Nursing Myself Back Page 2

  A knock on my bedroom door alerts me to the fact that I need to get my ass moving and go downstairs. I still have to keep up appearances. The kids have had friends and family all day to occupy their attention, and they knew the inevitable was coming anyway. They are brave pillars of strength in all this. I mean, really, with me being a cardiology nurse, I’ve known for years what would happen to him—and I’ve made that fact known all along to prepare us. His liver could only take so much before cirrhosis would claim him, and claim him it did.

  Good riddance! Shit! There I go again. I am a monster.

  I swipe at my cheeks to clear off the tears, but my fingers come back dry. Oh, right. I don’t need to cry over William. There is nothing left inside for me to love. I can put on a brave front for my kids, but I have nothing left to offer anyone else. Sure, I wish someone could free me from the loss of love I’ve been missing for years, but who the hell will take on a forty-four-year-old woman with three teenage kids? There is no one out there up to that task, and quite frankly, I don’t know if I could—or would—ever open myself up for a disaster of a relationship again. I had been burned before, and I wasn’t about to go there again.

  That quickly, I had forgotten about the visitor at the door. A second set of knocks echo through the cold, dark, empty space of my room. I clear my throat and steel myself for whoever could be on the other side of that barrier.

  “Come in,” I say in a choked voice—again, minus the nonexistent tears.

  “I just wanted to check on you, Liz,” a very familiar, safe voice speaks to me as a man enters.

  It is Dr. Alexi Graham, my boss. The familiar and constant man in my life—not like that, so don’t get excited. I’d follow him anywhere, though. I had been with him for years. I started with working alongside him at the hospital, then I left to help him open and run his private cardiology practice. I am his favorite nurse, but that didn’t make me egotistical. It’s just that Alexi knows my checkered history—about my husband. He knows some of my secrets. But Lord, he doesn’t know them all—no one does, except for the ghosts of my past, and that is not something I’m willing to get into again.

  I was always giving Alexi advice long before he met his wife, Caylan. I look at Alexi like I’m his big sister, and I wanted him to find his other half. When Caylan came into his life, it was like the sun shone on him for the first time, and it brightened his very existence. They have a stunning little girl named Emeline, and Caylan’s currently in her second trimester of pregnancy with their second child. We’re all hoping for a boy this time. They’re the most beautiful family, and I do not begrudge them that. It is a sight to see and witness pure, absolute, and true love between two people.

  I have been there for several monumental moments in Alexi’s life. Just last week, for example, we celebrated his daughter’s first birthday. I was there for important events in his wife’s life too. They really embrace me as family, and my kids and I are grateful to extend ours to them as well. I was even lucky to have been one of Caylan’s bridesmaids when they married in 2016. The girl sure loves pink—and I must admit I was fortunate I could pull off the pink-shade of dress she put me in.

  I know I’m nothing close to a classic beauty, but for my age, I think I still look good. It wasn’t about looking good for William, though. No, I want to look good for myself and my kids, and also for my job. I want Alexi to be proud that I’m the epitome of health, a good example for our patients. Watching my late husband drink himself into an urn really made it abundantly clear that I would always eat healthy and exercise, and encourage my kids to do so too. They are all into sports, and I love to go hiking and kayaking with them. It is the four of us, and we are content with that.

  I can feel Alexi standing behind me, probably warring with himself over whether or not he should extend the hand I feel hanging in the air and finally place it on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort. The phantom hand means he cares. I don’t know if I even want that from him at the moment. The inner turmoil is about all I can handle.

  I fidget on the bed, twisting the end of a lock of hair that is hanging in my face. Today, I’m using the hair like a veil or a mask of some sort. If I can’t see out behind my hair, then they can’t see in—or so I hope. My stick-straight hair comes down past my shoulders, and is a dirty blonde shade. I usually wear it up in a ponytail or twist it into a bun; it’s not like I have anyone waiting to run his fingers through it, so it never stays down. But again, today I need the veil.

