Because Connor’s a perpetual bachelor, I don’t expect him to understand my need for companionship. But I’ve always been this way; it’s just how I’m wired. I feel more like myself when I’m part of a duo. But I must be doing something wrong, must be the world’s worst boyfriend to always end up in this same position after a few weeks or months.
Wolfie glares at me. “Tell us, Hayes.”
God, would it kill the guy to smile every once in a while?
“She wanted commitment, and I wasn’t ready,” I say around a bite of my burger.
Connor smirks. “So the usual then.”
“Fuck off.” I grin at him and toss a fry at his face.
Wolfie shakes his head. “Behave, children.”
If I’m the Casanova of the group, constantly searching for my other half, and Connor’s known for his revolving bedroom door, Wolfie’s kind of like the dad of our crew. With his stern reputation and that perpetual scowl on his face, I’d say that solidifies it. I constantly feel like I’m disappointing him and can never say no, which is one of the reasons I’m always checking in on his sister when he asks. It’s the least I can do. Especially because I know how much shit he and Maren went through growing up.
“Knowing you, you’ve probably already moved on to the next unfortunate soul,” Connor adds before shoving two fries into his mouth.
I give my head a firm shake. “Nope. Not this time. I need a break, man. I’m giving up dating.”
Wolfie meets my eyes and nods. “That’s probably wise.”
I nod back, but my feelings about this topic are anything but settled. Part of me worries I won’t be able to do it. Another part is worried I’ll never find a good woman to settle down with. And still another part of me wonders why my relationships never seem to work out.
The conversation moves on to business, which is no surprise, and I find myself nodding and grunting at the appropriate times. I offer my opinion when needed or asked for, but my mind wanders.
More specifically, it wanders straight to Maren.
When she opened up during our breakfast together about her struggles at work, the somber look on her face gutted me. She has the weight of the world on her shoulders, and there’s no way I couldn’t offer to help. Riverside is more than just a job to her—it’s the safe place she went after school. It’s where she spent her afternoons visiting with her grandfather before he passed. It’s part of what makes her Maren.
No longer hungry, I push my half-empty plate away. A quick glance at Wolfie confirms that he can’t read my thoughts, and thank God for that, because they’re not always so pure when it comes to his little sister.
As much as I try to keep myself from thinking about Maren as anything other than Wolfie’s sister, it’s not easy, and it’s getting harder the more one-on-one time I spend with her. I want to help her keep her job, but it’s not just that. I want to do a lot of things with her, if I’m being honest—both platonic and not so platonic. But if I’m going to stay single for a while, I need to ignore all those thoughts, and I might as well use my new free time for something good.
And that’s when it hits me. I may have just thought of the perfect solution to help Maren. And if it also involves spending a lot of extra time with her, so be it.
Maybe it will put an end to this weird funk I’ve found myself in, as long as I keep myself in check and the end goal in mind.
4
* * *
MAREN
“Hi, Maren!” Mrs. Jones calls from her wheelchair in the hallway.
I poke my head out of my office to wave hello. Her CNA, a nursing assistant, waits patiently for the exchange to be over and done with, wrapping her manicured fingers loosely around the wheelchair handles.
Mrs. Jones is a resident who needs constant supervision and care. Ever since she slipped in the tub last spring, she’s been rolling on four wheels. If you ask me, I think she likes the chauffeur service.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones. How’s your back feeling today?”
“Better.” She smiles, the wrinkles deepening around her big brown eyes. “That massage man you brought in was wonderful. I didn’t know men did that kind of work.”
I smile through the cringe. It’s bizarre to me what some of these older folks latch onto from their pasts . . . especially the outdated prejudices that seem to lead to these little offhand comments. But then I remember that I might not see Mrs. Jones again after this month. If Riverside tanks, I might not see any of my residents again. And I know I’d miss these conversations terribly.
“People are doing all sorts of work these days. Look at me,” I say with a shrug.
“Time for breakfast and book club,” the CNA says gently.
I give Mrs. Jones a nod. “I should borrow that massage therapist from you next time,” I call as the CNA steers her away. “Don’t wear him out, okay?”
I can still hear Mrs. Jones laughing when the elevator doors close behind them.
My stomach grumbles. I usually eat breakfast before I come to work, but ever since the staff meeting, I’ve had a hard time getting out of bed in time for work, let alone eating.
After finishing an email, I pocket my Riverside ID and lock my office door behind me, starting the short trek down the hall to the elevator. When it takes me to the fourth floor, Mrs. Jones and her book club are already getting situated in the restaurant with bowls of fresh fruit and oatmeal.
I pick up a tray and opt for a breakfast sandwich. The cashier nods when I flash my ID at her, pressing the buttons that put the meal on my tab—fancy words for docking my paycheck by a few dollars. The food here is surprisingly good, so I don’t mind one bit.
During mealtimes, I make it a point to sit with the residents. Part of my job is to be the point of contact between a resident and their medical team. I have bimonthly meetings with each resident, as the schedule allows. Chats over coffee and cookies are just an easy way to circumvent the red tape and keep my finger on the literal pulse of Riverside.
The morning sun streams pleasantly through the tall windows that face the inner courtyard, luring me across the floor. There, I find one of my favorite people, Donald, relaxing in an orange armchair. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling as he dozes peacefully.
I set my tray on the coffee table as quietly as I can. Lifting my sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwich to my lips, I take a cautious bite. The crunch is loud enough to wake the dead.
“And this is the lullaby I deserve?” Donald grumbles as he cracks open his eyes, the perfect picture of a crotchety old man.
But I know he’s not actually grumpy. There’s always a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes, promising good humor and endless banter. I could use a little entertainment today.
“Sorry, Don.” I chuckle, covering my mouthful with one hand. “The bread is toasted.”
“Toasted? From that crunching, I would have guessed it’s made of gravel.”
“I sure hope not.” I feign concern, inspecting the sandwich.
“You’re new here, kid. You’ll get used to it,” he tells me with a wink.
We share the same smile that we always do whenever he brings up how new I am. To Don, a couple of years here means I’m still new. But I don’t feel new. Either way, I don’t mind the teasing, and I sure don’t mind being called kid when it’s Don doing it. I guess, out of all the residents here, he reminds me of my grandpa the most.