How Much I Feel Page 7

  The scorching south Florida sunshine quickly makes it necessary for me to turn on the car and the AC, but I sit there for a long time, staring out the window, trying to make sense of everything that's happened over the last twenty-four hours.

  When I arrived for my first day at my new job, this time yesterday, I was still blissfully unaware that Dr. Jason Northrup was about to upset my well-ordered existence in every possible way. While driving a Porsche and my two trips to jail would've been banner headlines at any other time in my life, the fact that I felt a genuine connection to a man for the first time in five long years is a truly remarkable development.

  I’ve often wondered if it would happen again, if I would meet someone who made me feel something. But until yesterday morning, it hadn’t happened, despite enthusiastic efforts by everyone who loves me to find me someone new to love. They fixed me up on more blind dates than any girl should be forced to endure in a lifetime, and I made a genuine effort to connect with each of them, only to be disappointed time and again.

  After having had the real thing, I know the difference between something and nothing. How many times have I said just that to my family, friends and even customers at the restaurant who’ve become invested in the quest to find Carmen a new man?

  My Abuela told me a year or so ago that all the foolishness and fixups are really about making sure I'm ready when the right one comes along. I hadn't thought about it that way before she said that, and those words come back to me now, proving once again how wise Abuela is.

  She, too, was widowed young, although she was almost twenty years older than me when it happened to her. My grandfather died of a massive heart attack at forty-two. Abuela was forty then with three young children still at home and a broken heart that never healed.

  "I don't want you to end up like me, mi amor," she'd said when I'd complained to her that I was getting tired of all the first dates. "I refused even to consider another man after my sweet Jorge died. Now, I'm growing old alone, and I wish I'd taken another chance on love."

  "You're never alone, Abuela."

  "I'm thankful for you and our family all the time. But I don't have to tell you that the love of a beautiful family and friends isn't the same as the love you felt for Tony or that I felt for Jorge. It's just not the same."

  No, it isn't the same. Nothing is ever the same after you lose the person you love the most. For a long time after Tony died, I wondered if I would survive the loss. The first year was a haze of grief and numbness and nonstop events honoring him and his ultimate sacrifice.

  Through it all, my goal had been to keep breathing, keep putting one foot in front of the other, to cope with grief so deep and pervasive, I feared it might suffocate me. But it hadn't. To my astonishment, I'd survived losing him and had to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. That's when I'd ended up in an undergrad program that later led to a master's in communications.

  Thinking about that time, right after we lost Tony so suddenly, can still bring tears to my eyes, even after five years. I've learned that you never really get "used to" being without the one you love. But you do learn to live without him, as preposterous as that seems at the beginning. My love for Tony is as present to me today as it was the day he died. It's as much a part of me as the heart that's beat only for him since I was fourteen.

  I grip the steering wheel, caught in the web of grief once again as I acknowledge that yesterday, for the first time, I felt something for a man who isn't Tony. The emotions are complex—confusion, relief, despair, sadness.

  Part of me never wanted to move on from him, even if I always knew it would happen eventually. Of course, it probably shouldn't happen with a colleague, but it's comforting to know I still can be attracted to a man.

  In widow circles, they talk about "Chapter 2," which is when a widow finds new love. I've read many stories of how people move on to their next love while honoring the one they lost and have admired the courage it takes to risk everything once again—especially knowing what can happen. I haven't considered whether I would ever have a Chapter 2 or if I even wanted that.

  I snap out of my thoughts sometime later to find that I'm still gripping the steering wheel as I process a fresh wave of the grief and confusion that were my constant companions for so long after that dreadful first day. Not only was I heartbroken for myself and his family, but I was devastated for him. At twenty-four, he'd walked into a convenience store, probably to buy gum or Gatorade, and had the rest of his life stolen from him in a random act of violence.

  We found out later that the man who'd shot him had scuffled with police in the past. Investigators believed the shooting had nothing to do with Tony and everything to do with the uniform he wore. After two years of court appearances and a trial that had reopened the healing wound, the man was convicted of murdering a police officer and sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole.

  That had been another surreal moment in this never-ending journey, and while we were thankful to see justice done, it was a fresh reminder that nothing would bring Tony back.

  My phone rings, and I take the call from Jason. "Hi."

  "Hey. Everything okay?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "You sound weird."

  "I only said hi."

  "You sound weird."

  It astounds me that with one word, he can tell I'm not okay. "I'm, uh."

  "Do you need me to come to get you?"

  "No, I don't need you to come to get me."

  "Why do you sound weird? Did something happen?"

  "I'll tell you when I see you."

  "Okay," he says hesitantly. "I called to tell you I talked to the insurance company and bought the rider I needed, so I'm good to go if the clinic approves our plan."

  "That's great news. I pitched it to my cousin, who works there, and I'm waiting to hear back."

  "Since Mr. Augustino assigned you to me, you can help me look at a couple of condos while we wait to hear from your cousin, right?"

