Page 44 of My Best Friend's Dad

This day didn’t go as planned, just like the failed tacos and the rainstorm, but it was a good day. It was more than a good day. It was all the good, the sad, the scary, the painful, the brave, the hard, and then the soft.

“This can’t be the last time I see you because I have to pay back that loan,” I blurt as we hear footsteps coming from inside.

Rowleigh’s smile is small and secret, a little bit wry and a whole lot amused. “Yeah,” he says again, that one word meaning everything and anything. And the one thing it does mean?

This isn’t it. This isn’t the end.

Even if he’s canceling his wedding, and he knows the truth, we’re not nearly done with each other.

Chapter eleven

Bellatrix

“Gah, what the hell is that?”

From above her white surgical mask, Mom glowers at me. “Don’t say hell. It’s vulgar.”

This coming from an ER doctor who probably hears at least eighty seven point six two curses per minute. If not from the staff then the patients. No one likes hospitals. No one. Add injury to fear and dislike, and it’s a recipe for cursing.

What’s vulgar is that my mom is in her scrubs, and besides the mask, she’s wearing nitrile gloves.

“Why do you look like you’re scrubbed in for brain surgery?” I’m so nasally that I can barely understand myself.

My head is booming, my body is aching all over, and my throat feels like it has been lacerated by a spiny fish that swam into my mouth by mistake and left its spines behind, from my tongue to my belly. I’ve been sleeping like garbage for the past few nights. Everyone at work is sick, and they gave me this cold straightfrom the bowels of the fiery inferno itself—Mom’s right abouthell, as there are many more satisfying words.

Anyway, they gave me the cold right before they fired me.

Without severance.

Three days ago, I was called into my boss’ office. She wanted to know why Rowleigh canceled his wedding contract. He was fine with not getting his deposit back for the work already done, but she told me that he was a big client. A. Big. Client. If he weren’t happy with us, it would no doubt spread, so it was better to cull the weak links before anyone else could think about canceling.

In shock, I asked if he had said he wasn’t happy with our services. My boss had to admit that no, he said he was very happy, but there was going to be no wedding, so no wedding planner was required. I’d demanded to know how that was my fault then or how there was any fault at all. None of my other clients had ever given me anything but glowing reviews over the past few years.

I didn’t get a straight answer until I was packing up my office right after that meeting and trying not to burst into tears that would humiliate me worse than my boss had. My coworker, Amanda, snuck into my office to tell me that she was sorry I was leaving. She’d said there were rumors about cutbacks, and the last ones in were the first ones out. Brittany and Charlene, women who were hired right after me, were also getting laid off.

I understand that sometimes, shit happens. Business is business.

But covering it up by lying and firing me when I did nothing wrong? That’s a good way to get sued. Except I have no money for a lawyer. And there’s probably something in the stupid hiring contract we signed stating we could be fired at any time for no reason. Companies always cover their asses.

I thought I actually worked for a good one.

My heart goes out to all the others who lost their jobs and to the ones who have to stay, knowing they could be next. It’s not a great feeling to pour your heart and soul into something you could be terminated from at any time.

I’m curled up on the couch and covered with a handmade quilt that was a gift from my parents one Christmas. I also have a trashcan beside me to throw used tissues in. The plundered tissue box sits on the coffee table, along with the remote, a stack of books, and several mugs of discarded tea. Two plates have toast scraps on them, and there’s a sleeve of saltines open. Despite my sore throat, it was the only thing I could bring myself to eat on day one of this cold. Boxes of sinus medication and a bottle of cough syrup with three dirty spoons balance near the edge of the table, where there’s free space.

Mom wrinkles her nose. “This place is a mess.”

It’s not. Other than the coffee table, it’s spotless. As per usual.

I get vertical and wrap the blanket around myself like a cloak. Holding the edges up to my face, I cough a wet, rattling cough into it before grabbing a tissue and blowing my nose. Twice.

Mom visibly shudders.

How on earth does she see blood, barf, broken bones, and contagious crap on a daily basis? I’ve never been to the hospital my mom works at. I’ve only ever had to go to minor clinics and my family doctor. I always thought her bedside manner would be brusque but efficient, but I’m not so sure about that now.

Why become a doctor if you can’t stand sick people?

When I was little, it was my dad who took time off when I got sick, not my mom. There was maybe one time that she was the one to look after me when I had the flu because my dad had this crazy big case he was working on, and he was in court that week. Even if he’d been hit by a bus or ten buses, there was no way he could bail on that.