c8

He led her into the elevator. "Where are we going?" she asked.
He grabbed her to him, covered her mouth in a searing kiss that took her breath away and said, "Surprise." He pulled her out of the elevator and down the hall to a hotel room, where he slipped a plastic key card into the lock on the door.
"You got a room?" she asked, floored.
"A room with a hot tub," he said, grinning.
When he opened the door to a beautiful, large room with a huge bed, she stood in shocked wonder for a second. To her shame, her first thought was that she'd wanted something like this forever. If Joe had done something similar, even once a year since they'd been married, she might've been able to get through the rest. But this attractive, clean-smelling, sexy man was not Joe, and she wasn't supposed to be here. "I just wanted to dance a little," she said quietly.
In two seconds he had her lying down on the bed and was working at getting his hands under her shirt, his mouth all over her. For a moment, she thought about it. Once, she thought. I could do this once, just to see if there's a live woman under all this anger….
He pressed himself on top of her—making sure she knew he was erect and ready—while kissing her, fondling her. It had been years, but she hadn't forgotten an inch of him. "I'm still in love with you, baby," he whispered against her lips.
"No," she said. "No, you're not…."
"I never got over you. And I don't think you ever got over me, either. I think we're meant to be together."
"Maybe," she said breathlessly. But no one knew better than Marty how much it hurt when someone cheated on you. It had happened to her with this guy a dozen times and it was like a knife. She went into her marriage swearing to herself it would never come to that with her; if her husband ever became not enough, she'd at least end one relationship before starting a new one.
"I can't do this, Ryan," she said. "I can't. I won't cheat on my husband…"
"Oh, you will. You're almost there…."
"No," she said and pushed at him, pushed him off. Tears instantly came to her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. She choked on a sob. "I shouldn't have called you, it was a mistake…."
"What the hell?"
She got up and adjusted her clothing. Tears ran down her cheeks. "I'll make it up to you," she said. "I swear, I'll make this right. But not tonight. I have to clean up the mess at home. Then…"
"What mess? You're going home to clean house?"
She laughed and cried at the same time, looking at his stunned face as he struggled to sit up on the bed. "In a way," she said. "Thanks, Ryan. You helped me figure out what I have to do. And when I'm free and clear, I'll call you. I don't think it's going to take that long."
"Aw, Jesus," he said, running a hand down to his crotch, giving the poor unloved thing a sympathetic rub. "You're kidding me, right? You're not serious."
"They won't charge you for the room," she said, grabbing her purse off the chair. "Just tell them you decided to go home and didn't use it."
She got out of the room fast, before she could change her mind. Thinking he might follow her and try to persuade her, she took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and she took them fast. She got across the lobby at a near jog, then to her car before hearing him, seeing him. She started the car and left the parking lot.
Then she cried. Oh, God, she thought. I never thought I'd even consider that!
Her tears were dry by the time she got home, replaced with a sense of duty. Purpose. She wasn't going to have that life she almost stepped into—with a husband and child at home and a lover on the side. Oh, she hoped to have a lover—and a glimpse of something promising, maybe—but not until she'd taken care of business.
The house was dark when she let herself in. He'd left on the light over the stove for her. She crept into the bedroom and looked down at him, asleep in their bed. No shower, no shave. Poor Joe, she thought briefly; he could have changed everything by cleaning up for her return. But he didn't want to change anything.
She went into the master bath and gathered up her things—makeup, hair dryer, fluff and buff essentials. She took them all to the bathroom down the hall and went to the guest room, took off her clothes and crawled in the bed. Sleep didn't come easy; she tossed and turned and every once in a while a sob escaped her.
She got up in the morning and showered, getting ready for work. When she came out of the shower, he was standing there, frowning. "When did you get home?" he asked unhappily.
"About eleven-thirty," she said.
"And didn't sleep in our bed?"
"That's right," she said, wrapping the towel around her. "I'm done sleeping in that bed with you. I'm done camping, watching football, going to sports bars, cleaning up after you and getting sick from the smell of your unwashed body. I've had it and I'm through."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked angrily.
"And I'm also done talking about it," she said. "I hoped that if I kept talking, eventually you'd hear me, but it's useless. You're deaf. You're hopeless." She turned on the hair dryer, drowning him out, and concentrated on her hair.
 
Julie went with Billy to the doctor, signed the paperwork for the vasectomy and then to the credit counselor. He was a tall, skinny guy with a very sympathetic smile, warm eyes, and she was comfortable with him right away, but she didn't want to be doing this. She had an epiphany—people avoided getting this kind of assistance because the cure felt worse than the disease. Going over every detail of your private financial life was more invasive and embarrassing than putting your feet in the stirrups.
He had a list of his own he used to compare to theirs, to be sure they hadn't omitted anything. "Haircuts?" he asked. "Beauty shop?"
