Page 35 of Extreme Romancing in Idaho

I squirmed in my seat and stared at my still-untouched cookie. The Disney-TV-family-ness of this moment soared past magnitude eight on my personal Richter scale. Angie was the one working around the clock, losing her father … going bankrupt. Comparatively, I had everything, and yet, I was jealous of her.

“Oh, don’t forget to feed the pigs their slop.” She leaned onto the table toward me. “And mind your fingers. They might chomp them clean off.” Her teeth clicked together in her overexaggerated biting motion.

Yeah. Right. I brushed off her words, made a show of not caring. But as she snorted like a pig then laughed as she walked down the hall, I clenched my fingers into a fist. The wild eyes of the pig graphic on the card at the top of the stack seemed to follow my movements.

Pigs wouldn’t do that. Would they?

Chapter 13

Angie

TwomoreshiftsandI had a few days off. I could do this.

The satisfaction of beating Remi in Frenzy wore off in the first fifteen minutes of my drive. The other thirty I spent fighting off images of Papa in his casket.

Pale and white.

Lifeless.

With my tires still rolling, I shoved my truck into park. It jolted to a stop. It was like I was trapped at the bottom of a cliff, watching a boulder crash toward me, powerless to prevent my impending doom. I smacked my steering wheel and leaned back into my seat. Yes, I couldn’t stop cancer from killing Papa, but I could at least introduce him to the man who’d care for me the rest of my life, the way he cared for Mama if I redoubled my efforts with Dan.

Wiping at the track of a single tear on my cheek, I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Light from the parking streetlamp illuminated my truck’s interior. Taking a few breaths, I spoke to my reflection, “Good to go, right?” I nodded and snapped a quick selfie before opening my truck door.

I sent it to Dan with the caption,Headed into work. See you on the flip side.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

You look goood in scrubs.

Emotionally spent, I couldn’t think of a response, so I sent him a smiley emoji with blushing cheeks and shoved my phone into my purse.

Slamming my door shut, I marched through the evening light, past the hospital doors to the NICU on the second floor.

Papa was my example of how to work hard. Jared hadn’t followed in our parents’ footsteps, which was probably why he often referred to me as the chosen one. He’d hoofed it off the farm as soon as he’d graduated and bounced from job to job, avoiding the ones requiring regular drug screening.

Most recently, he landed a gig as a bass guitarist in a band called Taking Back Tuesdays. He fit better on the concert circuit than he did on the farm. I got postcards from all his destinations.

Gabby waited for me at the nurse’s station. Her long, black hair was tied in its typical bun, and her flawless, perpetually tanned skin gleamed in the fluorescent light. I loved working shifts with Gabby. From day one on this unit, we’d been instant friends.

“Are you still talking to that Smoot guy on ExtremeSingles?” she asked before I had time to set down my purse.

I welcomed the change of subject in my life. No more cancer and funeral talk for the whole night. Letting my concerns for Papa fade, I focused on the few babies we had in our unit, hoping they would live with little to no complications—that it would be an easy night.

“Yeah,” I answered Gabby. “I think he’s still buying the whole extreme sports thing I’m—”

Ryan, another nurse, opened the door to the NICU in mid-conversation on his phone.

“Shh-shh.” Gabby lowered her palms toward the floor, indicating I remain quiet. “I posted a free hens add on Craigslist and put Ryan’s phone number as the contact,” she whispered.

I laughed, and she shushed me again.

With his tatted arms bare, the one holding the phone flexed against his scrubs. As a Navy veteran, he was built like The Rock but handled these preemie babies with more expertise than the new moms. With his blond hair fading into a thicker, lighter-yellow beard, he was a strikingly handsome man. Initially, we’d tried our hand at a relationship, but it didn’t work out. We belonged solidly in the friend zone. I couldn’t count the times single mothers had left their numbers on their discharge paperwork and asked him to call them.

“How do I know you’re going to care for my chicken like one of your own children?” Ryan’s voice echoed to us.

We ducked behind the desk. I covered my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Have you ever considered getting chicken health insurance? I have the number if you would like to—Hello? Hello?”

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