38. Just the Tip

38

Just the Tip

Brighton

Friday, June 9 th

6:21 p.m.

"Is that from your boyfriend?" Tara reaches for the napkin in my hand. "Can I see it?"

I crumple it in my palm and hold it out of her reach as she bounces on her toes to grab it. "Stop it. Are you in middle school?"

Her bottom lip juts out. "I was just curious, gah."

"Sorry." I bite my tongue. Her lack of awareness is an obvious reason to keep my distance. I'm not trying to be harsh, but I've never been one to err on the side of caution regarding other people's feelings. But I have been working on it. "I didn't mean that."

"What's it say?" Her smile returns, and she leaps at me, dragging me in for a side hug. I guess all is forgiven.

I unfold the napkin I pulled free from under my wiper, peeking at it as I keep it out of her view so I can read it before she does.

In all my chaos, I'm thankful I found you.

There's a heart, a dash, and a D.

A flush of heat creeps up my neck.

Tara rubs her hands together. "Come on, let me see. It's not every day a girl finds a love note on her truck."

It's none of her business, and I have no inclination to explain to her that Dax is not my boyfriend. And no, the heart does not mean anything. However, there's a brief flutter in my stomach that wants to share my excitement at finding his note. The sensation gets the better of me, and I hold out the napkin for her to take.

As soon as it's in her hands, I regret it. I don't have the answers to questions I'm sure she will ask. And I don't know how to explain why Dax left a note on my windshield.

"How do you think he got past security?" I'm taken off guard by her question, not expecting her mind to go there.

"I'm not sure," I answer, now curious how Dax got into the parking garage.

She folds the napkin in half and offers it back to me. "Not that it matters, but I think it's sweet."

Now that she hasn't questioned who D is and why there's a heart, I'm slightly offended. I don't get the chance to talk about my love life, or lack thereof, with other women on a regular basis. Or ever. I want to explain that we're only acquaintances, and the heart is there because . . . why is the heart there? I open the napkin, re-reading the words.

Chaos.

Found you.

His words are sweet and completely unexpected.

"You gonna see him tonight?" Tara's voice stops me from re-reading the napkin for the third time as she walks around the back of the truck and pulls open the passenger door.

I stuff the note in the front pocket of my scrubs and hesitate as she gets in. My eyes dart to where Carrie's truck is supposed to be—the lack of her presence in her usual parking spot. I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head, trying to get my mind off what happened.

I open my side and climb in. "That wasn't the plan." Not that there is a plan, but his unexpected note makes my heart do a cartwheel. Allowing Dax to blur the line was the last thing I expected the other night, but being with him got the best of me, and I wasn't thinking straight.

"I think he thinks it should be." She fidgets with the vent. "Do you always drive in? I would, but, like I said, we have one car right now, which is a big pain in the ass. Dom says it helps save gas, though."

She continues to ramble. I pull out of the parking garage, headed home, and nod when appropriate, listening as she speaks.

In the thirty-plus minutes it takes to get across town, I have learned Dom is her brother, not her boyfriend or husband, as I initially thought. He's a pharmaceutical rep and is always out of town. She's off the next two days and hints at needing a ride next week but doesn't ask outright. Kline took her out for drinks a couple of times, and she's unsure if she should let it happen again.

"Why did you go out for drinks with Kline?" Concern creeps up my spine. Why's he going through the girls like candy? With the spotlight on him, he should know better than to give HR any more ammo.

"It's not a big deal. He wanted to welcome me to the hospital. And we're keeping each other company." She turns a cherry color as she averts her gaze to the window. I have the urge to mother her, tell her what a bad idea it is to date someone she works with—her boss, nonetheless—and how she should protect herself since she's not the only one he seems to be dating. Her time with him makes sense now, and what Margo said clicks into place.

"I don't think you should mix business with pleasure."

She avoids eye contact. "We're friends."

"Does he know that?"

We stop at a light and sit in silence. I'm trying to determine what's attracting them to him but come up short. Yeah, I guess he errs on the side of handsome. He's a little quirky and insanely intelligent, but I still don't see the appeal. Maybe it has to do with how deep his pockets go. But he won't have much to offer after Margo's done with him.

"Thanks for the concern, but I can handle him." She sits straighter, pulls her shoulders back, and puckers her lips as if I've offended her.

"Right. Didn't mean to overstep bounds."

"No biggie. Have you ever tried to get transferred?"

We pass Memorial Sloan, our sister hospital, and head north. Somehow, I lost track of our conversation and try to keep the confusion off my face. She points at it as we drive by. I go to answer, but she continues her thought process, and I forget what I was going to say.

