Jake

jake

I n the span of five days, took ten different SoulSync matches for coffee, drinks, lunch, and dinner. The young women were approximately his age—all shapes and sizes from different walks of life. Out of the ten, only one sparked his interest, but when he kissed her goodnight, there was no chemistry. Most copped an attitude, as though they had something to prove, but his last date refused to even sit at the table with him when they met for Sunday brunch.

“I don’t date men with beards,” she explained, her lip curling in distaste.

Irritation crawled across his skin. “You saw my profile pictures. You knew I had a beard when you agreed to the date.”

“I guess I should’ve paid closer attention. Sorry,” she said, flipping her blonde mane over one shoulder.

“I trust you can find your way out,” said, lifting the menu to shield his face. He sneaked peeks over the top until she left the restaurant, then moved to the bar, where he felt less like a loser eating alone.

’s first dating experiences were not a total loss. While he failed to discover what type of girl he was looking for, he learned a lot about what to avoid. Gum-chewers, nail-biters, and tequila drinkers. Women who wore too much makeup, high-heeled shoes they couldn’t walk in, and strong perfume that made his eyes water.

Despite being annoyed with his SoulSync match, he ordered the Sunday brunch special and enjoyed it immensely—sweet potato hash with fried eggs and a hot buttered rum cider. He was leaving the restaurant when he spotted a men’s hair salon across the street. On a whim, he went inside and added his name to the waitlist. He avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror as the stylist cut off four inches of his hair, shaped it into a crew cut, and shaved off his beard.

When he exited the salon an hour later, he felt more like himself than he had since college. That night, he unsubscribed from the SoulSync app. Online shopping for a girlfriend was not for him.

Shortly after noon on Monday, was updating patient files on his computer at the nurse’s station when muffled whimpers interrupted his thoughts. Crying children were not unusual on the pediatrics floor, but something about the desperation in the soft murmurs unsettled him. Following the sound across the hall, he entered the darkened room of an eight-year-old asthmatic child recovering from pneumonia.

“What’s wrong, buddy? Are you in pain?”

Henry shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I want my mom.”

“Where is she? Is she in the hospital? I can have her paged for you,” said as he checked Henry’s vitals with practiced ease.

Henry rubbed his eyes with his balled fists. “She’s at work. She’s not coming back until tonight.”

frowned. “What about your dad? Would you like me to call him?”

Henry hesitated, his small voice barely audible. “I don’t have a dad. I mean, I do. But he lives far away with his other family.”

’s heart ached for the boy. He, too, had grown up in a single-parent household with a mother who worked long hours. His gaze landed on the untouched lunch tray. “Why didn’t you eat your lunch? A growing boy like you must be hungry.”

Henry shivered and wrinkled his nose. “It tastes gross.”

chuckled. “Hospital food can sometimes be gross.” He glanced at the door, then leaned closer to the boy. “Would you like some ice cream? The nurses keep a secret stash for special patients like you.”

Henry’s face lit up. “Really? Ice cream would be great!”

pressed a finger to his lips. “But you have to promise not to tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret.”

The boy drew an X over his chest. “I promise. Cross my heart.”

“What flavor would you like? We usually have vanilla, chocolate, and cookie dough.”

Henry wiped his eyes with his pajama sleeve. “Cookie dough, please.”

smiled. “That’s my favorite too. One cookie dough ice cream coming right up. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared from the room.

After retrieving the ice cream from the break room, stopped by the nurse’s station to inform his coworkers that he was taking his lunch break.

Returning to Henry’s room, he handed him the ice cream and pulled a chair closer to the bed. “Tell me about your mom. What kind of job does she have?”

“She’s a lawyer,” Henry said, sinking his spoon into the ice cream.

whistled appreciatively. “A lawyer. Good for her. Makes sense that she would work a lot. I bet she makes it up to you on the weekends.”

Henry bobbed his head. “Yep! We do all kinds of cool stuff. We go to the park, hang out with friends, and run errands. And we watch a lot of football,” he said, shoveling more ice cream into his mouth.

leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Cool! I like football too. What’s your favorite team?”

“I have a lot of favorites.” As he finished his ice cream, Henry launched into a detailed account of his favorite college and pro football teams, the best players, and their stats. “My fantasy team is really good this year. Some of my players are headed to the Super Bowl.”

