Page 20 of His Last Shot
“You okay today?” he asks as he rises from his chair behind his desk, abandoning whatever work he was doing to give me his full attention.
I shove aside my thoughts of Johnny. “Sure. Why?” I answer, attempting to look all unbothered, although I am anything but when it comes to thinking about that man.
“You’re flushed. I was hoping you weren’t sick.”
With a shake of my head, I try to reassure him. “I’m fine.”
He grabs my head, pulls it toward him, and kisses my forehead the way he always has. “Good. What brings you by?”
“I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy today.”
He waves his hand in the air. “Nonsense. You know I always make time for you.” He casually leans against the front of his desk, crossing his ankles. The arms follow, resting on his protruding belly.
I take a deep breath in for courage and spit it out. “I am going to have to cut back some of my hours here at the bar.”
His eyebrows raise. “Why is that? Have you been having some flare-ups?”
“No, no. That’s been fine. Well, not fine, but not getting any worse, which is good.”
The words explode from my mouth, a chaotic jumble of emotions and confessions. “I want to go to nursing school,” I blurt out. “Nursing has always been my passion, and I think it’s about time that I find work that will be more stable.” My hands are gesturing and flaying as I talk. “I can go to school in the morning, study, then come here to bar tend if you need it. Then, of course, you know I would always be here on the weekends to help, so don’t worry about that. I know it’s not convenient, but I really want this. I’ve always wanted it. And then…”
With a dismissive flick of his wrist, his hand shoots up, cutting me off. “Rachel, slow down. You’re rambling again.” He uncrosses his arms and grips the desk, letting out a heavy sigh. “You know I’m starting pool tournaments here, right? Like next week. I’m going to need you here to help with that.”
“You could hire someone.” My voice rises as I offer this as a solution quicker than I should.
“Hmmm.” He takes a stroll around the room before sitting behind his desk again, pen in hand, continuing the task that held his attention before my arrival. “How long have you been thinking about this?”
“A while now. I’ve always been interested in it.” He continues to write, head down, as if now, since I need something for me, this conversation is a waste of his precious time.
“And you think with your RA you can do this?” he asks, squinting at me. “Come on, Rachel.” A condescending tone laces his words. “How would this work? What if you have a flare-up? Will the instructors be as understanding as I am if you need time off? Or if you get a job. Will you call off all the time? No boss, other than me, can help you, Rachel. You know that, right?”
Disappointment quivers across my lip and plummets straight to my heart.
My shoulders droop because …
He’s right.
Every doubt I had I heard in his reasonings. No one will hire me if I’m defective. How could I put in the time for school? Is it feasible for me to pursue a career in nursing, given the physical demands of being on your feet constantly? The answers are as clear as a sunny day with no clouds in sight. None of this is possible.
A pipe dream.
So stupid, Rachel.
“Yes,” I agree while lowering my gaze to the floor, silently chiding myself for ever considering that this was a possibility for me.
Turning to leave his office, he calls my name. “Rachel?” My hand trembles on the doorknob as I pivot to meet his gaze. “I can’t run this place without you. We are a family. And family”—we both say in unison—“sticks together as one.”
He nods, a triumphant smirk crossing his lips, and raises his eyebrow as if to say, ‘See, I’m always right!’“You got it.”
He’s satisfied, because he won. Again.
I respond with a smile, forced and tense.
That mantra we recited on repeat after my parents passed was comforting. It was nice to know that despite losing our parents in one of the most tragic ofways, we still had family that cared for us and had our backs. Anytime some sort of adversity would attack us, we would all repeat in unison, ‘We are family. And family sticks together as one.’
That chant helped me in more ways than one. But now, as a thirty-year-old woman, this family and those words are like a prison.
“Oh, yeah, one more thing, since we are on the topic of your health.” I have no idea what he’s going to say next. “How is your physical therapy going? Is it helping?”
