Page 24 of At First Smile

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Game of Thorns

Pen

A rainbow of colorful kazoos accompany Lord Bobo McLaughin’s boisterous “Happy Birthday” rendition.

Staff, volunteers, parents, and pint-size patients crowd into the room for respite with games, toys, and various activities.

With Cane Austen – a pink balloon tied to her handle – in one hand and a green kazoo in my other, my smile is large as our hospital CFO, who dresses as a clown for our weekly birthday celebration, gyrates to the buzzing kazoos.

It's one of the best parts about working at Walters Children’s Hospital.

The not-for-profit hospital offers free medical care for children with chronic conditions, cancer, and other diseases, or who have been in life-altering accidents.

Not only does Walters provide world-renowned medical care but also a holistic experience for the kids and their family who spend far too much time stuck in hospitals.

As the volunteer coordinator, I spend my days ensuring these families don’t have the traditional hospital experience but, as our CEO touts, “The Walters’ experience. ”

“This has to be my favorite part of the week,” gushes Nelson Lewis, the VP of Major Gifts and Donors and my boss’s boss.

“Me too.” Grinning, my eyes jump between the clusters of clapping children in paper birthday crowns and Nelson, a smile stretched across his round face.

“This is just one of the many ideas you’ve implemented in the last three years. The department is lucky to have you. I’m on bated breath to find out what you do as interim director.”

I flash him a cheeky “Just you wait” smirk.

It’s official. This morning Jamal announced his retirement at the end of the month and that, effective the first of August, I’ll be the interim director of voluntary services. He’d told me on Monday, but I was sworn to secrecy until it was announced during today’s department head meeting.

“I saw the piece in the LA Press on you.”

Ugh. I school my features, avoiding the urge to scowl.

Can I go a day without that article being mentioned?

It hit Monday night and caused an uptick in my followers, requests from reporters and disability advocacy organizations, and even a few businesses asking for consultation.

I shouldn’t complain. Cane Austen and Me is all about raising awareness. To make change.

But the gist of the articles churn in my stomach. Some of the reporters leaned into the poor sweet blind girl lost in the airport and the big, strong, and sexy – okay maybe that was my descriptor – hockey player who rescued her angle.

At least, the LA Press story had a more thoughtful approach. Miguel Reyes, the reporter who reached out and I contacted Monday morning, did a nice job. His article, with its actual research, focused on universal design versus a blind girl in need of rescue.

Nelson coughs. “I didn’t know about your advocacy work. Jamal mentioned you did some social media influencing, but I assumed it was fashion.”

“Fashion?” I guffaw.

“The department secretary goes on and on about your outfits.” He chuckles.

“You’re using social media to do good. My teens just use it to complain about doing chores.

They have thousands of followers enthralled with their stance on childhood chores being unpaid labor.

God, I miss the days before they learned to speak. ” He rubs his forehead.

I huff out a chuckle.

“Well, it was an excellent piece and reinforces what an asset you are.”

“Thank you.” I slip the kazoo into my blazer pocket and begin to untie the balloon from my cane. It’s a little silly to have such whimsical accessories while talking to my future boss – hopefully on a more permanent level .

“Speaking of being an asset—” The tap of his dress shoe pulls my attention back to him. “—we have a new donor, the MVP Foundation. We’ll announce our new partnership and large donation at a fundraising event in two weeks.”

“That’s amazing!” Smiling, I hand the balloon I’d freed to a nearby child and turn back to Nelson, my face twisted in confusion. “What does that have to do with me being an asset, though?”

Searching my memory, I have no recollection of the MVP Foundation. In my role, I’ve built relationships with many companies and organizations, but this one doesn’t ring a bell.

“They specifically asked that you represent Walters at the event.”

“Me? Why?”

“The MVP Foundation raises money for adaptive sports programs for children and teens with disabilities,” he explains with a dismissive shrug.

“Interesting. I wonder why they asked for me.” I nod and my fingers coil around Cane Austen’s handle.

It’s not the first time – nor will it be the last – that I’m specifically tapped for a disability-related thing.

In high school, college, grad school, and even here at Walters, I am asked to sit on committees and speak at or attend events that always seem to be associated with disability or blindness.

