There’s something to be said about attraction. Much like resentment, you can’t control it—I would know a thing or two about that because I’ve tried.
I was five years old the first time I felt resentment. I still remember it as if it had happened just last night, instead of sixteen years ago.
When I visited my mother in the rehab center for the first time after moving in with my brother and Grace, a weird feeling sank in the pit of my stomach at the sight of her in that place, away from me. Something heavy and sour I had never experienced before, but I already knew I didn’t like it.
It wasn’t until much later that I finally noticed everyone around me, at school and at the ballet studio, had a parent whose arms they could run into. A mother, a father, a stepparent—did it even matter?
First, I felt resentment, animosity, and even hatred. Because why did all my friends have a mom and a dad, and I didn’t?
Then, the guilt began.
No, I didn’t have a mother to read nighttime stories with and teach me how to ride a bike, and I didn’t have a father to protect me and play house with me, but I wasn’t alone by any means. I wasn’t lonely. I had an older brother and a sister-in-law who never once hesitated to do all of those things with me and more.
That resentment toward my mother, as the years passed, turned into resentment toward myself. Because I had people who loved me and worried about me, but I still couldn’t close that gaping hole inside my chest. It still wasn’t enough to heal. It isn’t.
She called me ungrateful because of it, and I guess… Well, she was right.
As I lean back on James’s pristine car seat after I give him directions to my apartment, I make a mental note to text my friends to go out for lunch one of these days. It’s long overdue, and they always manage to keep the monsters at bay.
And I make another, more urgent one, to remind my brain that whatever attraction I feel for the man next to me, it needs to stop now.
He’s your much-older physical therapist. You shouldn’t think about his arms or hands or beard or handsome face. Stop it.
A car honks behind us, and James finally looks at me, as if the loud sound had woken him up from some kind of foggy mental state. He nods toward my take-out bag. “You can eat in the car. It’ll get cold before we get out of traffic.”
Yeah, I don’t think so. Have you seen these leather seats? I already feel bad enough that the car is filling up with the smell of spicy chicken wings. “Thanks, but I can wait.”
“I insist.”
“So do I.”
I think he grunts. “You always get your way, don’t you?” he asks with no real heat in is voice as he changes lanes, and I really should stop ogling his hands as he turns the wheel. It’s not productive at all, and I feel like a class-A pervert.
“I don’t know about that, Doc. Last I remember, I’m in this car because you told me to.”
“You could have declined.”
“I did.”
“Hmm. I don’t remember that part.”
Was that the smallest hint of amusement in his voice?
I must be delirious. Coming down with a high fever or something.
Silence falls over us again, but it’s not uncomfortable. We watch people crossing the busy lanes between the cars, wearing their hockey jerseys. It hits me then that the arena is just a few blocks away, hence the traffic. Monica always plays all kinds of sports games at the bar, but I don’t really follow any of them, so I have no clue what is going on half of the time.
James breaks the silence between us, which takes me by surprise, considering his usual vow of silence. “I was right about driving you home. Your cab fee would’ve been insane.”
I slide him a look that isn’t exactly discreet. Since when do we do casual chatter?
Not that I’m complaining. Of course not.
“It looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while,” I say, still unsure where we are exactly in our doctor-patient-carpool-buddies relationship. “I never asked you about the conference. How was it?”
He mentioned it to me on a Thursday, letting me know one of his colleagues would be seeing me the next day because he had a conference to attend in another city. The other PT, a guy whose name I don’t even recall, wasn’t bad at all. But he wasn’t James.
He rubs his chin with his fingers. “Dull.”
I arch a curious eyebrow. “You’re a man of many words.”
Is that a smile? It’s small and barely there at all, but I swear his lips twitch.
“What do you want me to say? That I had the time of my life and wept at the closing ceremony because it was over? I wish that’d been the case.”
I get the hint of mirth in his voice and run miles with it. “Yes, please. And then you can tell me about how you took all the flyers from the conference and made a shrine for them in your bedroom.”
“Damn, you caught me.”
I smirk. He smirks. Traffic moves.
It takes him a couple of minutes, but finally he gives me a real answer. “I didn’t learn much. That’s why it was a waste of time. I suspected the company hosting it only wanted us to buy their new line of products, but since the clinic kind of forced me to go, I had no choice.”
I frown. “They forced you?”
“They send one or two physical therapists to these conferences every year. I was the lucky one with the golden ticket this time.”
Traffic moves again. For a moment, I think we’re finally out of it, but then we stop again. Hunger and exhaustion must be clouding my judgment because I ask, like I have any right to know, “Do you like your job?”
He shrugs. “I do.” A pause. “Most days.”
Seeing how he didn’t chew my head off for asking a personal question, I try my luck once more. “Why did you decide to become a PT?”
At that, he stiffens. The only reason I notice is because I seem to have a weird fixation on his hands, which tighten their grip on the wheel. I’m not entirely sure he’ll answer, but he surprises me once again by entertaining my nosey ass. “It’s vocational, in a way.”