"I cut Billy's hair," she said. "And the kids'. And my own."
"Hmm," he said, checking it off. "What about entertainment? The occasional night out? Pizza? Movie?"
"No," she said. "The only thing we ever do is get together with family or friends. We potluck—everyone chips in. We might pick up a bottle of cheap wine and a twelve-pack of beer—fifteen bucks, tops. I included it in with groceries. It doesn't happen often."
"This is a very low clothing budget," he said.
"I get kids' clothes on sale or sometimes at the thrift shop. I hardly ever buy anything for myself unless it's a pair of shorts or jeans at Costco, and Billy wears a uniform or old jeans to the shop. That's about six days a week, so he's gotten by real cheap."
"Vet?"
"Hardly ever. Tessie is durable, thank God."
"Got the phone and Internet down about as low as you can go. Good that you have that—we're going to talk about that. But the co-pay at the pharmacy and pediatrician is kind of high…."
"I figured on the high side—three kids. One gets something, they all get it. And I figured out a prescription co-pay is sometimes cheaper than over-the-counter stuff."
"Gifts? Birthdays? Anniversaries? Special occasions?"
"We don't do a lot of that," she said. And she felt instant, biting sadness. Her brother and sister-in-law, mom, dad and best friends were given things like cheap stationery when no one wrote letters anymore, bath stuff on sale, a fancy candle, coasters, junk. She and Billy had been exchanging crap the Goodwill might reject for years. She didn't even have an engagement ring. "We've been strapped so long, no one expects too much." But the families and girlfriends hadn't cut back on them. They always received very nice if not lavish presents. And they spoiled the kids a little, knowing their parents wouldn't. Couldn't.
"Okay, Julie, let's go through some of the things you might've lumped into that grocery budget. You have an idea, offhand?"
"Sure. I'll try. The occasional gift, something to take to a family or friends' gatherings—chicken, salad, a bottle of Two Buck Chuck…"
"Two Buck Chuck?"
She smiled. "That's right—Billy told me, you're a Mormon. Charles Shaw wine—two dollars a bottle. It's very good, actually. You don't really have to spend a lot. And maybe some beer—not imported or anything, just cheap stuff. Snacks or Gatorade for Jeffy's school or sports teams. Gifts for the kids to take to birthday parties for friends. Cards. Makeup—very little. Postage. And Billy insisted I figure in McDonald's for the kids twice a month, but we've been getting by fine without that so far. And we don't eat it. It's just Happy Meals for the kids."
"Are these utility bills correct?" he asked.
"Cold in the winter, hot in the summer," she said helplessly.
He put down his pencil. "You've got it cut down to the bone."
"Yeah, but I guess it wasn't enough."
"We don't know that yet," he said. "Now that I know what you can afford to pay on your debts, I can make a proposal to creditors. I always say this—don't get your hopes up. Sometimes they hold out to see if you're really going to do it—file. And sometimes they have policies that prevent them from meeting us halfway. But I can't really approach them until I know for sure what you can commit to."
"What can we commit to?"
"Do you mind if I do some figuring and juggling of my own before nailing that down? I mean, if I get close and have maybe one creditor hold out, do I understand you want to try to avoid bankruptcy?"
She scooted forward in her chair and turned her desperate eyes on him. "I want my husband back. He was never afraid or depressed before this." She reached for Billy's hand and held it, but focused on John. "We've been in this deep for a long time, but he was always positive. I want my husband back—I don't care about the money. I'll eat sand for the rest of my life. Do you understand that?"
He smiled kindly. "Of course I do," he said. "I have a family of my own. I know exactly how you feel."
"Yeah, but have you ever been in a mess like this?" she asked.
"Like this? No, we've been lucky that way. I'm afraid our challenges have been other things—not so much this stuff because I do this for a living." He gave a weak smile. "We have a special-needs child. He takes a lot of energy and worries us sometimes, but we somehow manage. So listen, try not to panic. Even in the worst case, you're going to survive this. You're both young and healthy, Billy has a couple of good jobs, you have a solid house in good repair. Those cars—I hope there's a mechanic in the family. That could be your only issue."
"I'm sorry about your son," she said. "I hope you get the help you need. Our blessings have come with the kids—they're perfect. That's why I— Never mind. If we got down to one car, I could drive Billy to and from jobs…. And those jobs—I don't know if you noticed, he puts in an awful lot of hours. A lot of days he gets home after I'm asleep and leaves before I wake up. And his work isn't easy—he has to put a lot of muscle in it. He has to be sharp. I'd like him to have more time to rest."
"I'll absolutely keep that in mind. Who knows—I could need a paramedic someday. I want him to be healthy, well fed, well rested…."
"She worries too much," Billy said. "I get good food and sleep in plenty of snatches at the firehouse. I'm fine."
