Can't Always Get What You Want (14 page)

“That’s enough beer for me,” I say, standing up. “I’m going to get some water from the bar. Do you want me to get you anything?” I ask the entire table.

Samira and Narayan say no, but Brett stands up beside me. “I’ll come with you.”

We head toward the bar together, standing quite close. Our arms and hands brush with gentle contact every so often. That glass of water is sounding better and better. I need to cool off.

Flagging down the nearest bartender, I ask for a pitcher of water. It’s very busy because of Canada Day, so it takes him a minute to fully turn his attention to me. Once I catch his eye, he slips into a salacious grin.

“Can I get a pitcher of water, please?” I ask.

“You want water? We’re having a wet T-shirt contest later. Why don’t you stick around for that, and I’ll give you your water then?” he says loudly.

The bartender winks, and sways a bit on his feet.

“Mmm. That little white tank top you’ve got on under your shirt will be just fine.”

I can feel Brett radiating tension beside me.

“I’ll pass. Just get me my water, and I’ll be on my way,” I say.

He shrugs and mumbles something that sounds like, “Bitch.”

Brett leans across the bar. “Excuse me?”

The bartender raises his hands. “Take it easy. I’m just having a little fun,” he slurs.

Brett’s arms are crossed, and an annoyed scowl is distorting his normally cheerful face.

Is he jealous? Or just looking out for a friend? It’s hard to tell.

Seconds later, we have a pitcher of ice water in front of us. Brett spits out a cursory thank you, and escorts me and our water back to the table.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” I tease, and flex my pitiful excuse of a biceps.

The frown melts from his face. “I bet you can.”

We’ve barely sat down when someone on stage announces that it’s time for the karaoke night to begin.

Samira slams the rest of her beer, and announces that we
“absolutely need”
to sing a duet.

“Don’t even think about it,” I say.

Samira forces out her lower lip. “Please…”

I cross my arms and smirk at her. “On one condition.”

She raises her hopeful brown eyes to mine.

“I get to choose the song.”

Her beaming smile falters, but she recovers quickly. “Deal. But I get to choose where we go for supper.”

“Fine.”

We walk up together, with Brett and Narayan cheering us on from our table. I select the song, and take my place beside Samira. The bright lights and packed bar are making me feel really warm. Threats of unwelcome sweat stains intrude upon my thoughts.

“You
so
owe me,” I hiss under my breath.

The music to “Summer Nights” from
Grease
comes over the speakers.

“No!” Samira cries.

Ignoring her protests, I claim a microphone.

“As punishment for making me come up here, you have to sing Danny’s lyrics.”

Samira keeps grumbling, and I remind her that I didn’t want to sing her usual pick, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” The crowd tends to get a little pissy when a song lasts for eight minutes.

Samira is trying to sing deep like a boy, and is failing miserably. As I sing, I glance out at the crowd and immediately lock eyes with Brett. He’s smiling widely. I have no idea what Narayan is doing. I can’t take my eyes off a certain pair of blue ones.

We finish the song to a loud round of applause and cheering.

“Good job, ladies,” Narayan praises us, rewarding Samira with a kiss on the lips. “You have such a lovely voice, Sammy. Even if you did sound like a guy who was kicked in the nads.” He keeps on kissing her, cooing into her ear. They’re so lovey-dovey, sometimes it’s embarrassing.

I look away in a feeble attempt to give them privacy, and notice Brett staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Just thinking,” he says, and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

We’ve been sitting at our table, enjoying the good, the bad, and the ugly karaoke singers, when Samira announces that she’s hungry. “I vote for Julio’s Barrio. It’s not too far down the street.”

I nod, and get up to leave. Brett gently touches my shoulder.

“Just a minute,” he says. He flashes me a smile and walks over to the stage.

“What is he doing?!” Narayan chokes out.

I shrug. “This isn’t normal behavior for him, then?”

“Definitely not. Brett normally doesn’t like drawing attention to himself.”

We all wait. And then the music starts. Samira and I strain our ears trying to decipher the first few notes.

Samira looks at me in surprised alarm. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Is that an
ABBA
song?” Narayan yells at the stage.

