“ O ur story” isn’t a tissue of lies. We met at work years ago.
We’ve been friends and work buddies. Our departments work closely together, and we’re both civic-minded, so we end up seeing each other at town meetings.
There’s only one really awesome coffee shop in town if you want to grab a quick lunch (you can only eat so many of the hospital cafeteria’s specials before your stomach rebels) so we have “gone out to lunch” a bunch of times.
I guess technically we’ve even spent the night together... during a blizzard that caused everyone on staff to pull extra shifts until we were plowed out.
Okay. Good. I’m good. I can tell my parents something with a straight face.
It’s good that I’m composed because when I answer the call on my laptop, I stare straight into two sets of stern “take no prisoners” eyes. My father has his arms crossed. Mama—God help me—has her laptop balanced on her knees. “What’s this boy’s name, baby?” she says.
“Hi, to you, too. His name is Craig Macpherson—what are you doing? Are you doing a background check?” I gasp, horrified. “That’s a terrible invasion of privacy, Mama!”
“You’re our only daughter. You’re single and desperate—”
“Not desperate,” I mutter.
“You see a lot of older women get taken in by these smooth players,” Daddy says, hand on his graying stubble, nodding and looking wise.
“I’m not older ! Older is like late forties, even fifties! I’m not older, I’m not desperate, and I’m—”
“He’s Scottish? Is this him? Craig Macpherson, lives in Pine Ridge, thirty-five, born in Caithness? Got his degree in social work at Antonia College in Pennsylvania?”
Mama is rapid-firing off questions as she shoves the computer in her lap so that its screen faces the desktop screen. I see a blurry face with long, wavy dark hair and a beard that suddenly reminds me of a certain Lord of the Rings ranger and dark-haired Viking.
He’s handsome. Even blurry. I try to focus on the details of his face, but I just end up blinking and thinking it’s time to take out my contacts. I know Craig is a good-looking guy, but I can barely describe him.
You're probably just overtired and dehydrated.
“Aw, hell. Is he gonna wear a kilt to the wedding? Plaid? Plaid at a wedding ? It’s going to clash. Rose pink and palm green are the wedding colors, that’s what Aunt Belinda said.” Daddy closes his eyes and tips his head back in a gesture of supreme suffering. “Does he talk funny?”
“No more than the Georgia side of the family ‘talks funny.’” I cross my arms.
“Social worker... That’s a noble profession—with crappy pay,” Mama sighs.
“Well... He’s the head of his department.
And hello, nurse? Also could use a raise.
” I cross my fingers behind my back since I know my hospital offers a good salary for its small size and semi-rural location.
“And, Daddy? No, he’s not going to wear a kilt.
I told him a tux or a suit, and he was fine with that.
He’s... He’s really excited to meet all of you in six weeks.
He’s also thrilled that I invited him. A week of sun and fun, amazing food, fishing, a resort in the Florida Keys. ..”
“Is he a gold digger?” Daddy’s eyes flash warningly, and Mama gasps and shuts her laptop with a bang.
“No! No, he’s a perfectly nice guy. He’s in a related field, and he’s handsome, funny, kind, and responsible.” He’s perfect on paper. Why haven’t I ever asked Craig out? For real?
“Why are you frowning? He’s Mr. Perfect. Or isn’t he? What’s the deal? Is he short? Allergic to dogs? Doesn’t want kids? Gambling? Drinking?”
“No! No. I think... I think...” I have to answer, fast on my feet, a thing that shouldn’t be hard to do for a nurse who has to make life-saving decisions in a split-second.
And yet, it is. I have to really dig through my mind to think about Craig.
While his facial features seem a little fuzzy, his place in my life isn’t.
He’s just Craig—Craig at the desk on the hospital ground floor, Craig who always seems to magically appear when the vending machine won’t take my ripped dollar bills, Craig who always helps my patients without family find skilled in-home care or a spot in a rehab, no matter how many calls he has to make.
Craig, who seems to actually care about his job and the people he helps.
“I dunno, Mama. He was always just there. Solid. Dependable. Reliable.” Does that make him boring?
I don’t know anything about his hobbies except that he likes to fish and goes to all the town hall meetings. I know he has parents in Scotland.
Five years and that’s all you know about someone you see for five-sevenths of your life?
“Solid and dependable? That’s what scared you off? Lord...” Mama looks heavenward. “And you wanted someone flashy, huh?” Her pursed lips show her disdain for that idea. “Honey, when are you going to realize that the nice, solid, dependable men are what you need ? What you should want ?”
“Well, right about now,” I throw back, equally exasperated—and a little pissed at myself, too.
Half of me is mad because I should have paid attention to Craig as a person, not just a colleague I could always count on.
Maybe I would have asked him out for real and then I would have a romantic week in Florida to look forward to instead of one where I’ll have to walk on eggshells, hoping no one finds out the truth.
The other half of me is annoyed. Well, maybe he never stood out because he is boring! Mama wants me to settle for someone boring, and I shouldn’t settle at all. I can have someone exciting and dependable.
Those guys still exist, right?
“Honey, don’t give Minnie a hard time,” Daddy abruptly loses his hatred of plaid and accents to take my side. “I seem to remember a certain college freshman who turned down dates with the president of the campus tennis club because she had her eye on the members of the football team.”
I give my mother an accusing look. “That’s a new story. Dish it, Daddy.”
“We can’t stay on right now, baby, Aunt Belinda’s coming over with about forty mother-of-the-bride dresses.”
“I gotta go,” Daddy bolts across the room, and my mother pauses to sigh and shake her head.
“Craig sounds very nice. How long have you two been dating officially?”
“Um. About six weeks. I mean, months! But it was kind of low-key at first,” I yelp.
Six weeks. We have six weeks to go out a few times, to practice acting like a couple. Will he think that’s weird? Does he have a girlfriend, someone who doesn’t feel threatened by his colleagues asking him to go away for a week? Or what if he’s gay? He could be gay, and that might be easier.
But the unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach says no, it wouldn’t be.
I think... “I like him, Mama. A lot. I’m glad he’s coming with me,” I murmur, more to myself.
“Mhm. You sound happy. You sound serious.”
“Oh, well. Don’t get your hopes up too high, but... But yeah. On paper, we’re a perfect match.”