“That’s awesome, buddy. Maybe you can give me some pointers next year.” checked his phone for the time. “I have a few minutes before my break ends. Would you like to go down the hall to the activity center? We have an impressive library of video games. A word of caution, though—I’m an expert at Mario Kart.”

“I bet I can beat you,” Henry said, tossing back the bedcovers.

jumped to his feet. “Easy there, pal. Let me hook you up to portable oxygen before you go running off down the hall.”

Forty-five minutes later, after Henry had thoroughly trounced him at Mario Kart, wheeled the tired boy back to his room and tucked him into bed.

“Try to get some sleep, little bro. You need your rest in order to get better. Maybe your mom will be here when you wake up.”

The boy was smiling when he left the room, but when checked on him before leaving the hospital that evening, Henry was crying again.

dropped his backpack in a chair and approached the bed. “What’s wrong? Still no word from your mom?”

He was shocked when Henry flashed an iPhone. He didn’t know many eight-year-olds with cell phones.

“Mom texted me. She was supposed to be here at six. That was an hour ago. As usual, she’s running late.”

mussed the kid’s hair. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

“I doubt it,” Henry said, dropping the phone into his lap.

“Is she often late?” asked, his tone laced with sympathy.

“She’s always late,” Henry sobbed.

“What’s going on in here?” came a female voice from behind him.

spun toward the doorway, his jaw dropping at the sight of the frazzled-looking woman. Her professional gray suit was rumpled, and wisps of honey-blonde hair had escaped her severe bun. She was strikingly beautiful, despite her pale complexion and dark circles shadowing her eyes.

“You must be Henry’s mom,” he said.

She nodded. “I’m Eleanor Clark. Who are you?”

“ Morgan. I’m a pediatric nurse on the floor.”

Concern darkened her expression. “A nurse? Is there a problem with my son’s health?”

“He’s recovering nicely, physically.” smiled over his shoulder at Henry. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to talk to your mom in the hall for a minute.”

Henry nodded, sniffling. “Okay.”

grabbed his backpack and stepped out into the hallway with Eleanor.

“You’re scaring me. What’s wrong with my son?” Eleanor asked, fear reflected in her crystal blue eyes.

“I’m worried about his emotional well-being,” said. “He’s been crying for you off and on all day. This is a hospital, Miss Clark. I wouldn’t leave my grandmother here to fend for herself, let alone an eight-year-old child.”

Eleanor frowned. “But you’re a nurse here. Why would you say that?”

“Because I am a nurse here, I understand how hectic things can get,” said, his tone firm but measured. “But we’re not a babysitting service. We don’t have the resources to provide white-glove treatment to every patient.”

“I had no choice,” Eleanor replied in a clipped tone. “I’ve been in court all day. I couldn’t postpone my case.”

tightened his jaw, fighting to keep his frustration in check. “Your son is in the hospital with pneumonia. I’m sure the judge would understand.”

“The judge might have, but my client is on trial for first-degree murder. I couldn’t ask her to delay. Thanks for looking out for my son today. I won’t burden you with his care any longer,” Eleanor said before marching back into her son’s room.

felt like a jerk as he left the hospital. He had no right to judge Eleanor’s actions when he knew nothing about her circumstances.

Later that evening, was getting ready for bed with the television on in the background when a story on the eleven o’clock news caught his attention.

“In a stunning conclusion to a high-profile trial, the jury has acquitted Ruth Anne Bromley, a prominent figure in local society, of first-degree murder charges. The verdict came after an impassioned and meticulously crafted defense by esteemed criminal attorney Eleanor Clark, who successfully argued that Bromley acted in self-defense.

“The case captivated the community, shedding light on a troubling history of abuse that Bromley suffered at the hands of her late husband, Douglas Bromley. Clark presented compelling evidence, including witness testimony and documented injuries, to paint a harrowing picture of the abuse Ruth Anne endured. The jury was swayed by the argument that her actions were a desperate attempt to protect her own life during an altercation that turned violent.”

froze as Eleanor appeared on the screen, standing on the courthouse steps beside an attractive middle-aged woman. “This case is a testament to the strength and resilience of abuse survivors,” Eleanor said. “While justice has been served today, it also serves as a reminder of the critical need for support and resources for those trapped in abusive situations.”

went to bed with a heavy heart. He’d come down hard on Eleanor for neglecting her son when she’d been in court all day, defending a rape survivor.