Brett covers the microphone and yells back, “Only a real man can sing ABBA.” He smiles, and looks pointedly at me.

Why does that twig my memory for some reason? Oh! Our coffee date! I’d said that only real men can sing ABBA without its threatening their masculinity. It was a completely flippant comment, meant to be funny. I had no idea he’d take it so seriously.

Brett hollers out the lyrics, strutting around the stage, really hamming it up. The crowd is nicely drunk at this point, and cheer for their favorite new star.

Brett manages to get through half the song before a rush of self-consciousness takes over. He abruptly stops singing, takes a quick bow to his adoring public, and walks back to our table.

“Supper time?” he asks. His face is calm and confident, giving nothing away. We follow him out of the restaurant.

“That is the gayest song you could have picked,” Narayan says, shaking his head.

“Wrong. The gayest song I could have picked was ‘It’s Raining Men.’ Or ‘Dancing Queen,’ ” Brett counters, while laughing.

“Well, I think he was brilliant!” Samira says.

“Thanks, Sammy. What’d you think, Soph?”

I look at him. A sweet, shy smile plays on his lips, and his eyes are filled with some intangible emotion.

“Umm,” I stammer, working around my mouth, which has suddenly gone dry. “I think you managed to make Fernando very manly.”

He looks thoroughly pleased, and slips his hand into mine.

We’re holding hands.

Am I allowed to be excited about this? I’m twenty-four years old. Surely this small gesture of affection shouldn’t send my head into a free fall.

“Although,” I amend, “I would have enjoyed it much more if you had finished the song. You had quite a fan club going on.”

“My karaoke-star days are over, I’m afraid. But if you are nice to me, I could be persuaded to give a private performance.” He squeezes my hand, and ushers me into Julio’s Barrio. My mind has gone into overdrive, thinking about what a “private performance” might entail.

Focus, Sophie. It’s time to eat burritos and refried beans (quite possibly the least romantic dinner ever invented).

—

After stuffing ourselves with knockoff Mexican food, we head outside.

“What time is it?” Samira asks.

“I’ll check,” Narayan murmurs, taking out his phone.

“The fireworks start at eleven,” Samira explains.

“It’s ten-thirty now,” he says absently, eyes still glued to his phone. “I’m sorry Sam, but I have to go.”

“Everything okay?” Brett asks.

Narayan nods. “Nothing serious. My mom just texted me. She and my grandma were dropped off at the house, and they don’t have a key. They can’t get ahold of anyone else. Brett, can you give Sam a ride home?”

“You bet.”

Samira casts a glance at Brett and me, and our entwined fingers. She must sense my “
Please bugger off so I can be alone with him”
vibe, because she turns to Brett and says, “That’s okay. I’d like to visit with Nar’s grandma a bit anyway. If we hustle, maybe we can get there in time to take them to see fireworks on the south side.”

We part ways, agreeing to meet up again during the week.

And then we’re alone.

Well, not really alone. There are several hundred other people on the street.

“We should start heading toward the river valley,” Brett says.

“Good idea.”

We meander our way there, hand in hand, discussing anything and everything, laughter punctuating every other word.

Sigh…I love the feeling of falling in love.

Oh my. Is that what this is?

Brett and I eventually find a spot near the edge of a clearing that will give us some privacy, as well as a great view. Large trees loom overhead, their branches reaching out to us like old friends. The river twists along the valley floor, shimmering in the moonlight.

Brett is standing behind me, so close that I can feel heat radiating off of him. I have the sudden urge to take a small step backward, flushing our bodies together. Anticipation thrills through me. I cautiously step toward him, and lean my head back on his chest.

A small gasp escapes his mouth. I’d love to kiss that beautiful mouth. He breathes out a low, quiet groan and leans down to smell my hair. It’s a delicious feeling, making my skin prickle.

I feel a strong, muscular hand caress my chin, tilting me up so I’m looking at him. I can barely breathe. Brett’s tongue darts out between pursed lips, wetting them. He’s staring intently at my mouth. He leans down toward me. The old block of ice in my chest is melting again.

Our lips meet.

At that moment, the brilliant fireworks that we’ve been looking forward to begin. Through closed eyelids, I sense dazzling flashes of light and color. But neither of us bothers to look.