"I tried, but they didn't need a radiologist on staff there. Mount Sinai is nothing like the hospital I was at in Jersey. It's great, don't get me wrong." She tugs at the end of her braid. "Just not what I was looking for."

She continues letting me in on her entire life story, when she'll get to see her sister's kids, how she hates going home for holidays, and why she wants to take up running but decided against it since there was the murder at the park.

I almost suggest we run together, but stop, knowing I like solitude. Plus, it's my only way to relax, and if she talked this much while we were running, it would cause more anxiety than anything else. The more time I spend with Tara, the more tempting it is to add her to the bodies they've been finding.

"That's me, up ahead." She points to a brownstone a block north of me on the opposite side of the street. "Number five-oh-three."

I pull to the curb, and she smiles. "Thanks, Dr. Fields. I appreciate it."

"Don't let it become a habit," I joke, but regret it as her face falls. "I'm kidding. Call me Brighton."

She smiles. "Enjoy your weekend. Say ‘hi' to the boyfriend."

I wince as the door slams. I doubt I'll be talking to Dax tonight—whether or not she thinks he's my boyfriend— a friendly letter doesn't always lead to more, even if I want it to.

She struggles with the lock because the lamppost near her has a burned-out bulb, but waves as she enters. I wait until she's inside before I pull away from the curb.

Am I supposed to comment on the note? Do I shoot Dax a quick text letting him know I got it? Is that too much? Or do I leave it alone? I shove my hand into my pocket, finding the napkin and reassuring myself it's still there.

He's lucky he found me . Does this have anything to do with Liam, or is he referring to himself? And the heart. Who leaves a heart? I wouldn't leave a heart on a napkin. Hell, I'm not brave enough to leave a napkin.

I flip a U in the street, park at the curb in front of my place, and kill the engine. I drop my forehead to the steering wheel and pull the note from my pocket. And re-read it. I don't know what to do. I don't want to give Dax the wrong idea, especially after what happened the other night. The last thing I need to do is let things get more confusing than they already are, but I feel like I'm supposed to say something.

Do I say thanks? Yeah, because thanks seems appropriate for this. Come on, B, pull your head out of your ass. I stare down the street, finding Tara's front door much closer than I realized.

I pull my phone from my purse and type out a text. I'm thankful you found me too. Too forward? That could be taken wrong. I delete it. Thanks for letting me add to the chaos. I read it. Am I adding to the chaos? This is harder than I figured it would be. Why'd he have to go and make this weird? We could have let things work themselves out, but now we have this note—a love note, according to Tara—and not a lot of an explanation.

My chest squeezes tight. I'm one hundred and ten percent positive. Dax meant nothing by the note other than that he is thankful I'm in his life so I can do everything in my power to help Liam. And if Dax and I become friends, it's a little added incentive. We can just ignore what happened between us the other night.

Why am I so indecisive? Texting a response shouldn't be this hard. I'm glad to help in any way I can. It's honest. It's to the point.

But that kiss.

I shouldn't have let things get that far. But I don't regret it. Dax wants to do better by Liam, and I'm not helping his case. But two grown adults, outside of work . . . nope, can't happen. I need to make sure he understands we are not an option. For now.

I re-read what I typed. It's the exact opposite of what I want to say. As I go to send the G-rated version of my thoughts, my phone vibrates.

The shock of seeing Dax's stunned face on my screen makes me freeze. The photo I snapped of him at the park doesn't do him justice. I can't believe he's calling, taking things one more step in the wrong direction. But are we passed that? Is it too late to pretend like nothing happened?

I should answer it. But my brain and fingers aren't communicating. When I convince myself to slide my finger across the screen, the call goes to voicemail and a shock of relief courses through me. I need to get myself under control before I talk to him.

My phone vibrates, startling me out of my momentary relief.

Dax: Call me when you get a chance

My heart skips a beat. Please don't vibrate again. Please. I'm aware I'm begging an inanimate object, but I can't find it in me to stop.

The phone stays silent.

I grab my purse from the floorboard and throw open the truck door. Something about being inside my house feels like a way to escape the inevitability of having to talk to him.

I fumble my keys as the phone vibrates with a call again. Gah, he's pushy. I swipe my finger across the screen. "Hello."

"Hey."

I drop the keys. "Shit."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes—no." It's not his fault I'm wound up and high on adrenaline. I scoop the keys off the stoop. "I am trying to . . ." I drop the keys. Again. " Fuck ."

"Sounds like I should call you back."

