of facial hair he sports—from clean shaven to a trimmed beard—all look good and flatter his angular jawline.
He could probably shave his eyebrows and still rival the last twenty years’ worth ofPeople Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.
Whatever he does for work, it must involve some kind of manual labor. Like pulling trees from the ground by their roots. Or carrying old ladies across the street. Building homes without the use of any electrical tools. And yet, despite what could be an imposing physique, Eli is a total softie. He’s sweet. Goofy. Thoughtful. He clocks almost as many hours visiting dogs as some of our volunteers do. Though they’re doing it to look good on resumes and Eli comes in just because he likes dogs, honestly.
Speaking of volunteers, several of the college girls are gathering at the front desk like flies to honey. Or is it bees to honey? Between the two insects, these women are definitelyflies.
I remind myself that I have no right to feel protective. Eli isnotmy boyfriend, no matter what Beth says. Still. I’d like to take the push broom and sweep the volunteers right out the front door and right into traffic.
Okay, that feels a little too mean.
I’d just sweep them outside. If theyhappenedto step in front of traffic, that would be on them.
Irrational jealousy rises in my chest as Katrina—the lord of the flies, if I’m sticking with my bad bug analogy (and Iam)—does her best contortionist impression, bending herself practically in half over the top of the high reception counter. No doubt to get closer to Eli. While also giving him a clear view of her cleavage. And demonstrating her flexibility.
Like I said:flies.
Katrina says something I can’t hear. Eli jolts a little at the sight of her, then pointedly fixes his gaze in the opposite direction from the low-hanging boob fruit she’s dangling right in front of him. Right at a poster about the importance of spaying and neutering your pets.
No one ever said the ambience in an animal shelter was romantic.
