CHAPTER 3

Violet

There’s something wrong with guys my age.

They’re so self-centered. So wishy-washy. Soft. So . . . young.

It’s like they missed a rung on the developmental ladder. Or somewhere around high school, just decided to stop climbing. And voilà—thirty became the new eighteen.

Take Evan, sitting across from me in this gleaming Formica-accented, trendy-and-it-knows-it restaurant in downtown Redbank, New Jersey. We’re on our first date—a blind date. His mom is the cousin of my coworker’s brother’s best friend’s sister.

Try saying that three times fast. It’s like six degrees of setup separation.

I used to partake in the dating sites—hoping their algorithms were the magic brick road that would lead me to my perfect match. But I’ve sworn off them for a while now. Too many jerks and possible serial killers. Like the guy who was into mouse taxidermy and wanted to bring me to his attic to show off his collection.

From that point on, it’s been human-to-human setups only.

And Evan’s not bad as far as blind dates go—he’s five foot ten, with dark-blond hair, good personal hygiene, smooth hands, and a gentle smile.

It’s just . . . well . . .

“ . . . and then I said to myself, if I’m going to be studying there for three years, why not double major and make it five?”

He’s still in school. Working toward his doctorate in philosophy and ancient languages. You know, like Latin and Sanskrit—the practical stuff.

And though I value education and think it’s commendable he’s pursing this—he still lives at home with his parents. In a room above their garage. I bet he’s still on their cell-phone plan too—he has that “family share” look about him.

Evan hasn’t really started life yet. There are so many experiences he

hasn’t had—like apartment hunting, buying his own vacuum cleaner, paying rent.

I’ve been paying rent since I was nineteen. Going to school while working full-time since I was twenty. Balancing doctor appointments and teacher conferences while taking care of my younger siblings.

Evan’s only ever taken care of himself. He’s never even had a goldfish—I asked.

So it’s hard to be interested in someone who looks like a man and talks like a man . . . but for all intents and purposes, is still just a boy.

Put an Xbox remote in his hand and I bet he could talk shit with all the other twelve-year-olds.

And it’s not just him. There are a lot of Evanses out there these days. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone out with most of them.

“So, Violet, you’re an emergency room nurse?” “Correct.” I nod.

He raises his glass. “The noblest of professions. Tell me about your most intriguing case. Any snake bites or flesh-eating parasites?”

Lakeside is a small town. If the hospital just treated the locals, the majority of cases would be sports injuries, allergic reactions to beestings, fishhook impalements—maybe an occasional heart attack. Or a vengeful food poisoning courtesy of a wife who’s been unappreciated one time too many.

That actually happened last month. Mr. Learner forgot his and Mrs. Learner’s 30th wedding anniversary and he called last minute to ask her to cook a big dinner for him and his fishing buddies after a long, hard day of chasing the bass around the lake.

It was ugly.

Mrs. Learner made Mr. Learner a “special” dish—just for him. It didn’t kill him, but for the couple hours he had to be treated for dehydration, he was wishing it did.

“We’re a level two trauma center,” I tell Evan. “So we get our share of car accidents, compound fractures, stabbings, head injuries, infections . . . and people with stuff stuck up their butts.”

Evan’s glass pauses halfway to his mouth. “You’re joking.”

“Not even a little.”

From beer bottles to Barbie dolls, you would not believe the things people attempt to stick up their asses. And then can’t get back out again.

It’s called vacuum suction and word needs to be spread about it, far and wide.

For all our sakes.

I put my napkin on my empty plate. “But probably the most unique case I’ve ever seen was a patient who came in with twisted testicles.”

“Twisted? Is that . . . is that even possible?”

“Sure—it’s called testicular torsion.” I form a fist with one hand, demonstrating. “One testicle wraps itself around the scrotum, cutting off the blood supply. It typically presents in adolescents and is extraordinarily painful . . . ”

“I bet.” He grimaces.

“But this patient was in his forties and the crazy part is—he didn’t feel anything at all. It was a medical anomaly. Dr. Daniels—he was the attending on the case—thought it was due to how the nerve was compressed from the swelling.”

Evan gulps. “Swelling?”

“Oh yeah, they were like grapefruits. And getting bigger by the second. We were able to do a manual detorsion, otherwise the scrotum could’ve split right down the middle.”

I slice my hand down—and that’s when I notice my date’s skin has a mint-chocolate-chip-ish hue—pasty pale and slightly green. But I’ve gone too far to stop now, might as well finish the story.

I lower my hands to my lap. “But it was only a temporary fix. When the surgeon got in there, she had to—”

Evan turns away, cutting me off midsentence. Then he lifts his finger toward our waiter.

“Check, please.”

