Page 4 of Hot Ghoul Summer

I have a feeling Mom badgered them into that.

The point is, I should have said no, I don’t need the money. I should have said, “Mom, you’re two bottles deep, and you’re not thinking right. You told me to avoid both of those deadbeats like the plague.”

But I’m greedy. I thought about how Dad caused me a fortune in therapy bills and how Gary was just a general lecherous cretin who owed me way more than fifteen bucks and a “Congrats!” text for making my teenage years awkward and uncomfortable.

So, I let her unblock their numbers and... lo and behold!

A big fat nothing.

That’s probably because neither man would ever try to contact me, even if I was elected President of the United States.

I take that back. They both would. They’d want to cash in on my success and see if I could erase their parking tickets or something.

But, since I didn’t hear from Loser One or Loser Two, I never thought to remove their numbers from my phone or block them again. Mom went off on a cruise with Aunt Gail and Aunt Sherry, and June rolled into July.

And Loser Two, Gary, called me.

“Molly! Molly, my sweet baby girl, how are you?”

His sweet baby girl? He’d been in my life from ages thirteen to seventeen, and there was something decidedly unfatherly about the way Gary used to look at me. My nose wrinkled in disgust, but the nurse in me was struck by something. Gary’s voice, which I hadn’t heard in six years, was different. It wasn’t just older with age or slurred with drink. His breathing was labored, and there was a peculiar whistling noise after every breath. “Hi... Uh. How are you?”

“Well, honestly, Molly, not too good. I was in a nasty car accident. Broken ribs. Broken nose. Smashed up my hand real good. Did you get the money I sent you?”

“No.” I arched my eyebrows.

“Huh. Stupid app. My phone got smashed up, too. I bet it didn’t send with my cracked screen.”

Sure. Like you couldn’t tell if money left your account, shattered screen or not? “Well, I didn’t get it. You don’t need to worry about it. Sounds like you should take care of yourself instead, Gary.”

“Heh, that’d be good. So.”

Oh, boy. Here it comes.

“Your mom says you’re gonna be a nurse.”

“I am a nurse. I just graduated with my nursing degree.” I didn’t bother to tell him that I did the five-year program or that I got my masters in nursing and a minor in public health policy.

“Oh! You’re over eighteen now, right?”

“What does— Yes. Yes, I’m well over eighteen.”

“You drive?”

“What??”

“Come see me. I need to see you. You’re practically a stranger to me!”

“Not practically a stranger, I’m an actual stranger! I haven’t seen you since I was seventeen! We don’t know anything about each other. You didn’t even know how old I was.”

“The accident. Concussion.”

Empathy and bedside manner tried to push to the front. The Nightingale Pledge. The Hippocratic Oath—I know that’s just for doctors but I know it and nurses do as much as doctors to help people heal if you ask me! I had pledged to take care of the vilest diseases, the dregs of humanity, the burned, the disfigured, the criminals, the young, the old. Everyone deserves compassion and care.

But he tried to walk in on me while I was in the shower one too many times for it to be an accident.

He’s not my patient. Patients deserve my compassion. He deserves a boot in his ass.

“Molly, Molly... You’re the only child I’ll ever have—”

---