Page 33 of Still The One

Also, Dr Sully wrote a note to my boss and she’s approved two additional weeks off to care for my new patient. She sent me a text this morning and said I was an absolute saint of a person to take this on, but considering this experience might kill me, I feel more like a martyr.

After what feels like an endless few hours waiting on discharge paperwork, we finally reach the lobby of my ancient apartment building. Foster stands beside me, his clothes rumpled and disheveled from the hospital stay. He wears a pair of blue scrub pants, and the black T-shirt and slides Matty brought him yesterday when they thought he was flying home.His tired eyes scan the lobby, taking in the marble floors and wall of locked mailboxes.

His right hand rests heavily on a cane, as he looks at the elevator with dismay. ‘This thing still doesn’t work?’

‘Yeah, well, my landlord is more concerned about him living the good life, not his tenants. Hmm… how are we going to do this?’ I ask myself, staring up the stairs.

As I look back at Foster, I can see the clear signs of pain etched on his face. I rack my brain, trying to come up with a plan to get him to the third floor quickly. Easily.

‘While I think, you walk, it’ll get the blood flowing.’

‘Walk where?’ he asks.

‘Um, to the mailboxes and back, five times.’

‘Five times?’ he moans, but does it, slowly.

Suddenly, an idea strikes me – I pull my phone out of my pocket and navigate to Phil’s contact. I press the speaker button, hoping he’s home.

‘What’s up, sugar?’

‘I’m in the lobby, and I need your help.’

‘Lawd, honey, don’t tell me you bought another new mattress. It’s too soon! That thing almost killed us last time. Pivoting wasn’t enough. I thought you’d end up squashed against a wall before you even slept on it.’

That was a complete fiasco. I regret not ordering one of those mattresses that come in a compact, rectangular box. Instead, I bought it locally, refused to pay extra for delivery, and got it home myself, just barely.

‘It’s not a mattress this time; it’s a man.’

‘A man?’ he asks quizzically. ‘For me?’

‘No.’

‘For you?’ He perks up. ‘Oh, honey, finally! I was beginning to wonder if the Sahara Desert had taken root in your undergarments.’

Foster’s deep, rumbling chuckle fills the air, causing his broad shoulders to shake with amusement as he walks. He tilts his head down coyly and hastily wipes the smirk off his lips as soon as my gaze meets his.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, another laugh escaping his lips.

‘No one here needs to know a thing about my undergarments,’ I say, my tone firm and unwavering as if scolding two misbehaving children. ‘Our arrangement is clinical, and what goes on in my panties is private.’ My words hang in the air, thick with tension and unspoken emotions. The weight of our past interactions lingers between us, threatening to break through the facade of professionalism I am trying to maintain. But I can’t let that happen – this is strictly business.

‘Oh, this sounds interesting! I’ll be right down, sweets!’ Phil says enthusiastically before the phone goes silent.

Foster clears his throat, the sound echoing through the lobby. A hint of amusement dances in his voice as he speaks. ‘Clearly it’s a touchy subject, but I can’t resist asking. Has the Sahara Desert taken up in your pants?’ His eyes sparkle with mirth, and a sly grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

I glare, shoving my phone into my back pocket. ‘I can confirm, it has not.’

‘Also, I thought you hated pet names, Jellybean?’ he asks, while still on lap number three.

‘I do hate pet names, Mr Wonka. However, much like you, Phil doesn’t care about that because that’s just how he speaks. Everyone is honey to him, even you – just wait.’

‘Will I also be sugar? ’Cause I sort of like that one.’

‘Careful, he likes the masculine type.’

‘Are you saying Phil isn’t your boyfriend?’

I laugh. ‘In the same way Kait and Jess are my girlfriends, yes. To speak your language, we’re bros, brah.’

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