Page 131 of The Twelve Months of Christmas
Check her out. He remembered doing that when he first saw her at the Whaling Days festival in Silverdale a couple of summers earlier. She’d looked hotter than a solar flare in shorts that almost covered her butt and a low-cut red top, long blond hair swept up into a ponytail. He’d gotten pretty hot himself, just gawking at her.
She’d caught him staring and given him a smile that said, “Come on over and try your luck.”
He had, and boy, had he felt lucky when, after some flirting and a hot dog and beer, she gave him her phone number. And boy, had he been a fool.
Yet now here she was looking at him like he was the hero of the hospital, as if he held her fate in his hands. He’d been sure he was in love with this woman, been close to her. How was he supposed to hook her up to the electrodes and stay detached? Somebody else was going to have to do the electrocardiogram.
Except they were slammed and there was no one else. “Get a grip,” said Felicia, one of the other ER nurses. “You’re a professional.”
He swore under his breath and marched off to get the machine. There was a reason doctors were encouraged never to treat their own families. Too emotionally involved.
You’re not involved with her anymore, he reminded himself.This is no big deal.
“Thank God it’s you. I’d be embarrassed to have anyone else treating me,” she said when he came back with the machine. “It would be so awkward.”
Would be? It already was.
It was even more awkward hooking her up to the machine, sticking the sensors on her chest, under her boobs. Aack!
They’re just boobs, they’re just boobs.
You knew these boobs. He was going to have a heart attack.
“This is so scary,” she whimpered.
“No need to be scared,” he said.Be professional, be professional.
He was glad when he was done and could step over to the machine. Physical distance.
Except what about emotional distance? It was as if his memory had swung a lasso and was pulling him back to her against his will. It hadn’t been all bad.Here, put on these rose-colored glasses and take a look.
Was this fate?
No, it was torture.
The reading came out fine and he got to, once again, get personal as he unhooked her.
“What does it mean? Am I dying?” she asked.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. But was he? His head was a mess.
“You’re lying to me,” she accused. “You can’t bring yourself to tell me the truth. Oh, my God, I’m dying.”
“Cynthia, you’re not dying. You’ll be fine,” Alden said.
“Oh, what do you know?” she snapped, the same old Cynthia he’d once been crazy about.
The memories fell away and landed on the floor. It was fate all right, confirming that he was well rid of her.
The doctor read the printout, asked her what she’d been eating and the problem was quickly solved. Jalapeño poppers combined with tequila had brought on a good case of heartburn—nothing a strong dose of antacid wouldn’t cure. She would be released back into the wild.
She managed to find Alden before that, though. “Alden, do you miss me?”
Maybe he would have deceived himself into thinking he had if he weren’t with someone so superior, someone who didn’t manufacture drama simply to get attention. Someone who was really going through serious shit and doing her best to do it with a brave face.
“I’m with someone,” he said simply.
“So am I,” said Cynthia in her well-used snotty voice. Oh, yeah, he should have read the script. He was supposed to be a broken man, barely coping without her.