It’s a double-edged sword. I don’t want to be a token, but at the same time, it’s vital to have people see someone with a disability in an important role.

He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and rocks on his feet.

“I’d imagine they saw the article, too, and thought this was a good fit.

Their donation will allow us to outfit our physical therapy department with some state-of-the-art sports equipment, and the ongoing partnership will establish a scholarship program for Walters’ patients to attend the foundation’s sports camps.

It’s a big deal, Pen… Especially for your transition to interim director. I hope you’re able to attend.”

My lips pull up into my “just for mom” smile at the emphasis placed on interim. This is my first test even before starting the new role. We both know it.

“I’ll email you the details after I get back to my office.” He tips his head and points past me. “Excuse me, I see the chief of staff waving me over.”

“Of course.”

He walks away.

“I love cake day!” JoJo appears beside me with a half-eaten piece of cake in her hand.

I gape. “How do you already have cake? We haven’t served it yet.”

“Never underestimate the power of the bat of my brown eyes and flash of my cleavage,” she sasses and licks frosting off a plastic fork.

An added benefit of working at Walters is my West Coast bestie also works here.

While I’m in hospital management, JoJo serves as a social worker in our outpatient clinic.

JoJo jokes that she spends ninety percent of the day helping connect families with resources and the other ten percent pilfering snacks from breakrooms and department birthday celebrations.

This is not at all true. She exerts a hundred percent of her energy for patients, which is why I look past her snack thievery.

“Shouldn’t you and your questionable workplace cleavage be in our outpatient clinic?” I tease, bumping my hip against hers.

“I’m on lunch break.” She bumps me back. “Also, I needed to come officially congratulate you.”

A secrecy oath always comes with a bestie clause in my book. While nobody else knew, I immediately told Trina and JoJo after Jamal told me. Our group chat lit up with so many spelled-out excited face emojis from JoJo and links for sales to update my “boss babe” wardrobe from Trina.

“It’s still surreal. Like I knew what was about to happen but didn’t let myself believe it until I heard the other department heads clapping after the announcement.”

She tsks . “I could so social work you right now for the ‘I don’t believe good things can happen to me’ subtext of that statement, but instead, let me just celebrate you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Just four weeks and you’ll be the boss,” she whisper-squeals.

Heat invades my cheeks.

“You deserve it, lady.” She loops her arm around my shoulder. “Especially after the week you’ve had.”

“I’m over it.” With a firm smile in place, I join in the claps for Bobo’s kazoo version of Pharrell’s “Happy”.

“Are you?”

I shrug.

It’s been my mantra since Saturday. If I repeat it enough, perhaps, it will come true. After consoling myself with half a pan of brownies, I left behind eating my emotions about Rowan and the article. Channeling Aunt Bea, I put on my smile. If I smile hard enough, my heart may believe it.

“You still haven’t heard from him?” JoJo murmurs.

“Nope.” I plaster a grin on and turn my attention to the children scampering towards the table where volunteers are ready with cake. “Nor do I expect to.” I pivot and head out the door.

JoJo shuffles behind me in her pink ballet flats. “What we expect and what we want are two different things.”

“What I want is to forget Rowan Iverson.”

“But you two–”

“Trauma-bonded and got caught up in all the feelings, nothing more.” I glance around the empty hall but lower my voice to a hissed whisper.

“It’s over. Everyone is a winner. I got an orgasm and three major news outlets did stories on universal design, and he gets to play the hero for the helpless blind girl. ”

JoJo’s expression falls. “Oh, Pen.”

“It’s fine.” Spinning on my heels, I move down the hall toward the elevator.

I may have called Miguel and answered his questions, but the story was never for me.

It was solely for Rowan. After the internet Rowan Iverson rabbit-hole I fell into Saturday night, I have two theories.

One, what happened between us was genuine but induced by the almost-crash.

The moment we hit reality, he freaked. Whether it was from his own fears about relationships or Emma Sinclair, the actual Victoria’s Secret model who was linked to him until this past January… I have no idea.

What I do know is that he dumped me after landing in reality, and he’s not coming back. No matter what the still crush-sick girl inside me clings to, this isn’t one of my romance audiobooks.