  I'm not sure that spending any more time with him than necessary to do the job is a good idea, but my boss told me to work with him. "Sure, we can do that. Where should we meet?"

  "Come by my hotel?" He gives me an address I recognize as Hialeah. "We can park your car, and I'll drive."

  I'm afraid to go anywhere near the car that landed me—twice—in jail, but I don't tell him that. Maybe I can talk him into letting me drive. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  "Great, see you then. And Carmen?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thanks for all you're doing to help me out."

  "Just working off my debt."

  He laughs. "I appreciate it."

  "No problem." The sound of his laughter gives me goosebumps. Everything about this man is a problem to me, but I have a job to do, and as long as I stay focused on that, I can keep this situation under control.

  At least, I hope so.

  JASON

  I wait for Carmen in the car outside the main door to my hotel. I'm excited to see her again, which is baffling. Three weeks ago, I had my heart crushed by a conniving, manipulating woman who shamelessly used me to advance her agenda. I have no business being attracted to or looking forward to seeing any woman, let alone a coworker.

  While my medical colleagues dated each other like crazy, I stayed away from those complications, even though it's difficult to meet anyone who isn't somehow related to work due to the hours we keep.

  Hospitals are full of interpersonal drama, even if we're discouraged from dating colleagues. Doctors and nurses dating each other is almost a cliché, frowned upon but actively happening, although I've never known of people having sex in the on-call rooms or storerooms like they do on TV. That's not to say it doesn't happen, but I haven't been aware of it.

  Since med school, dating and sex and all the nonsense that goes with it had been an afterthought for me, mainly consisting of one-night hookups that never went beyond first names and simple attraction until I met Ginger. Weeks aft
er the disaster, I can't think of her without seething. I've gone beyond the heartbroken stage and am settling into the furious part of the program now.

  I've had ample examples in my life of the many ways people can suck, but until she had her wicked way with me, I had no idea how painful it could be to have someone screw with my head, heart and body. She took full advantage of me while she had me in her clutches. We hooked up at least three times a week for months, most of the time at my place in the city, which I now realize was strategic on her part. Until that fateful night on Long Island when her husband caught us, which had been her plan all along.

  Why am I still thinking about her and what she did to me? Why can't I just forget about her and move on? Because I loved her. I hate that, but it's true. I fell for her. I hadn't planned to let that happen. At first, it'd been about the sex, which had been incredible, and later, it'd become about so much more than that. I could talk to her, and she listened. I'd had a complex case at work that'd consumed me for months, a child with a brain tumor that had resisted all conventional treatment. When I lost that child after a hail-Mary surgery failed, I'd been despondent.

  Ginger had come to my place that night after I'd told her I wasn't up for getting together. She held me when I sobbed from the frustration and despair I'd felt after not being able to save that little boy's life. She hadn't asked me for anything and had given me everything.

  How could she do that, knowing our entire relationship was nothing more than a scam? Had she ever cared about me at all, or had she only pretended to care so I'd stick around long enough to get caught? I hate that I still wonder if she ever actually gave a shit about me or if the whole thing was nothing more than a big game to her.

  I want to stop thinking about her. I want to stop reliving every minute I spent with her and picking it apart, looking for clues that simply weren't there. Or if they were, I never saw them. All I saw was a witty, beautiful, smart, sexy woman who'd briefly made me a believer in true love and fairy tales.

  Such bullshit. All of it, which is why I shouldn't be looking forward to seeing Carmen Giordino or any woman. I don't have the bandwidth for anything other than salvaging the career that is my life. Nothing else but getting that back on track matters, and I need to remember my ultimate goal here.

  Carmen arrives a few minutes later, driving an old Honda sedan. I wave to her and point to the free parking area.

  A few minutes later, she makes her way toward me. Today she's wearing a black suit with a floral print silk blouse. Her hair is long, curly and sexy as all hell. She dazzles me.

  Didn't you just have a talk with yourself about why you can't be dazzled by Carmen or anyone else?

  I did just have that conversation with myself for all the good it did me. She's beautiful and vibrant and smart as hell. Her story about losing her young husband so tragically moved me last night. I thought about it long after we parted company, wondering what it might've been like for her to become a widow at twenty-four.

  It's horrible even to imagine, way worse than what Ginger did to me. That's nothing compared to what Carmen endured.

  She gets into the passenger seat, bringing an alluring scent with her that has the attention of every part of me, despite my determination to steer clear of anything to do with romantic entanglements.

  Don't forget, my inner voice reminds me, she's only helping you because she owes you money and her boss told her to, not because she wants to.

  It's a good reminder that this, whatever this is with her, needs to remain strictly professional.

  She puts her seatbelt on. "Where to?"

  "I'm meeting a Realtor in South Beach."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her frowning.

  "What?"

  "I didn't take you for a cliché."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "South Beach? Really?" Every word drips with disdain.

  "I asked around. People said that's where the action is."

  "If you're twenty-five and looking to party, sure. Do you have any idea what the commute from South Beach to Kendall would be like on an average workday?"

  "Uh, not really."

