Chapter 8

8

GINA

I looked for Porter everywhere, if I was being honest with myself. I scanned the common areas every time I walked by, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. The image of him on the floor, doing some kind of exaggerated push-up, was seared into my mind. I had known he was strong, but that demonstration had been more than what I was expecting. I wanted a man who was that strong, and someone who had Porter's good looks would be nice. Of course, I couldn't date Porter. He was off-limits. And it was foolish for me to get involved with someone with a history of drug use, no matter how attractive.

I realized that I was lonely. That had to be it. It had been years since my last serious relationship, and I was craving attention. I debated asking Cindy to set me up with someone. She knew everyone in Nashville, it seemed, and had no trouble finding guys to spend her time with. But all of Cindy's men were in the same category, meaning they were just looking for a good time. I was lonely but not desperate. I wasn't interested in a one-night stand or a tryst in a nightclub bathroom.

Cindy found me staring at the break room wall, theoretically eating a sandwich but making no progress. She sat down beside me. "You seem glum."

"I think I need a man," I said.

"Hallelujah." She grinned. "What are you looking for?"

"Um." I sighed. "He has to have a job."

"Of course." Cindy checked off an invisible list over the table. "Handsome, right?"

"Couldn't hurt," I said, thinking of Porter.

"Car?" Cindy guessed.

"Sure." I considered what I really wanted. "Someone who is sober, who doesn't need alcohol for a good time."

"Hmm." Cindy pondered that one. "Understandable. But you're not going to find that guy at a bar."

"No, I'm not." I pulled out my phone. "I have this dating app, but I haven't used it in forever."

"Which one?" She scooted her chair closer so she could see my screen.

"Web Love." I flicked it open to show her my profile.

"Oh, no." She snatched the phone from my hand. "That's the worst app."

"It was free," I muttered.

"I know." She laughed. "Let me guess, all you're getting are dick pics?"

I shot her a fearsome gaze, hoping she would tone it down. What if someone were to walk in? I managed a very tense "Yes" before claiming my phone back.

"You have to get on this one." She retrieved my phone from my hand and maneuvered straight to the app store. She selected HooCup, an app with a little cupid and heart, and passed the phone back to me. "Password."

"I don't know…" I hesitated, not really wanting to install another dating app.

"Trust me," Cindy insisted, "HooCup has quality guys."

"Really? With a name like ‘hookup'?" I challenged her.

"Just download it and open it, then you'll see," she encouraged me.

I relented, typing in my password and allowing the app to download. Cindy stole the device back and sped through the opening sequence until we could look at pictures of men. The first one was a handsome cowboy in a Stetson hat with a Tom Selleck mustache.

"Mustache," I said.

She swiped left. Another well-tanned farmworker smiled out from the frame, this one blond and blue-eyed. I shook my head.

"What's wrong with him?" Cindy asked.

He wasn't Porter, but I couldn't say that. Instead, I made up some excuse. "He's probably an alcoholic."

"You can't tell just by looking at someone," Cindy argued.

"Next," I requested.

She shrugged and swiped left. The next available man wore a suit and tie, with a nice smile that made me think he had something to hide. Despite the fact that I really did want someone to share my evenings with, I knew I wasn't ready to go out on a date with a stranger.

"You just have to relax," Cindy said, sensing my negativity. "You'll have fun, I promise. And no dick pics."

I laughed, turning around just as our boss walked in the door. I snatched my phone back and shoved it into my pocket, without even shutting down the app. Cindy began digging into her meal as if nothing were wrong. I felt my face go hot and washed my shame down with a diet cola. If only Porter wasn't off-limits, that would solve all my problems. Problems, I reminded myself, that began and ended with him.

We were on two different sides of the law. I had to forget him, and fast. Within a few days, he would be a free man, and all I would have were the memories. I had to purge these feelings from my heart before he left, or his absence would eat away at me. And there was only one way to accomplish that—by talking to him.