  I have a womanly figure, of course. Who wouldn’t after having three kids? But as I said, I keep in shape and look and feel healthy. I was even told I didn’t look my age and resembled someone in their thirties, so that was certainly the ultimate compliment. As long as no one calls me a MILF, I’m flattered. I just despise that term and think it’s such an insult to women.

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, is our home. We would not leave it regardless of William’s passing. We were both from a small town in Rhode Island, but I would never go back there. I never even went back to visit, and I certainly wasn’t going to start now. I have no idea who all might be downstairs waiting for me from our families, and I don’t rightly care. At the funeral home, people made their rounds and gave me their condolences. I can’t even remember who said what, or who was even present. It is still all a blur.

  I sigh, but it doesn’t relax me. I have to keep blinking due to the harsh light streaming in from the hallway. I wanted it pitch black in my bedroom; it went well with my mood and the color of dress I had donned for the occasion. The blackout curtains were more for me than they were for William when he was still alive. He didn’t work, he just slept all day. He went on disability years ago, and I was only all too happy to get out of the house. I didn’t have to worry about the kids because they went to school and had great sitters over the years; now, of course, they are old enough to do their own thing. William and I didn’t sleep together because when I got home from work, he would already be gone, off to the bar. When I left for work in the morning, he would just be getting home and passing out on the bed in a drunken stupor.

  William and I existed as ships passing each other in the night, and we both liked it that way. He didn’t do anything family-oriented. We had a dead-end marriage. I guess I really was just waiting around for him to die. He was already dead to me anyway; he’d missed years and years of opportunities with his kids. So why didn’t I kick him out or end it long ago? I couldn’t even answer that one.

  I guess I was punishing myself for misdeeds; again, we’re not going there. You don’t need to be burdened by that sordid past.

  “Thanks for checking on me. You know, you’re my rock. You say you wouldn’t know what to do without me, but I feel the same. Thanks for being here today. I know I’m not much for company, and I feel bad because the kids have to fend for themselves. I’ll be down soon, though, I promise,” I tell him, willing him to go away.

  I can hear him breathing, and he’s running his hand through his hair, trying to judge whether he should really stay or go. In a difficult sign of acquiescence for an alpha male, he simply says, “Okay,” and walks out.

  The door shuts quietly behind him, his steps retreating down the hallway. I’m in tune with my surroundings again. I listen to the sounds traveling up from the stairway for a little bit. I can’t really make out anything, just inconsequential noise. It’s comforting, though, and I find myself just sitting here, letting the minutes roll by.

  ***

  Enough is enough. I have probably been sitting here for hours. I figure lots of people have already left. It’s time to check on my kids and come back to the land of the living. That didn’t just refer to the fact that my husband’s ashes are still sitting on my bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him downstairs. This is the screwed-up part about me. I didn’t want to spread his ashes, nor did I want to leave him on the mantle. I just didn’t want to be near him. Jesus, I couldn’t force myself to leave him anywhere else, though. It’s only fitting th
at even at the end, he’s a slave to a bottle of some sort.

  I have really good night vision now, so I can see the urn clearly, resting lonely on my bedside table. My body is stiff from sitting rigidly for so long. I flex my fingers and realize I had balled them into fists at my sides. I stretch my neck from side to side, desperately trying to work out the kinks. I drag my sorry butt up from the bed and make my way down the stairs. There is no one in the living room. I don’t hear anything. Where are my kids?

  I trudge through the living room and then head into my kitchen. Still no one, so I decide to look out back. We have a nice patio area for hosting, and it is lined with patio heaters for chilly days like this one. I’m just grateful it hasn’t snowed recently. Sure enough, my daughter, sons, Alexi, Caylan, their daughter, and Caleb are out there, talking and watching Emeline play.

  I suck in my breath when I see Caleb Daniels. It’s a shock. I haven’t seen him in a few months—not since the last time we were all together for dinner one night at Caylan’s house. I just stare through the screen door at him; luckily, no one has noticed me make my approach yet.

