Page 41 of Falling for Mr. October

He gestures to the corkboard hanging up behind him. Maybe a dozen photos are pinned to it, all of men and women wearing cheap crowns decorated for different times of the year.

“No, thanks.” I exchange the crown for the cap again and push the two sweatshirts closer to Jason. “We’ll also take these.”

“Anything for my man, Mr. October,” Jason says.

A couple of minutes later, Bianca and I are outside wearing our ridiculous matching sweatshirts.

“Where to next?” I ask, eyeing her.

I expect Bianca to tell me it’s time to go back and face the music.

Instead, she says, “We have to climb the hill in Gallagher Park.”

“I remember that hill.” My voice is hoarse, because the hill is where it happened.

It’s where Miles, Bianca, and I took a picnic one afternoon over fifteen years ago. It’s where a game of truth or dare ended in me giving her an unremarkable kiss.

She gifts me a smart-ass look as she strides toward the hill, the two of us walking side by side. “Because of the view, right?”

“What else would there be to remember?”

She brushes her fingers across the back of my hand. “You can’t fully appreciate how the town hasn’t changed at all until you take in that view.”

We walk in a silence that’s not uncomfortable but not fully relaxed either. Reality is starting to seep back in, peeling away the silly fun we’ve had tonight.

When we reach the gates leading to the park, they’re closed but not locked. Even though it’s after hours and the park’s technically not open, there’s an unwritten rule that locals can come and go as they please.

Bianca slants a look at me as we step through the gates and close them behind us. It looks like an invitation, not that I need one. I’d go anywhere with her right now, and this park used to be one of my favorite places in Apple Ridge. The view is to die for.

There are mountains back home, too, but they’re softer here, and magically blue, as if a kid’s fantastical picture came to life.

A few other people are milling around, and a group of twenty-somethings is sitting on a blanket near the gate, passing around a bottle of champagne. I can feel eyes on us, but that’s true everywhere these days.

When we reach the top of the hill, a couple is already sitting on the bench at the top, whispering to each other in soft voices, so we keep walking until we find a large, flat rock far enough away for privacy. We sit down side by side in the mostly dark and take in the view, the softly sloping mountains lit only by moonlight, stars, and the soft glow of the few lamps lining the trail.

It’s peaceful, with Bianca sitting beside me, her leg pressed against mine. I’d like to stay in the moment awhile.

She nudges me with her leg. “You asked me why I stopped being a hospice nurse.”

“I wasn’t expecting an answer,” I say, surprised. I wasn’t expecting her to bring that up now, or at all.

“I’ll give you one, though.” I can feel her gaze narrowing on me, trying to locate some deeper truths hidden beneath all my bullshit. “If you tell me why you stopped being the Shirtless Chef.”

“Of course,” I groan. But I don’t deny her. I won’t deny her.

“I’ll go first.” She pauses, as if gathering her courage, then says, “One of my patients died.”

I nearly laugh. “You were a hospice nurse. Didn’t all of them die?”

“Yes, and it always hurt, but I let myself get close to Kitty. She was like another grandmother to me, and when she passed, it felt like I was losing part of myself. I realized the only way I could keep doing my job was if I didn’t let myself care about my patients, and if that happened…I didn’t like thinking about what kind of person I would become.”

“But you took that job at the retirement home…”

“I tried working at the emergency room, and I hated it. I couldn’t connect with anyone. Besides, most of the residents of The Rotten Apple aren’t actively dying. They’re just in the last decade or so of their lives. I like working with older people. They have a greater need to be treated with dignity. Some of them have been abandoned by all of the people in their lives.”

I’m taken aback by her goodness. Her fighter’s spirit. How absolutely beautiful she looks bathed in moonlight. When I finally find words for her, I say, “I’ll bet you fight lots of battles for them.”

“Someone needs to.” She hesitates, then asks, “And you. You didn’t really tell me earlier…did you stop making your videos because of your grandmother?”