Page 10 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

“Who?” Cindy gasped, leaning forward.

“Porter,” I said, betraying myself with a grin.

“I knew it!” Cindy jumped up, clapping. “You have seen him without his shirt.”

I motioned her to be calm. “That doesn’t mean he cuts trees shirtless. Let’s talk about peas.”

“Peas?” She returned to her seat.

“Yeah, why is the supermarket always out of peas?” I offered the first topic of conversation I could think of.

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “I never noticed.”

I had three sessions with Porter every day, and I looked forward to them. He was slowly coming out of his shell, and I had to admit, that rumpled just-out-of-bed look really worked for him. Since that first day, he had always been fully clothed, though I could imagine the washboard of his chest beneath the loose scrubs. It was shameful that I had those thoughts about a man struggling to save his own life. I admonished myself every time but couldn’t deny that he was a very attractive man.

He sat perched on the side of the bed, legs parted just enough to attract my attention. His hands were wide and calloused, his fingers splayed across his own knee as we talked.

He wore no shoes, and I could see that his feet were large. That meant nothing, I told myself, but I couldn’t help peeking at his crotch, wondering if the stereotype were true. He was like a breath of fresh air. Most of the clients tried my patience. I was kind and supportive to a fault, but they inevitably used foul language or acted out in anger. They were struggling with internal demons that made them unaccustomed to polite conversation and civil society.

Porter, on the other hand, probably through his continuing friendships with Mike and Dillon, was kind and thoughtful. He wasn’t ill-mannered, and he didn’t have a temper. He might have been boyfriend material, if not for the regulations governing treatment. People weren’t supposed to get into new relationships within a year of beginning recovery. On top of that, nurses definitely weren’t supposed to develop feelings for their patients. Any hint of a sexual relationship between me and Porter would be grounds for my dismissal and the loss of my license.

I liked my job and didn’t want to jeopardize my career. The lunchroom talk that Cindy thought was so innocent could actually get me fired. It would be best to steer clear of Porter altogether. But I couldn’t, or I wouldn’t. Seeing him every day was better than coffee to wake me up in the morning and better than sugar to keep me going.

I wasn’t sure why I had told him that I lived alone. That was way more information than I had ever shared with a patient before. But he had asked about my husband, and for some ridiculous reason, I wanted to assure him that I was free. As if there was any hope of a future for us, as if Porter were a real consideration when it came to potential boyfriends. No, there were men, and then there were patients, and Porter was definitely a patient.

I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t afraid of any of the residents, but there were some I might have lied to and told them I was married. It was foolish of me to give Porter hope, and I considered rectifying it. But how could I backtrack on all the progress he had made by broaching some awkward subject that was better left alone? I would just have to be more careful in the future.

He was just so easy to talk to. So, it was with a heavy heart that I accepted the reality of my weekend. It wasn’t technically the weekend; I had days off during the week. The treatment center was staffed 24/7, so not everyone could take off Saturday and Sunday. It had never been an issue for me since I didn’t have a family. I agreed to take time off during the week so that other people could spend time with their kids and spouses.

I slept late, washed my hair, and had my favorite takeout while watching a romantic comedy. I did everything I could think of to take my mind off Porter. I read a book, and then I went on a walk. I cooked myself dinner in my tiny kitchen, sauteing the chicken and vegetables like the celebrity chef on TV said I should. I imagined cooking for Porter. I could have him over after his treatment was done and he was no longer a patient. I could cook for the two of us, and we could enjoy our feast, watching silly movies on the couch.

Unlike my family, Porter had known enough to ask for help. My mom and my older brother had both ridden their addiction into the ground, never wanting to stop. They didn’t hear my voice when I spoke to them about the dangers of their substance of choice or of my own plans for a better life. My younger brother had just run away, and I had no way of knowing how he was doing. Porter did nothing but listen. When he was in his darkest hour, he opened himself up to my company in a way that no one had done before. I felt a connection with him that went deeper than the nurse-patient dynamic. I felt like he really cared, like he saw the real me in a way that no one else ever had.

I jerked my thoughts away from him and ate by myself, Evil curled up in my lap awaiting leftovers. When my break was finally over, I woke up with renewed invigoration. I was going to see Porter. And the other patients, I reminded myself. This forbidden love story was draining my energy, forcing me to corral my wayward thoughts even within my own mind.

Holding my heart steady, I hopped into my shoes, grabbed my lunch, and nearly skipped my way to work. I couldn’t conceal my excitement from Cindy—she spotted me as soon as I came out of the locker room, a stupid grin on my face.

“What’s got you so happy?” she said, cranky as always.

“I won the lottery,” I blurted out.

“Really?” she gasped. “Are you going to put in your notice?”

“It was only ten dollars,” I sputtered. I was really bad at this lying thing.

“Oh.” Cindy’s face fell. “I was gonna ask you for a loan, but I guess that’s not going to happen.”

“I’ve never won anything before.” I shrugged, attempting to explain why winning ten dollars would put me in such a good mood.

“Well.” She applauded tepidly. “Congratulations.”

I grabbed my clipboard and checked my assignments. There were two new patients who would demand much of my attention. Porter was now a “regular,” and so I was supposed to just drop in on him, making more time for patients who were either entering or exiting treatment. I calculated how much time I would have to give each new arrival to be fair to them, while still enabling me to have a conversation or two with Porter. It was no use hiding it; he had become my favorite patient.

I forced myself to attend to my new arrivals, giving them just as much of my time as they deserved. There was a woman who was contending with anorexia as well as addiction, and a man who had attempted suicide. Two desperate people who had landed here after losing their own personal battles. I sat with each of them, watching them go through the tremors of withdrawal.

The woman cried, feeling like she had let down her family and failed in her role as a mother. They were always hard to see, the mothers. They came in with the weight of the world on their shoulders, and I could see the destruction their addiction had wrought on their children and their families. They knew how much their babies were hurting, and it wasn’t that they didn’t care but that they felt helpless.

My experiences with mothers in the Westview Hospital had taught me a lot about my own situation. They did love their children, but they sometimes didn’t believe their children loved them. They didn’t think they could be loved. They considered themselves pariahs, as the police and their husbands and the general public viewed them. There was no fight left in them to stand up for their children, and that in itself was horrible to witness.

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