  I’m grateful I can admire him from afar for a moment. That’s another screwed-up thing about me. My husband has just died, and here I am, able to appreciate the male form of another. Okay, this is where the rational part of me won’t take a back seat to the feelings I let lie dormant for far too long. Jesus, I’m still a woman. I can, at the very least, admire. I’m no longer married; I’m a widow. Oh God, a widow, at forty-four. It’s still so strange.

  Besides, it’s not like Caleb would ever be interested in me. I would be considered a cougar if I ever went for someone like him. He’s what, like thirty-four? But my God, he’s magnificent. He’s successful, devilishly handsome, and so out of my league.

  Caleb is a lawyer by profession, and he reminds me of Keanu Reeves in that movie The Devil’s Advocate. His jaw is strong and confident. The dimple in his chin is sexy and alluring. His brown eyes are soulful, and the manicured brows above his lashes are captivating. He’s a man who takes great care with his appearance. But what I appreciate most is how humble he is. It doesn’t matter that he is successful, he treats you like a person and never flaunts his affluent background. Caleb is the type of man who would make an excellent father, lover, and companion.

  Yup, he would one day make some girl very happy. He really is the ultimate catch. I feel something unfurling in my belly—and it isn’t because I haven’t eaten. It is because I’m truly and utterly taken with that man. I have seen him at functions over the years, because he is one of Alexi’s best friends. But I never looked at him besides being an acquaintance.

  I’m confused as to why he is even here tonight. We aren’t close by any means. Then I realize he is just once again being a good friend to Alexi and showing support, which in turn is supporting me. I make a groaning kind of sighing noise, the kind you make when you look at something you can’t have. Crap, I guess it came out louder than I intended, because all heads turn toward me. That is when Caleb locks gazes with my startled blue eyes.

  ***

  Caleb

  I would know her voice anywhere. I would know her sounds anywhere. I have been studying her for years. I’ve always been fascinated by Liezel “Liz” Carter. She is a breathtaking woman. She looks like she’s thirty. I have a thing for cougars anyway, but she is hardly a cougar. Nevertheless, I’m still drawn to her and cannot fathom one good reason why I shouldn’t be.

  Her face is angelic, and her body is sinful. And fuck me for even being such a bastard to lust after her when her husband has just died. But I can’t help it. I plead temporary insanity. Fuck, no, it’s permanent insanity when it comes to this woman. I have found myself over the last year finding any excuse to hang out with Alexi, just in the hopes of catching a moment with Liz.

  I should feel really guilty about her deceased, selfish prick of a husband, but I know enough about him to realize what he was. Alexi didn’t ever betray her confidence, but he apprised me as to the gist of their situation. I knew Liz’s marriage was a disaster. I never met her husband, and thankfully I never would have to. He threw away his wife, kids, and ultimately his life.

  If Liz and the kids were mine, I’d treasure them. I’d never squander a second of our time. Liz is the kind of woman who deserves to be taken care of for once. She is the ultimate caregiver, but shit, she needs a man in her corner. She needs a man to touch her, caress every inch of her skin, and make her moan. I would gladly be that man for her. I would gladly sign on for a life sentence of being chained to her and giving her everything she needs; she just doesn’t know it yet. I’m biding my time, but I’ll make my move soon. I’ll testify to that.

  Chapter 2: One Boner Fide Cougar

  Caleb

  The whole lot of my friends can suck my left nut. Ah, hell, they can suck the right one too while I’m at it!

  I’m only saying this because I’m feeling sorry for myself. I just got home from Liz’s, and I’m jittery. I normally don’t have such dickhead thoughts regarding my friends, but this need to be with Liz is more than getting to me. It’s consuming me. I’m the nice guy of our group. Remember, I’ve always been the sweet, sensitive one. I’m not supposed to be an asshole, so I need to get my shit together.

  Imagine, though, going through another night of seeing her, and another night of not being able to do a damn thing about my feelings. I know on the surface I have to be patient and take my time.

  I. Know. This.

  She’s been through something I can’t begin to understand, but I’m jealous of the life my friends have—I want what they have.