* * *

And that is how I end up back home alone. Before 9 p.m. On a Saturday night.

It’s becoming a trend. And I don’t really care. Sometimes I worry that I probably should care, because I’m in the prime of my life with my biological clock tick-ticking away. Blah, blah, blah.

But then . . . I just don’t.

In my defense—my house is the fucking bomb, and there’s no place else I’d rather be. It’s a completely adorable one-bedroom cottage, next to the lake with ivy up the south wall and these arched doorways and built-in shelves, with a stone fireplace that’s straight out of a storybook. It’s like living in Snow White’s cottage without the burden of the seven dwarfs. I got a pretty decent rate on the mortgage, all things considered, and in twenty-nine short years, this baby will be all mine.

And though I live alone, “lonely” is not in my nature.

I set my wineglass on the kitchen table next to my laptop, pull up the FaceTime app with the tap of a few buttons, and the beautiful faces of two of my closest college friends—Aubrey Stewart and Presley Cabot—appear.

I was only at Boyer University for my first year before I had to go back home to Delaware when my mom got sick. I transferred to a local community college and ended up going into nursing—but the months I spent tucked away in Port Hudson, New York, were some of the best of my adolescence.

I was a member of Ladies Who Write—a sisterhood of girls, like a sorority, who loved writing. After college, Presley, Aubrey, and Libby Warren formed LWW Enterprises, a multimedia corporation based out of Port Hudson. We’ve all stayed in touch—our friendship strong.

Aubrey’s hazel eyes scan over the navy-sweatpants, gray T-shirt-wearing, braless wonder that is me.

“Why are you home so early?”

I shrug, sipping my crisp, very alcoholic beverage. “It was a bust. There was no chemistry.”

Presley glances at her wrist. “You were out with . . . what was his name?

Brad, Chad?” “Evan.”

“Close enough. You were out with Evan for barely two hours. That’s not enough time to tell if there’s chemistry.”

“It was for us. He felt it too. He didn’t even ask if I wanted coffee or dessert. It was the main course and wam-bam-check-please.”

Her eyes narrow perceptively.

“You told him the twisted ball story, didn’t you?” “Not again, Violet,” Aubrey groans.

“It’s a good story!”

“We talked about this.” Presley’s thick dark hair sways on her shoulder as she reprimands me like the big sister I always wish I had. “You’re self-

sabotaging. Pushing these guys away before they get a chance to know you and using swollen testicles to do it.”

“Discussing a patient’s scrotum splitting open is not first date material!” Aubrey adds.

Nolan, Presley’s boyfriend gets up from the couch behind them.

“And on that note, I’m going to see what’s taking Knox so long in the kitchen.”

From off-screen, Knox’s voice calls out, “Babe, not the nut story again.”

Aubrey calls back, “That’s what I said! See,” she tells me, “even Knox nixed the nut story, and that man isn’t shy about anything.”

“He asked me about interesting cases!” I defend myself. “And Connor said he’d never—”

“And there it is.” Presley points at the screen. “There’s your real problem.

Connor Daniel-itis strikes again. You’ve had it for months. Years.”

I moved to Lakeside two years ago for a full-time emergency department nursing position at Lakeside Memorial. Except for those few months at Boyer, it was the first time I’d lived outside Delaware. I didn’t know anyone. Didn’t know anything about the town—not where the grocery store was or which gas station had the lowest prices or if the local pizza parlor had thin crust or regular.

My first day at the hospital wasn’t easy. Everything seemed too bright, too cold—different and uncomfortable.

And ED nurses aren’t exactly known for being a sunshiny welcoming group.

I mean, they get there eventually—the friendships, the camaraderie—and when they do, there’s no one else on earth you’d want having your back. But it takes time. Because you need to show that you have what it takes to do the job, that you can be depended on. And the truth is, most of the time nurses are just too damn busy taking care of our patients to put in the extra effort to be nice.

By the end of my first shift, a bitchy doubting voice in my head was telling me I’d made a terrible mistake. That I should scurry back to my hometown like a mouse to its hole. Because that was the safe option, the easy option.

And I almost believed her . . . until I turned around.

And ran smack into a wide, firm chest that would rival Superman’s.

Every version of him.

I bounced back and would’ve fallen on my ass—but he caught me. Gripping my arms with big, strong hands in a hold that was firm but perfectly gentle at the same time.

He looked down at me with velvety dark-brown eyes and asked if I was okay.

And then Connor Daniels smiled at me.

He has an amazing smile. Warm and easygoing, sure and steady—just the right amount of cocky—and more sexy than should be allowed.

His smile is like sunlight—it makes you feel better, lighter, just because it’s aimed at you. The kind of smile that lets you believe everything is okay, or it will be, because he can make it that way.

