Page 26 of Love Medley
I laugh weakly. “He needs it so we can connect about the Centennial Dinner.”
“Believe me,” Iz says, smiling. “Jake’s into you.”
Chapter nine
Jake
Yesterday’s shift was Lucy-less, but I only ended up thinking about her more. There’s no doubt that I’m drawn to her in every way. I’m captivated by her courage; standing up to fucking Weston was no easy feat. And this confrontation happened right after she suffered a major panic attack for the first time, which takes no small amount of bravery. What’s more, the way she cared about her abused patient spoke volumes about her good heart.
Of course I’m beyond attracted to her—who wouldn’t be? She’s the most spectacular woman I’ve evermet. After only two meetings, this incredible woman has orchestrated herself into my thoughts, like a new favorite song that I can’t stop listening to. She infiltrates my dreams at night—black tresses fisted in my hands, soft, pillowy lips on my skin, large brown eyes widening in lust as I bathe her in my tongue, musical gasps of pleasure as I make her come. Then I imagine more tender moments: wrapping her in my arms, stroking her long, elegant neck and the smooth skin on her back, feeling her heartbeat against my chest.
But I’m under no illusions that this will ever happen. Even though Weston is a jackass, he was right about one thing: Lucy is out of my league. I need to remind myself that even though I’ll see her on Saturday for the Centennial dinner, it’s not a real date.
I grab a Gatorade Zero out of the fridge. As I settle at my desk to check my email, I think about Lucy. I pull out my phone, my fingers hovering over her name. I need to call her, figure out the details for the dinner. But the reminder that it’s all pretend makes my stomach turn.
Setting down my phone, I recall the moment in the ER ambulance entrance. Helping Lucy through her anxiety attack stirred up old memories. While my mother could have done more to protect me from my father, she did find Nina, my child therapist, when I suffered from increasingly frequent panic attacks. My father doesn’t believe in therapy, so he couldn’t have known about Nina—he would have put a stop to it immediately. Only now as an adult do I realize this may have been why my mom always paid Nina in cash, rather than by card.
Maybe part of me will always long for some sort of connection with my mother. I know she’ll never reach out, but maybe…I can?
Hesitating only for a moment, I pick my phone back up and dial her number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mother. It’s me.”
“Jacob. How are you?”
As usual, her cadence is formal, measured and distant, so I’m not sure how to read her tone.
“I’m doing well, thank you,” I say, my speech automatically becoming less colloquial.
It’s different than when I was at the house five months ago, fighting for every bit of independence, even down to what I was wearing and what phrasing I was using, so I could get the job done.
But now? I want her to feel comfortable.
I shift, feeling awkward. Just because slipping into a role comes naturally doesn’t mean I enjoy it.
My mother breaks the silence first. “And your job—I trust things are moving smoothly?”
Maybe I’m not the only one struggling. “Working in the Blackwell ER is fast-paced and never boring. Just today, a patient care tech who wants to become a nurse shadowed me. That was more satisfying than I was expecting.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Satisfying in what way?” She doesn’t seem critical, but rather, surprisingly, interested.
Encouraged, I continue. “Thomas—that’s the name of the tech—made the experience rewarding, actually. He hadinsightful, intelligent questions about some of the interesting cases we saw together and was a keen observer, learning quickly on the fly.”
I remember the pride that surged through me whenever Thomas figured something out—it was better than if I did it myself.
“You’ve always been adept at instructing others.”
Her words surprise me. When I was with Thomas, it didn’t even occur to me that I might be responsible for his learning. Frankly, that was allhim.
But I also can’t remember the last time I’ve heard anything like a compliment from a family member. Wyatt and I have always gotten along, but we’ve never talked about anything serious—we've kept it light. And my mother, while not outright unkind, has always been stern and emotionally remote.
I shift the phone to my other ear. “What? Me?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice distant, as if she is watching a movie of the past. “Do you recall how Sterling could never put on his tie properly? You directed him step by step even when he ended up throwing a tantrum. Or when Wyatt was too apprehensive to climb that big tree in our backyard? You guided him from branch to branch until he made it to the top safely. You have a way about you that steadies others.”
I had completely forgotten about those times in my childhood. They didn’t stand out—they just felt like what anyone would’ve done.
