Page 13 of Heart Strings
Chapter 8
Lo
“Room 293’s feverfinally broke,” I tell Oisín as I pass the nurses’ station. It’s just after midday, but I’m exhausted. My shift officially started at six this morning, but I was here at four-thirty to pre-round, pulling charts and updated lab work. The competitive edge is worth it. Breaks are practically nonexistent for us students, but the attending encourages me to take a few minutes of downtime. Desperate for caffeine, I drag myself to the cafeteria.
My clogs squeak along the freshly polished floor as I come to an abrupt halt at the sound of a familiar woman’s voice.
“The children will be so excited to hear ‘Come Here to Me.’ ”
It’s Aidan’s mom, Ruth. Engrossed in their conversation, he and his family haven’t noticed me yet. I consider hiding, but there’s a tragic lack of potted plants or abandoned wheelchairs in this hallway. He’s here along with his parents and sister.
Aidan used to visit the pediatric ward every week on top of working full-time as a solicitor, even when Marie wasn’t here. He’d perform in the recreation area, then go from room to room,playing special requests for the kids who were too ill to get out of bed. That act of kindness had endeared him to me so much. Against my will, my heart stirs at the thought of him bringing much-needed smiles to our most vulnerable little patients again.
Aidan readjusts the strap of the guitar case more securely on his shoulder. An atrocious sweater covered in knit instruments and musical notes dials down his trademark sex appeal. Well, money can’t buy taste.
“Ehm, ‘Come Here to Me’ isn’t on the set list today.”
“But everyone loves it!” Ruth insists. “And that’s what we need more of these days. Good, clean, wholesome music.”
Marie snorts. “Mam, it’s far from wholesome.”
Their mother looks offended on Aidan’s behalf. “Why would you say something like that?”
“ ‘Let’s make up and bury the hatchet deep’?” she quotes from the chorus.
Ruth slaps a hand over her sternum. “Marie!”
“Don’t look at me, your son wrote it.”
“Aidan Francis O’Toole. My friends at church have heard this song. I’ve bragged to the whole parish about it. I sent a link to Deacon Kelly himself.”
Marie does nothing to hide her delight.
Aidan ducks his head. “To be fair, I wasn’t thinking about little old church ladies when I wrote it.”
“Obviously not!” His mother sniffs before scrutinizing her husband, James—a silent witness to the conversation thus far. “And you never said a word, even when I included it in the parish newsletter!”
“I thought you knew,” James replies.
“Our son is singing about—aboutthat. I’m mortified!”
“Mam.” Pink rises on Aidan’s cheeks. “Can we talk about it later?”
Finally noticing my presence, he takes me in with an embarrassed smile. I’m probably the last person he wants interrupting this conversation.
“Lo!” Marie shouts. Exuberance radiates from her as she throws her arms around my neck. Plastic ID badges clatter on the lapel of my white coat.
“Hey, Marie.” I pat her on the back as casually as possible. “You look amazing!”
I all but ghosted her for two years. Yes, I’m an ass for that, but are you really supposed to keep in touch with your ex’s family after you break up? Marie was fifteen at the time; I’m sure she understood that our friendship was collateral damage. Even if it hurt both of us.
“I’m so happy to run into you,” I tell Marie. “Hi, Mrs. O’Toole, Mr. O’Toole.”
“Call me Ruth.” With her maternal pat on my arm, the knot of tension in my stomach loosens. “It’s good to see you, Cielo. Are you coming to the performance?”
Aidan steps forward. “It’s just a little thing for the kids.”
“I only have a minute, then I have to get back. Maybe one song?”