Chapter 12

Neighbours

I am so excited. Brett suggested I come by his new work site to see the progress they’re making. We’ve been an “official” couple for about a week now, and I’ve become more curious about what he does every day.

I definitely need the distraction. I’ve just had a crap week at work.

St. Puke has been at it again. The absolute worst was when he walked in on me as I was setting up an IV line in a patient’s room. It’s a routine task; I’ve done it a million times.

“Ah, Sophie. How is Mrs. Jones doing today?”

“Oh, a bit better than before. Although her—”

He cuts me off. And Mrs. Jones starts talking too. Only it’s gibberish. She has advanced Alzheimer’s disease, and tends to talk complete nonsense at full speed to anyone who will listen. Apparently, she must think Dr. St. Luke is a good listener. If only she knew.

“Mrs. Jones is scheduled for an assessment tomorrow,” St. Luke says, without looking at me. His attention is focused solely on the chart in his hands.

“Fingle fopper, brig staggen jingle jap,” Mrs. Jones says in agreement.

They both talk loud and fast, so it’s difficult to understand what’s being said. I can only catch the odd word.

“Geriatric assessment team…MMSE…new prescriptions…”

“Sal mosh triggin, diddle bosh lisden, ha ha ha!”

St. Luke gives me a steely look over his glasses.

“Are you going to set that up, or do you normally start by staring at the wall?”

“Fish foggle mesh grippen.”

What? OH!

“I was just about to set it up,” I reply coolly.

With practiced movements, I remove the tubing from its package and label it with a date sticker. I can feel his eyes following me, scrutinizing my every movement. I lift the tubing and expertly spike the bag of saline hanging from the IV pole. HA! I know it’s a small skill, but surely, no one can spike a bag like I can.

Why do I hear running water?

“Shit!” I hiss. I forgot to clamp the tubing, and saline is pouring freely out onto the floor.

“Shit!” Mrs. Jones repeats happily. Huh. She can still say swearwords clearly. Go figure.

I feel my cheeks go red. Such a rookie mistake, one that I haven’t made since I was a student. I desperately grab at the roller clamp, but it won’t budge. I clutch the end of the tube, attempt to squeeze a portion of the line like a garden hose, and end up spraying Mrs. Jones and Dr. St. Luke.

I finally manage to stop the flow of saline by placing my thumb over the end. St. Luke lifts his knitted brow and looks at me appraisingly.

“Well,” he says, “it looks like you’ve got everything under control in here. Excellent job keeping that line sterile, by the way.”

I glance down at my fingers, grubbily fondling the end of the line. Smooth move, Sophie.

Silently, I dispose of the bag of saline and contaminated IV line and exit the room behind St. Luke. I expect him to stalk off toward the nursing station to torment some other unsuspecting person, but he abruptly stops and faces me.

“I’d like you to carry out those orders ASAP.”

My brain stutters and stalls.

“I’m sorry, which orders?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs.

“Your incompetence knows no bounds,” he says. “If you would have been doing your job and
listening
to me, then perhaps you would have heard me.”

“Excu—”

He waves a finger in front of my nose.

“No, no. No more talk. I’ll find someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

He nods his head to me. “Good day.”

Do I run after him and tell him off? First of all, I would need to see written orders before carrying them out. Secondly, there’s absolutely no way I could have properly listened to him back there with Mrs. Jones gibbering over him.

I reflect on these things as I drive to see Brett. I push my hair out of my eyes, and turn up the radio.

Don’t think about work, Sophie. Focus on lovely things. Lovely, muscular things in hard hats and steel-toe boots.

—

I pull into a pseudo-parking lot that’s pretty much a dry field. “Narett Construction” signs are everywhere, as are heavy pieces of equipment, piles of dirt, and portable offices.

It’s an extremely hot July day, and I can see heat radiating off things in waves. I shield my eyes and scan the field. Where is Brett? I’m starting to feel very out of place in my little blue summer dress, surrounded by dirt and sweaty men.

A burly guy with a fuzzy beard and a copious amount of black chest hair matted to the inside of a white T-shirt walks past me.