“That’s sweet.”
“Buncha Crunch,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow. “What?”
“We prescribed them Buncha Crunch, Nerds, and all my favorite types of candies. He was a sweet man. I can’t just let go of this place. He’d want someone to take care of it.”
“You could find a few doctors who’ll do a good job,” he suggests.
“I need to at least try before I go looking for my replacement. Did you find a plastic kit with colorful band-aids?”
He grins and walks me to one of the offices, opening the door and showing me a plastic container with stuffies and all the things Grampa had for me. “Are you looking for your equipment, Doc?”
I grab it and hug it. Tears sting the back of my eyes. So many memories resurface at that moment. He’s the only person in my family who understood me and loved me when I was a child. Mom and Dad treated me like an adult. Having the box in my hands transports me to those days when I’d come to visit with my parents, and I could be a kid.
“I can’t believe he didn’t throw this away.”
I sit down on the floor and open the box. Geoffrey the Gorilla still has the bandage from when he broke his arm. Alf the Alligator has a bandage on his head and an eyepatch. I can’t recall what happened to him. The stories Grampa and I used to make up while we played were amazing. I wish he were here, telling me what to do with the practice. Maybe even my life. The stethoscope is at the bottom, and next to it, there’s a letter.
The envelope is yellowish, but the writing is unmistakable. It reads Natie. I clear the tear escaping from the corner of my eye. Slowly, so I don’t damage the paper, I open it, unfold it, and read what might be the last words of my grandfather.
Natie,
Have I ever told you that you’re a little miracle?
I know there were many jokes surrounding your birth. Don’t listen to any of that. You’re in this world for a very important reason. You’re here to make the world a better place.
For me, you weren’t an oopsie baby. You were a light of hope. I enjoyed visiting you in New York as often as it was possible. I adored when you came to town, and I got to watch you. The people in town used to call you Dr. Natie.
I don’t have much time left. My options are to sell the practice to my partner and leave the money to you or leave you my half of this place. The town needs someone new to take care of them, and I think you’re the perfect candidate. I trust that you’ll do what’s best for everyone.
I hope you’re happy and living your life to the fullest. If not, start now. It’s never too late. I’ll be with you, always. You might not see me, but I’ll be by your side.
Love you,
Grampa Al
I’m sobbing. This letter. His words. His faith in me. They consume my heart and give this trip a new meaning. He always believed in me. What can I do for this town? I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out one way or another.
Fisher squats, handing me a tissue. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Do you happen to have a time machine?”
He smirks. “My scientists are working on it, but it’s hard to know when it’ll be ready for testing.”
I laugh.
He sighs with relief the same way a member of the SWAT team would’ve done after defusing a bomb. “Eat your breakfast. If you need anything, I'm next door.”
“Thank you.”
He salutes me and leaves.
I think I found his weakness.
Tears.
Chapter Ten
Nathalie
Luna Harbor week two.
This feels like a never-ending nightmare. Sometimes I wonder if I’m stuck in some kind of time loop where every night there’s loud music playing.
This is torture.
I jolt when the entire building shakes. I want to burn the drum set. No, I should surgically insert those drumsticks inside whoever is playing them.
Why can’t they be quiet?
This is my second week in this forsaken town and things are worse than they were in New York. I can barely sleep. I discovered that we don’t have a nurse on staff—nor a receptionist. I haven’t had a patient since I reopened the place. Not. A. One. I’ve had time to watch YouTube videos to relearn how to use those old instruments that Dr. Westbrook loved so much that he couldn’t replace them. I even learned some of the patients’ names and their prognoses.
I wish Dr. Westbrook had disclosed the most important thing about his practice: he doesn’t have any patients. No wonder he wanted to leave. I’d starve if it weren’t for the most hateable man in town feeding me every single day. Okay, I don’t hate him, but maybe if I try to convince myself that I do, I won’t fall madly in love with him.
He’s handsome. I might want to lick every inch of his perfectly sculpted body. Plus, he’s caring and nice with everyone around him. That’s what really gets my heart rate into overdrive. I bet he kisses babies, and all the animals love him.
But falling for him…well, that’d be the most stupid thing I could do in my life. Even worse than demolishing a hotel room.
Nights like tonight I want to quit—or murder Fisher Hannigan. He plays with someone every night. This is it. If the sheriff won’t do anything, I’ll do it and call it self-defense. I put on a pair of sweats, my hoodie, and head downstairs. I might as well take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. I do that first and when I come out I only hear the piano. It’s soft, yet intense. The melody carries a tone of nostalgia and sadness. Maybe even despair.
I walk closer and see him. The contrast between the music and the man is poles apart. Night and Day. Hot and Cold. Fisher and Softness. But what if he’s just as soft on the inside and he avoids showing it to everyone around him?
This man can’t be the same Fisher Hannigan who, just twelve hours ago, was playing with water balloons with his friends.
Since his eyes are closed, I study him. The soft movements of his head follow the melody. His shirtless torso is covered with tattoos.
I want to get closer and look at them and touch them.
Touch him.
I don’t.
He’s like a god playing for us mortals. I stare in awe. I’ve heard him play before. Who hasn’t? But maybe no one but his friends and girlfriends have heard him play like this. Without his band and without several keyboards surrounding him.
The way his fingers move across the piano as if the instrument is an extension of himself, his soul. It’s like he’s trying to let out all the emotions he tucks in the darkness of his heart while playing a sad melody. I can almost see his soul being set free. Flying. The laughter doesn’t release all the pain he has within him. It’s the music. This might not only be his outlet but a way to feel alive.
Ever since I met him, I’ve been trying to pretend that he’s just another man. I focused on him being the most childish, annoying, hot barista in the history of coffee shops. I didn’t focus on him being famous and talented. But he is, and I wonder why he’s here in a small town wasting his talent.
I like what he’s playing and even though I want to stay and listen to him forever, I don’t. I go back to my bed and hope that he continues all night long.