"I'll do what I can to see if we can't get you a little more time with your kids. Would that be all right?" he asked.
Billy held Julie's hand, squeezed it, bounced it on his thigh a couple of times. "That would be all right. You bet. But remember, I'll do whatever I have to do."

Cassie was dressing out to leave the emergency room, thinking about seeing Walt. She had suggested they get together at her house, maybe order a pizza and watch a movie. If they were on the couch in front of the TV, she thought they might get to do some kissing again. It had only been a week since their weekend ride and while she'd worried about it a lot—the fact that it wasn't really going anywhere—she couldn't deny that the thought of kissing him all night long was appealing.
This was a good man, and she kept that in mind. She intended to be very careful with his feelings. She wouldn't let it go any further and…risk hurting him.
"Hey, Cassie," one of the other nurses said, entering the locker room.
"Hey, Jen. Long day, huh?"
"Whew, tough one. So…how's your friend?"
"Which friend?" she asked, pulling off her scrubs top and pitching it in the laundry basket.
"The one who just had surgery—the OB you've known forever?"
Cassie was frozen in place. Standing in her bra and scrub pants, she turned a startled expression toward Jen. "Surgery?"
"Uh-oh," Jen said, turning away.
Cassie went straight for her, grabbed her arm and turned her sharply back.
"What surgery?"
"Listen, I guess if you don't know—"
Cassie had an attack of panic and desperation. She shook Jen's arm. "What surgery?"
"I'm not exactly sure," she said with a helpless shrug. "Ow."
"Tell me what you do know!" she said, letting go of the arm.
"I took that emergency C-section we had up to O.R. and they were wheeling her out of recovery. Jesus," she said, rubbing her arm.
Cassie went on automatic. She grabbed her scrub top out of the hamper and put it back on, clipped on her badge, closed her locker and went to Admissions, looking like the nurse she was, ID badge and all. "Hi," she said pleasantly. "Where do you have Beth Halsley? Dr. Halsley?"
The woman clicked through her computer register and looked up. "Medical surgical wing—6-A."
"Thanks. Have a good evening." Then she went up to the floor. She went right behind the nurses' station and flipped through the computerized files. When the team leader came back to the station after some rounds, Cassie smiled at her. "How you doing?" she asked.
"Great, thanks. Can I help you find anything?"
"No, thanks. I sent a patient up for surgery and wanted to check on her before going home, that's all."
"How are things in E.R.?" she asked.
"Nuts, as always," she answered, locating the file. "I'm getting out of here before it gets worse." She read up to the operative report. Radical mastectomy. Holy Mother of God! Then she recovered herself. "I should be out of here in just a little while."
"Good plan," she replied. "I won't be out of here till Letterman's over."
Cassie clicked off the page, stunned. Stricken. She was in a total state of disbelief. She had no clue about this—and it couldn't have been a sudden decision. Even in the scariest cases, surgeons didn't whack off a breast overnight. She tried to think if Beth had mentioned anything. But no, it would have stuck in her mind like duct tape. They'd gone almost five years since the cancer.
She had to gather herself up before going into the room. She had to consider that Beth was right now a post-surgical patient, perhaps not in any condition to respond. Perhaps in pain, not to mention grief.
She began to walk down the hall, but before she got to the room she paused, pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called Walt. His phone was turned off and she was directed to voice mail. He must have his hands plunged deep in a carburetor or something. "Hi, it's me," she said, knowing her voice was stressed. "I'm afraid I have to cancel tonight. I had a problem come up at work. An emergency, with lots of complications. I'll try to call you later and explain if I can get free. Sorry," she finished, hanging up. Then she turned off the phone.
She paused in the hall outside Beth's room—a private room. Hospital staff tended to take good care of their own. She took a few deep breaths, tried to compose herself, then went in on silent feet. There she was, her arm Ace-wrapped close against her, bandages up over her shoulder, an IV tube dangling into the free arm. Oh, God, she thought. This can't be real.
Beth was asleep. And alone. So, Cassie wasn't the only one who had no idea this was happening. Her parents were right here in town; they'd be here with her if they knew. They'd probably be pacing, whimpering and keeping her awake, but they'd be here. Cassie remembered how they were the last time. Just plain not good at this sort of thing—helpless and frightened without the first idea how to be supportive.
Cassie sat in the chair by the bed and, after thinking for just minutes, she realized Beth had kept this a deliberate secret. Yet she was in her own hospital, the very same in which Cassie worked. Even so, the odds were still good in her favor of keeping it to herself; nurses didn't prowl around floors they didn't work, checking out the patients, and it was a huge hospital. And if the surgery had gone well, she'd be discharged in a couple of days. And then what would she say if they wanted to get together? That she was on call—she'd been saying that for a long time.