I wait for an elaboration that doesn’t come. “Is someone from your family a PT as well?” I press.
“No. My parents are both retired now. My mom used to be a baker, and my dad worked at a car repair shop.”
I light up at that. “A baker? That sounds like such a dreamy job.” I smile to myself. “Did you inherit any of her skills in the kitchen?”
Eyes still on the road, he smirks. “Damn sure did.”
And just because I love being a little shit, I say, “I don’t believe you one bit. In fact, I bet you can’t even tell salt from sugar.”
That gets him to look at me. “Why’s that, Maddison?”
I scrunch up my nose. “Don’t call me Maddison. It sounds too preppy.”
“I’ll call you Maddison for as long as you keep being a brat.”
The air whooshes out of my lungs.
Puff, gone.
That familiar tone of amusement in his voice wraps around my ear and whispers a sweet nothing or two into it, and then it sinks in.
Did he just call me a brat?
And most importantly, why the hell do I like it?
My mind is so blank, I can’t think of any mildly imaginative comeback. All I can come up with is: “I’m not a brat.”
“I don’t believe you one bit,” he parrots my words back to me. He turns onto a less busy street, but we stop at a red light. “What were we talking about, anyway? Ah, yes, my dubious skills in the kitchen.”
I shrug. “Well, you never denied not being a disaster.”
“I’m not the best cook, but—”
“I knew it.”
He ignores me, but that hesitant smirk comes back. “I’m decent. A solid eight on a good day.”
I do a slow clap because maybe he’s right and I’m a bit of a brat. On occasion. “A man admitting his flaws? Impressive.”
He arches a skeptical eyebrow. “What do you have against men?”
I pretend to think about it. “Hmm… Where do I even begin?”
He laughs. He laughs. An actual, honest belly laugh that sounds so beautiful, I wish I could play it on repeat when I need cheering up, which happens to be most days lately.
“You know what?” He shakes his head with amusement as we finally turn onto a deserted road, and he speeds away. “Fair enough. We are terrible.”
“I mean, not all of you, but…some are.” I shrug. “In my experience, anyway.”
“Hmm.”
Silence falls over us again like a thick, comforting blanket in the middle of the night. The streets around us pass in a quick blur, but I don’t feel unsafe with James behind the wheel. There’s an air of confidence about him, the kind some would mistake for arrogance, that makes him feel reliable. Like he’d be a good person to call if you’re ever in an emergency, and he’d leave everything at the drop of a hat to come to the rescue.
I’d never admit it out loud, but the fact that he stayed behind tonight to drive me home is warming my heart. Yet I can’t help but wonder, why on earth would someone who barely knows me do such a thing for me? What’s in it for him?
“What’s your experience with terrible men?” he asks, and for some reason, his next words make my heart jump. “No boyfriends?”
I sink back into my seat and tighten my grip on the takeaway bag. “No boyfriends.” I clear my throat. “What about you, Doc? Did the dating app ever pay off?”
Yeah, that’s one question he wasn’t expecting, nor does he look too keen on answering. Still, I wait for a reply I’m not sure I’ll get. But whatever. It was worth the shot.
“I’ve been single for a few years,” he responds, shocking me into silence with an actual answer. “The app wasn’t my idea. It was Graham’s.”
That feels right, for some reason. I just don’t picture him as the kind of guy to pick up girls online.
“I have a bad habit of not deleting stuff from my phone, so that’s why I still have it. Had it. It’s gone now,” he explains.
“That makes sense.” I smile at him, holding in ten million other questions floating around in my head.
When was your last relationship?
Why didn’t it work out?
Does it mean it’s been years since you’ve last had—
Nope. Not going there.
I don’t have any right to ask Dr. Simmons about his sex life. It’s not my place to even think about it.
I blame my stupid thoughts on the crazy day I’ve had, but honestly, I’m not sure I believe it. There’s something about him that breaks down all my inhibitions, and I don’t like it because I can’t control it.
When he stops in front of my building, I don’t miss a beat. “Thank you for giving me a ride.” Still smiling, I take out a container with the chicken wings from the bag. “Pop them in the oven for five minutes, and they’ll be as good as new.”
He looks at it like it’s grown a head or something. “I appreciate it, but you can take it.”
I frown, unbuckling myself from the seat. “I got my own here. You don’t like chicken wings?”
“It’s not that.” He presses his lips in a thin line, and when I nudge him with the container, he finally takes it. “Fine. Thanks.”
“No problem,” I say over my shoulder as I open the door.
Once outside, the cold night air hits me immediately, and I shiver. I’m still unsure why I do it—maybe the cold is affecting my brain. But I lean down to look him in the eye all the same and smirk.
“Enjoy your chicken wings from your bratty patient.”
Despite the darkness surrounding us, the light inside the car gives me a first-row seat to his deep, unexpected blush.
I knew he was a blusher. Why does that make me incredibly giddy?