  I. Want. Liz.

  Out of my best friends, I’m the one who wanted to settle down—they just didn’t know it because I never voiced it, so I can’t blame them for their good fortune. I’ve always acted like I was content in skirt-chasing. The truth is, I’ve been ready to have a family for a long time. I didn’t make it to Emeline’s birthday party last week because I had an emergency with a client’s case. That’s why tonight I especially needed to be around Liz and get my fill of her; sadly, it wasn’t enough to satisfy me.

  My best friends, Alexi, Gil, and Anthony, enjoyed playing the field back in our wild days. And don’t get me wrong, I did too, but it got old by the end of my twenties. Now that I’m going to be thirty-five later this year, well, it has me antsy. I don’t want to jump into marrying just anybody. I want to marry the one. Truly, I’m happy for my friends. Just...jealous.

  I made a vow to myself long ago that I’d have certain things in life. So far, I’ve managed to attain most things on my list. The muscle gods finally blessed me at age eighteen. That’s when my life changed forever. Once the muscles came, I prowled the local bars and got in with a fake ID; I’d never confess that violation now that I’m a man who upholds justice. Anyway, I trolled for pussy and finally became a man at eighteen thanks to my first bona fide cougar—it was paradise being with an older woman. Although, my love for cougars began long before that. I guess it began when I was about fourteen…no, fourteen and a half.

  As I said earlier, Liz is barely considered a cougar—we’ve only got a ten-year difference. And she isn’t what you would consider a classic cougar. I can’t imagine Liz going after a man the way the stereotype leads you to believe—in the context of her being the aggressor. So, I use the term loosely.

  God, do I revere older women. I’ve always connected with them somehow. I’m drawn to them because of their essence, life experience, both personal and professional, and I have an appreciation for their similar tastes and desires, which I find mutually beneficial.

  Please don’t go thinking this is some kind of a mommy-complex just because my mom wasn’t around as I was growing up; that’s not it! I don’t need the psych babble about my issues stemming from my mom essentially abandoning me because of her going through her own shit. I never felt deprived in life. My mom grieving the loss of my baby brother was warranted. My dad making himself scarce was justi
fied too. I made the life I have. I have no regrets; well, that is, if Liz never reciprocates my feelings.

  I’m sitting here in my lonely bedroom with my back propped up against my plush, leather headboard. I didn’t even bother to undress out of my suit from the funeral. I had kicked off my dress shoes at least, but can’t muster the strength to fully undress. My frustration is wearing on me. Arms crossed, further demonstrating my resolve to be wallowing in self-pity, I lament that no one is here to witness it.

  After a few minutes, I rub at my tired eyes. Nah, I’m not sleepy, just worn out mentally. My eyes are tired from trying to make sense of things. I had to take my contacts out and put my glasses on. I’m not a shallow man, but I don’t do glasses in front of anyone—it’s a weird quirk of mine—I hate glasses on me. The astigmatism in my right eye makes Lasik surgery difficult, and I was told I’m not a good candidate, so I haven’t bothered pursuing it further. I stop rubbing my eyes and proceed to massage my temples at the onset of a headache—now I’m giving myself a headache…great!

  My bed faces the huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, but I don’t feel like watching anything—not even to escape from reality for a bit. I have a gas fireplace on the wall to my left. My high-rise apartment has the best view, with a balcony entrance directly in my bedroom, which is on the far-right wall. I have a two-bedroom place, but it’s not like I ever have visitors; hopefully that soon changes. Yeah, I’ve had some overnight guests, well companions, but that’s just it…I want something more.

  Family doesn’t come to visit. My dad has been dead a few years now. He and my mom stayed together despite the strained relationship. They weren’t what I would consider a married couple anyway. My mom passed on a few years before Dad, medicating herself right up until the very end until she overdosed. I’m not shocked my dad outlived her, but his health wasn’t ideal either. I suspect Dad’s stress level and workaholic tendencies caused his heart attack. The poor man went quickly at least. Even Alexi couldn’t have saved him had he been around. Dad’s heart was too damaged.