"No, just—hold on a sec." I cradle the phone between my cheek and shoulder, grab the keys off the landing, and direct them into the lock. Once I open the door and drape my purse over the railing, I try to center myself. It's no use. My brain screams at me: he's on the other line!

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

"Where were we?" I try to sound unfazed. But the glaring question is, do I succeed?

He chuckles. "I lost my train of thought."

Do I mention the napkin now? Or go about as if it didn't happen? For all he knows, I didn't get it. Maybe it blew off in a gust of wind or someone else took it.

Wind in a parking garage? Seriously, B?

My mouth betrays me. "What does the napkin mean?" I want to take it back, force the words down my throat, but it's too late, and I'm too screwed.

"That's not why I was calling, but since you mentioned it, I was thinking of you and wanted to let you know you were on my mind."

That's not where I figured he was going with this. I'm glad he was thinking of me. I'm somewhat flattered and don't know how to respond.

"How'd you get in the garage?"

"The elevator. Why?"

That makes sense. I can't remember seeing security checking people into the garage when they leave the hospital, only when they come in.

"Was the note too much too soon?" he asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

"Not at all." I grin, wishing he could see me, and I hope he can hear it in my voice. I stuff my hand into my pocket for the napkin I intend to put in my nightstand to pull out whenever I need a reminder that not every day is shit.

My panic rises as my hand gropes around, finding nothing. I look inside the pocket, although there's no way my hand could have missed it, and silently freak out. I grab my purse and rifle inside, coming out empty-handed.

"You have plans tonight?"

"Not right this minute."

"But you have plans?"

"No." I grab my keys and hit unlock, watching the lights flash on my truck through the floor-to-ceiling windows next to my front door. Racing outside, I yank the driver's door open, and my heart stops hammering against my ribcage. The napkin sits in the cup holder, and I pull it to my chest like a security blanket.

"You just said you did."

"I meant I was busy going for a—never mind."

"I'm confused. You are, or you aren't busy tonight?"

I push the lock button and return to the house. "I'm going for a run at the park, and then I'm going to take a shower." As soon as the words tumble from my lips, Jessie's heart-shaped face and sweet smile pop into my head.

"And then . . ."

"I don't have any other plans." I force thoughts of her from my mind and reevaluate my need for a run. Maybe going to the park isn't a good idea, but I need a way to relax from the chaos of the day. It's not smart. But I can't live my life in hiding. I'll be fine.

"Mind if I swing by? I can bring Yogi's."

This is turning into more than I bargained for. Fast. I push the thought to the farthest regions of my brain. We can discuss whatever is going on between us later. I got into this mess and don't know how to get out. It's not that I want to get out of it, but it can only go one of two ways—a complete disaster or one of the best decisions of my life. Either way, all I can hope for is that it doesn't ruin how things are going for Liam.

Run—an hour.

Shower—fifteen minutes.

Drive time from Dax's apartment to mine—twenty-seven minutes—give or take, depending on traffic. I shouldn't know this, but Google and midnight Chardonnay have a mind of their own.

I'll need a little less than two hours.

I grab a glass from my cabinet and fill it with ice and water from the fridge as I lean against the counter.

"Brighton?"

"I'm thinking."

He's silent.

"What about nine? I could meet you." The idea of him in my house again unravels my nerves. We need to stick to public places until I can get a hold of whatever is happening.

"Or I could pick you up." His nonchalant tone causes me to pause.

Maybe I'm reading into his note more than I should be. I figured he would insist on meeting again at some point, but I wasn't ready for it this soon. I just thought he would wait until Liam finished treatment. "Um, how about we meet at the Drunken Munkey?"

"Isn't that sorta like a date place?"

"They have cocktails. Is that what you mean?"

He chuckles. "I didn't know you wanted to get me alone."

I choke on my water, spitting and sputtering as I devise a suitable response.

"You okay?"

"You have to stop trying to drown me in my drinks."

"How was I supposed to know you were gonna choke?"

"Good point." I set the glass on the counter and head upstairs to change into running shorts and a tank. The timer is ticking, and I'm already late.

"I'm full of good points. Are we starting from where we left off?"

"For what?" His hands roaming over my body, and the way his plump lower lip felt between my teeth instantly fly to the forefront of my mind. The way his soaked shirt clung to his chest. How he tasted like mint. My hands in his hair—

"Points . . ."

"That doesn't count." Get your mind out of the gutter, B.

"Why not?"

I glare at my phone and consider the consequences of hanging up on him. "Fine, point. We're not starting over."

"I'll pick you up at eight-thirty."

"Wait, I said—"

He hangs up.

"Nine."

Shit.