Who am I?
What have I become?
If I had died, what would my obituary have said? How many lies would have been written to make me sound not horrible?
Who would have come to my funeral?
Holy fuck. I don’t want this life.
I frantically flip on my light, not caring that at some point it became the middle of the night. I have no clue when Kelly left, or when I dozed off. All I know is that if I don’t get all of these thoughts out of my head right now, I’m going to explode.
I reach for a notebook and pen on my tray and begin jotting down every random thought that comes through my head. Everything from notes about new techniques for knee surgeries to a reminder to brush up one more time on divorce laws in Virginia.
“What the fuck?” Boomer says, sleep thick in his voice. “Dude. It’s four a.m. Even the nurses know to leave us alone at this time of the night.”
“Sorry, man. I couldn’t sleep.”
Boomer pulls the curtain back to find me furiously scribbling on a notepad. If he could have looked over my shoulder at that point he would have seen me writing the words, “Try to not be an asshole human.”
“Are you writing your will? Oh shit, are you dying? If so, I think you should give me something. I am your brofriend, after all. Didn’t you say you had a BMW? I could take that for you. I’ll take real good care of her.”
I ignore his comment, because at that moment I get an idea about ligament replacements. I scribble it down, not wanting to forget it. I’m on a fucking roll.
“Garrett. Seriously. You’re freaking me out. What in the hell are you writing?”
I stop at his words, looking back at the scribble on the pages. All ten sheets of them. Front and back.
“All the ways I’m going to change medicine. And how I’m going to get a divorce,” I say matter-of-factly.
He nods, pulling the curtain back. “Great. Can you do it without the light on? Oh, and if you’re changing medicine and all, can you get me a new heart? Thanks, brofriend.”
Chapter Twelve
Paige
There is something different in the air on a race day, especially a charity run on a crisp January day. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but there is a sense of excitement. Even as a volunteer, I can feel it. A feeling that accomplishments and goals are going to happen today.
Maybe it’s the whole “new year, new you” mentality everyone has as we just turned the calendar? Maybe it’s the runners who are anticipating the high they get from running three-point-one miles? Not that I would know. I’m not exactly what you would call a runner. Well, at least, not in that sense.
I tried running once. A runner I met while volunteering kept talking about the feeling she got after completing a run. She said that I should give it a try. That it would be like nothing I’ve ever experienced. That the high will be one I start to crave on a daily basis.
It’s better than sex, she said.
You should try it, she said.
I tried. I made it a quarter of a mile, my shins started to hurt and I wanted a donut. I also felt bad for her because she was obviously having really terrible sex. Not that I know what good sex is like, but if that is what she was comparing it to, then I’m good to never have it again.
After realizing that I was destined for a life as a volunteer and not a runner, I’ve made sure to help out at as many races as I can. I can think of a lot worse ways to spend a Saturday morning.
Plus, the volunteers get donuts. And don’t have to run.
“Oh, Paige, thank God you are here,” Christina, the event coordinator, says as I’m mid-bite of my cream-filled morning treat. By the tone of her voice, I know she’s about to tell me the latest crisis of race day. Christina isn’t usually dramatic, but when it comes to race day, everything is a five-alarm fire.
“Is everything OK?” I ask after swallowing. Dang, this is a good donut.
“Oh, you know how it is. College kids sign up for volunteer hours, then get too drunk the night before and call off the morning of the race. So we’re short-handed. It’s awful. What are we going to do?”
I sigh, making my way to the registration table. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
“It’s fine. I can run two sections of registration. Is there anyone to grab their swag bags? That’s usually where I get held up at. And you know runners get crabby when they don’t get their free T-shirt.”
“It’s the only reason we sign up. Don’t mess with runners and their free T-shirts,” a deep, familiar voice says from behind me. I look at Christina, who is currently trying to pick her jaw up from the ground. That’s when I know that the voice belongs to Garrett Dixon.
I turn to face him and am almost startled by his appearance. I don’t know how it happens, but the man seems to get more attractive every time I see him.
The first night I blamed it on the shock of meeting him. In no way, shape, or form was I expecting to see someone as physically attractive as him at a kindergarten Christmas program.
The second time at the hospital he might have been in a weakened state, but talking to him and learning about the man on the inside added a level of attraction that I hated myself for feeling. I had to repeatedly tell myself that he was married and that I don’t date even the non-married ones about a thousand times on my drive home that night. Though that didn’t stop me from picking up the Christmas card and American flag for him. Or talking for hours with him the next day.
But today? I don’t know if it’s the early morning sun that is lighting up his face, or the smile that I can tell is completely genuine, but this version of Garrett might be the sexiest I’ve ever met.
And he’s married.
And way too old for you.
And Cullen’s uncle.
And you don’t date.
Mind out of the gutter, Paige!
I give my head a shake, hopefully getting my bearings back before I speak. “Is that why you’re here? The free T-shirt? Or maybe it’s to run a few bad lines to a new crowd?”
He gives me a smile that does funny things to my insides. “Do volunteers get free T-shirts? Because if so, then yes. I was hoping I could volunteer my services today.”
“Yes! Yes, they do!” Christina shouts as she grabs his arm, dragging him to where I’ll be registering runners. “You can get a T-shirt. And we have donuts. And whatever else you would like!”
I laugh at her reaction. Honestly, I can’t blame her. Garrett Dixon makes me do, and feel, weird things too.
“Since you seem to know Paige, you can help her. Registration is starting in a few minutes, so just do whatever she needs you to do. I’ll go get your shirt. Extra-large, right? You seem like an extra-large. Oh my, that didn’t come out right at all. But extra-large, right? I’ll be back. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
She gives Garrett a big hug before running away to find him an extra-large shirt. And hopefully a sedative for herself.
“I’ve never seen her like that,” I say, taking my seat and organizing the sheets as I prepare for the runners to check in.
“What can I say? I have an effect on the ladies.”