It made sense in a kind of backward way. If I could prove to myself that my interest in him was purely professional, by spending time with him, then I would be happy to see him go. His graduation from the program would mean only good things for him: a return to his friends and his job. I would be able to move on and care for other patients in the same professional manner, and that would be the end of it.

I resolved to seek Porter out more often from here until his release date. I needed to prove that what I was feeling wasn't anything more than fondness. I waited until the end of my shift, until five minutes before I was supposed to clock out, before going to find him. That way I wouldn't be taking time away from any other patients for my social call.

I found him in the game room, playing cards with one of the other residents. He set his hand down as soon as I came into view, giving me no excuse to duck out. He met me halfway, maintaining a friendly distance but obviously pleased to see me.

"I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing," I said, feeling like my motives were on display.

"Good." He gestured towards the doorway, and I agreed. We moved out of the crowd, toward the safety of the nurses' station. He stopped in the center of the common area, just far enough away from everyone that we could have a private conversation, but in plain view so that no one could accuse us of impropriety. "My therapist says I'm making progress."

"That's great," I cheered. That would mean that he would be leaving soon. The thought brought more heartache than joy, and I scolded myself.

"I was thinking of getting a cat," he said, changing the subject.

"That's a good idea," I said encouragingly. "It will give you someone to care for, and pets provide stress relief too."

"I'm gonna name it ‘Good.'" He caught my eye with a devilish twinkle.

I laughed. "I guess we can never get the two together, then."

"Seriously." He straightened his mouth into a hard line. "I'll call it ‘Cat.'"

"Why?" I could feel myself leaning in toward him and checked my body language.

"It's a cat. It won't know its name," he argued.

"I'm not so sure." I hesitated. "I think Evil knows her name."

"Well, she's not an ordinary cat," he said playfully.

"That's right." I couldn't argue. He was scoring points and not in the right direction. Or rather, it was the right direction, just the one that made things more complicated and not less so. "I wanted to tell you I'm off tomorrow."

"Okay." He accepted as fact that I cared enough to share my schedule, without asking why. "Grocery shopping? Laundry?"

"A little of both," I admitted.

"Have fun." He smiled that disarming smile that made me feel like anything was possible.

I wanted to lean in and kiss him. But that was forbidden, as was hugging or shaking hands. I wondered if I could get away with a fist bump and offered one with a shy smile. He grinned, taking the invitation and setting his knuckles next to mine. That first touch, the only one we had ever been allowed, sent an electric shock through my hand. His was solid yet gentle, applying no more pressure than necessary to make the connection. I didn't think a fist bump could be erotic, but looking into his eyes, I could see our future in one brilliant flash. We could do so much more than a sterile greeting in an institution. We could—no, we should —be on the beach somewhere, wearing bathing suits and holding hands.

I broke contact a moment later to avoid a lingering touch. It wouldn't do to have anybody see how much I wanted to dive into Porter's arms, especially not Porter. I gave him a friendly nod and walked away, ducking into the safety of the locker room. After I had changed my shoes and grabbed my bag, I emerged to see him sitting in the receiving area, reading a magazine. He looked up just briefly as I slipped out the door. One more stolen glance between us, its meaning clear.

On the way home, I steadied my heartbeat. This was getting out of control. I couldn't have a relationship with Porter. It would break all kinds of hospital regulations. I would get fired lose my nursing license. I had to keep my eye on the prize, and that was a life without complications, a shift without the dynamic pull he represented. There were probably only a couple more days, another week at the most, before Porter was discharged. Then I could return to my normal routine without the erotic fantasies that plagued me.

Returning home, I opened a bottle of wine and popped a bag of popcorn. It was no use going out for the night, I was hopelessly hung up on Porter, and no other man would do. Instead, I thought I would feed my passion with Hollywood actors, imaginary men who could be all that and more. I flicked through my streaming service to find an appropriately handsome leading man and settled down for a party of one.