“It’ll work. They’d be crazy not to want you on our staff. We’ve still got twelve days to show them that. Try not to worry. We’re going to make this happen.”
“You make me believe it.”
“You can believe it. We’re doing everything we can and then some.”
He shifts the car into gear and follows my directions. “I’d be losing my shit without you helping me. Thank you. I truly mean it.”
“I’m enjoying it. All of it.”
“Don’t talk about ‘all of it’ until later when we can do something about it.”
“Do something about what?” I ask with pretend nonchalance.
The look he gives me is nothing short of incendiary. It scorches every inch of me and leaves me with no doubt whatsoever of what’ll happen the next time we’re alone together.
A twinge of apprehension works its way through me. What if I’ve forgotten how? What if I panic at the last minute or—
His hand covers mine, infusing me with his warmth. “Stop fretting. Nothing will happen between us unless or until you want it to. You’re the boss in every way.”
I melt into the leather seat, moved nearly to tears by his insightful comment. He gets it. He really gets it. Other men I’ve dated didn’t have the first inkling of what it’s like to suffer a loss like mine. They tried to be sensitive, but most of them were ham-handed clods when it came to navigating the emotional minefield that comes with dating a widow.
In the online support group of widows I belong to, people post stories about their dating disasters and some of the hilarity that ensues. Every so often, someone will post about their first significant relationship after the big loss.
Will Jason be that for me? Or will this be a passing fling, something to do until we both move on to more permanent relationships? I honestly have no idea, and that’s okay. Either way, it’s what I want right now. He’s what I want, and wanting him feels pretty damned good. In fact, it’s safe to say I feel better than I have in years.
We pull onto the street where the clinic is located, and the first thing I see is the crowd gathered outside. “Holy shit.” I glance at Jason, who’s taking it all in but doesn’t seem rattled by the size of the line. “If it’s too much . . .”
“It’s fine. I like being busy.”
We park behind the clinic and go in through the back door. Inside, we meet up with Maria.
“This is like when One Direction came to town,” she says with a teasing smile for Jason.
“I don’t know about that,” he replies, seeming embarrassed.
“Well, to us, you’re One Direction, Biebs and TaySwift all wrapped into one very welcome package. We haven’t had a doctor here in two very long weeks.”
“I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“We’ve set you up in here.” She leads the way to a cramped exam room where a crisp white coat has been placed on the exam table. Maria shows him where everything is and hands him a prescription pad. “Can you think of anything else you might need?”
“Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, we’re going to open the doors, then.”
“I have release forms for anyone who wouldn’t mind being photographed with Dr. Northrup.” I hand the stack I printed at home to Maria. “If anyone is interested in sharing a story about their visit with me, I’d love to talk to them.”
“I’ll mention that as they come in. Here we go!”
CHAPTER 15
CARMEN
The day becomes a flurry of insane activity from then on. Jason sees fifteen patients in two hours. Most of them pose for photos with him, and three share their stories with me. Jason diagnoses one child with a severe case of strep throat, another with scarlet fever and a third with conjunctivitis.
The stressed-out mother of the three children told me how much it meant to her to be able to see such a highly qualified doctor for free and to receive much-needed medication. Another patient, a diabetic seventy-five-year-old man, received a referral to a wound clinic for an ulcer on his foot that refuses to heal.
Maria and two of the other women who work as admins translate for patients who don’t speak English.
At one o’clock, my parents arrive with trays of sandwiches and bottles of cold water for the staff and the patients who’re still lined up in the midday heat.
Dad comes over to kiss my forehead.
I lean into him. “You’re the best, Daddy.”
“Anything for you, honey. The whole neighborhood is buzzing about your doctor and what he’s doing here.”
“It’s been a crazy morning. The people just keep coming.”
“They’re so thankful for the opportunity. Mrs. Lopez has had the worst time with gout, and the first appointment she could get with her doctor is in three months. Do you know how painful gout is?”
“I’ve heard.”
“She came into the restaurant earlier singing his praises—and yours. We need more doctors like your Jason willing to give their time to help those with less access. It’s a very good thing he’s doing here.”
I don’t bother to correct him. He’s not my Jason. But I agree it’s a very good thing he’s doing. Everyone who leaves the exam room comes out smiling, many of them clutching prescription slips.
After my parents leave to go back to the restaurant, I down a few bites of sandwich between taking photos, interviewing patients and posting stories to Instagram. The reaction to the stories is all positive, but I take the time to make sure there aren’t any trolls weighing in on the posts.
So far, so good.
At two, my phone rings with a call from Desiree. “We’re on for a feature story on tonight’s eleven o’clock news. I’m on my way with a crew.”
“Thank you so much, Desiree. I appreciate this.”
“It’s a great story. I’m happy to get the chance to tell it. See you soon.”
I wave Maria over. “Desiree is coming with a film crew. How do we manage the line and consent?”
“Let’s go outside, tell them what’s happening and get the forms signed before Desiree arrives.”
We spend thirty minutes in the broiling sun, explaining the form in English and Spanish and asking for permission for the prospective patients to be filmed by the TV crew. Most of them are excited by the idea of being on TV. A few volunteer to be interviewed, and I make note of who they are.
I’m giddy with excitement about what a great opportunity it is for Jason to have this interview. I can only hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces. If they focus more on the scandal in New York than they do on what he’s doing here in Miami . . . That can’t happen. With all the people at the clinic prepared to attest to how thankful they are for the time he’s giving them, that should be the point of the story.
I’m wilting in the heat when the NBC 6 truck arrives. I recognize Desiree from TV and from meeting her at a party I went to with Maria several years ago. She seems to remember me, too. In full makeup, with every one of her shiny dark hairs in place, Desiree extends a manicured hand to me. “It’s so nice to see you again, Carmen.”
“You as well. Thank you so much for coming.”