And it’s like I imprinted on him or something.

Because ever since that moment, Lakeside has felt like home.

And I’ve been hopelessly crushing on Connor Daniels—moronically so. “Connor Daniel-itis?” I ask Presley. “Did you just make that one up all by

yourself?”

She sticks her tongue out. “I am nothing if not creative. Have you told him you want in his scrubs yet?’

“No.”

“Have you told him that you like him?” Aubrey asks. “That you find him attractive? Asked him out for coffee after work like a grown-up?”

My throat tightens at the thought.

“Of course not! What if he said yes? I’d probably end up spilling hot coffee on his crotch and then he’d need skin grafts. I turn into a total klutz around him—a danger to myself and others.”

It’s humiliating. Normally I’m quite graceful—or at least functionally coordinated. But the second Connor is in my orbit outside of a work-related interaction, my limbs and brain go haywire . . . everything short-circuits.

Case in point:

“Speaking of Connor, I ran into him and his brothers in the ShopRite parking lot today.”

“Really?” Presley asks, her eyes wide and intrigued.

“Really. He said hello in that deep, perfect voice and I . . . proceeded to crash my cart, fall on my face, and scatter my groceries all over the parking lot like confetti at a ticker-tape parade.”

“Oh no.” Aubrey flinches.

“Oh yes.” I nod. “They helped me pick everything up, which was nice.

Connor touched my tampons—grabbed the box out from under old Mrs. Jenkinsons’s car and handed it to me.”

Presley presses her fingers to her forehead. “Yikes.”

I don’t tell them the box in question is currently sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. Or that I’m going to save it the way some people save concert tickets or corsages . . . because even among friends, that detail is one crazy- bridge too far.

“I guess a small part of me is hoping that now that he knows I menstruate, he might actually realize I’m alive. That the janitorial staff doesn’t plug me in at night to charge my battery in a storage closet in the hospital basement.”

Despite Connor’s friendliness today, he’s never shown any actual interest in me as a person. A female. A young, healthy, hot-blooded woman who would jump on him like a pogo stick.

To him, I’m a nurse, a coworker, an asset that’s effective at my job who helps him do his job.

Like . . . the ultrasound machine.

I take another drink—two big gulps, right down the hatch.

“And on top of that, your blind date was a bust.” Aubrey says gently. “No wonder you’re happy to just veg out with us and a glass of wine.”

I lift the long-stemmed glass and gaze at the sunny-colored liquid. “You’ll never let me down, will you?”

“Yeah, that’s healthy,” Presley remarks.

Then her voice brightens. “You should write a poem about it. Were you going to write a poem about it?”

Presley is head of publishing at LWW—literature in any form is never far from her mind.

And I write poetry. Not good poetry or the kind that should ever be seen by human eyeballs. It’s just for my own enjoyment and sanity, and the amusement of my closest friends.

“About the date with Evan? Probably.”

“Oooh—write it now.” Aubrey claps her hands. “I want to hear it, and you’re fun when you freestyle.”

Why not? I clear my throat. “Okay . . . here goes:

There once was a boy named Evan Who learned a valuable lesson.

If you have a weak stomach few things are worse Than going to dinner with an ED nurse

And asking about the cases she’s assisted in

The ED nurse learned something too

When hoping for a night of romance and woo Don’t go out with a boy no matter how tall

’Cause it takes a real man to hear the words twisted balls And still want the date to continue

Now poor Evan’s alone And the nurse is at home Drinking her wine

With her friends on FaceTime And writing this terrible poem.”

I take a bow in my chair. “I’m going to call that one ‘The Story of My Life.’”

Aubrey and Presley laugh as they applaud, making me feel giggly and good as I refill my glass.

Who needs men when you’ve got friends and FaceTime and copious amounts of wine?

Not this girl—no way, no how. Although . . . penises are really nice.

Right on cue, a particular penis immediately comes to mind—on the epic day the owner of said appendage forgot to pack an extra pair of compression shorts to wear beneath his scrubs after his morning run to the hospital. How the outline of it pressed against the thin green fabric, slightly to the left, thick and long even at rest, with a heavy handsome shape.

It was a thing of beauty. The Chris Hemsworth of penises. I wrote a poem about it.

Because it was perfect—just like the rest of him. Maybe that’s why I turn into an idiot whenever Connor is around. It’s hard to be close to someone you admire so much and not feel small and silly and intimidated. At least it’s hard for me.

“You have to let me publish you one day!” Presley begs. “You could write a book of poetry for all the single ladies. It would be hilarious.”

“Yep, that’s me.” I smile. “Funny all day without even trying.”