Page 19 of Keeping It Professional

“Sorry,” said Sophie. “I’ve made you feel bad.”

“No. No, you haven’t. I— Is that the cops now?”

Sophie jumped up as the car swung around. It slowed and a cop got out.

“You the one with the boot?”

She pointed. “Right there.”

“All right. Let me grab that.”

Five minutes later, the boot was unhooked. Sophie whooped with relief as the cops drove away.

“Thanks for waiting with me.”

“Sure, anytime.” I shifted from foot to foot, suddenly awkward. I wanted to tell her I’d judged her all wrong. I’d been a jerk, and for no damn good reason. But she was already checking her tire, testing the pressure now the boot was off.

“Looks okay,” she said. “That’s something, at least.”

“You know, parking tickets are public record. You can keep track online, if you get any new ones.”

“Thanks,” Sophie said. “I should head out. But let me get breakfast next time, as you waited with me.”

“It’s a deal.” I flinched. I’d almost said ‘date.’ But if Sophie noticed, she gave no sign. She got in her car and tossed her purse on the passenger seat.

“See you in, oh, around eight hours.” She grimaced, slammed the door, and drove away. I watched till she turned off, then trudged off myself. I should’ve been tired, and I was, to the bone, but at the same time, I felt strangely light. I laughed out loud in the empty street.

“Damn it all — Lou. How’d I forget that, them calling you Lou?”

A gull squawked in response. I scrubbed at my eyes. Yeah, he’d been Lou, and sometimes Loser, but not in a mean way. Just a dumb kid way.

I closed my eyes and I pictured our park one more time, the grass and the sky. Nick’sStar Warsshirt. Then I let him go, because Sophie was right. It was good to remember, but only sometimes. Too much, and you lost yourself. Got stuck in the past. I couldn’t let that happen.

Never again.

CHAPTER 8

MILES

The call came in at one a.m. Monday, one week after my breakfast with Sophie. We’d been sitting for a while, sipping strong coffee, when the radio crackled. Then came the address.

“Oh, God,” I groaned.

Sophie started the engine. “What?”

“Okay, you know how I told you every call’s life or death? Doesn’t matter how dull it sounds, or routine, or silly?”

“Yeah, of course.” She nosed us onto the road.

“Well, this call, right here? It’s the exception. This lady’s the worst kind of frequent flyer, something new every week, and it’s always BS. And half the time, she’ll insist on transport, so we’ll drive her to the hospital because her heart skipped a beat. I can’t decide if she’s a hypochondriac or if she’s just lonely, but either way, she’s a complete waste of time.”

Sophie checked her rearview. “So, what do we do?”

“Same thing we always do. Act like it’s real. Because, who knows, one day it might be. But I guarantee, tonight isn’t it.Dizziness in shower; patient suspects stroke. That’s vintage Katrina. Heart attacks. Strokes. Always one or the other, but no actual symptoms.”

Sophie drove us out to the quiet of the suburbs, to the same house from what felt like a hundred calls. Katrina was waiting in the front room, peeking out through the curtains as we came up the drive. I forced myself to relax, even slapped on a smile. Like most hypochondriacs, Katrina spooked easy, and the last thing I wanted was some big, crying scene. We’d get in, calm her down, then we’d be on our way.

“Be careful,” I told Sophie, as she raised her hand to knock. “She hates when she thinks we don’t believe her, or we’re upset that she’s calling again. It’s not worth the paperwork, if she complains.”

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