  She shrugged. "If you want to spend hours bumper to bumper each way, it's your life to waste."

  "I usually go to work crazy early and come home super late. I rarely hit rush hour."

  "I'm telling you. You don't want to live there."

  "And you know me well enough to say that?"

  "I do."

  I laugh, delighted by her even if I don't want to be. "Where do you think I should live?"

  "You should check out Brickell. It's a great part of town, closer to the hospital and not a total zoo like South Beach."

  "I'll ask my Realtor to look there, too, but I can't cancel on her now."

  "Then let's go to South Beach, but don't tell me I didn't warn you."

  "Duly noted."

  It takes two seconds after our arrival for me to realize she's one thousand percent right about South Beach—and the traffic. Even on a Tuesday, it's hopping. I can't imagine what the weekends must be like. The bars are doing land-office business, and the beach area is bustling with people, cars, bikes and joggers. Zoo is an excellent word to describe it.

  In a past life, I would've loved to live here, but not now. When I'm not working, I need a place where I can decompress and relax. That can't happen here.

  The condo is in a high rise with an incredible ocean view and great amenities. But on the ninth floor, I can hear the street noise, even with the doors and windows closed.

  Deb, the Realtor, is peppy and enthusiastic and probably already calculating her commission on the nine-hundred-thousand-dollar condo that's all glass and hard edges and modern features. I hate to disappoint her. "I'm not feeling this place."

  "Oh, thank God," Carmen says, breath leaving her in a whoosh of relief.

  "You hate it."

  "I hate it."

  Deb is offended but keeps that to herself.

  "What've you got in Brickell?" I ask Deb.

  "Oh, well, I'd have to look and see what's available."

  "I think that'd be better for me. It's closer to work."

  "Give me a minute to check the listings."

  After Deb steps into the kitchen to work on her phone, Carmen shoots me a smug smile that I find ridiculously adorable—and funny. I love that she's not afraid to tell me how she feels. That's a refreshing change from women I've known in the past who would say what they thought I'd want to hear rather than sharing a genuine opinion. I dated one woman in college who never seemed to have an original thought the entire time we were together. She was all about pleasing me, and while that has its advantages, it got boring after a while.

  I have a feeling I'd never be bored with Carmen, not that I'd date her. I'm just saying she's unique. And so, so pretty in a natural, unaffected way that appeals to me. She doesn't need layers of makeup to enhance what comes naturally to her.

  Why am I thinking about how pretty Carmen is or whether or not she needs makeup? I need to find a place to live—if I end up with a job here—and focus on restoring my reputation. Once again, I need the reminder that this is not the time to be noticing how pretty Carmen is.

  "I've got quite a few in your price range, one with excellent views of the Rickenbacher and Biscayne Bay," Deb says from the kitchen where she's scrolling on an iPad.

  Carmen gives me a thumbs up.

  So I won't be at the beach. That's fine. I'd hardly ever have time to take advantage of the proximity anyway. "Sounds good."

  "Let me check in with some of the listing agents and see what I can do."

  Chapter 8

  JASON

  After she walks away, I glance at Carmen. "I'm probably jinxing myself even looking at places. The board is a long way from approving me."

  "They'll approve you. We'll make sure of it."

  "You're far more confident than I am."

  "We have to make it so they'd look stupid to say no to you
."

  "And how do you propose we do that?"

  "Where are we with the testimonials from former patients? I thought we could use them to tell your story on Instagram. If there're photos of you with the patients, that's even better."

  I forgot I was supposed to ask my former assistant in New York about that. "I have a few former patients who might be willing."

  "Do you have their contact info?"

  "I don't, but I know someone I could ask who could reach out on my behalf."

  "Can you do that?"

  "Yep." I fire off a text to Terri, the nurse administrator who's the glue that holds the neurosurgery department together and tell her what I need. I list a few of the patients I'm thinking of who might be grateful enough to share their stories of working with me. I saved their lives. Perhaps they can help save my career. "Done." I glance at Carmen. "This is an excellent idea and one I never would've thought of on my own."

  "That's because your job is brain surgery. Mine is publicity, promotion and marketing."

  I laugh at the cocky way she says that. "Touché."

  "Stay in your lane, Doc. I gotcha covered on the rest."

  I'm so thankful to have her on my side. She gives me hope that it might be possible to repair my tattered reputation.

  "We have to tell your story as a world-class physician. You're far more than one measly scandal."

  "The scandal wasn't measly."

  "No, but it's yesterday's news. I did a deep dive online last night, and there's been no mention of it anywhere in more than ten days. While it's the biggest thing in your life, everyone else has moved on. Well, except for the Miami-Dade board, that is. But by the time we finish with them, they'll be so inundated with the positive they won't remember the measly little scandal in New York. That's the plan, anyway."

  "I like that plan."

  "I figured you would."

  "When did you have time last night to do a deep dive online between dinner and your second trip to jail?"

  She grimaces at the mention of jail. "I did it before we went to dinner, but I didn't mention it because I was still formulating my plan of attack."