Kline nodded. “Even after several case studies, I still don’t understand it.”
Thatch flashed a grin and smiled. “Come on. This face could sell fake titties to a nun, son.”
Kline shook his head and stepped forward, dropping a thick stack of papers on my desk with a dramatic plop.
I looked down and took the weight of them into my hands as I asked, “What’s this?”
“It’s the paperwork for the clinic,” he said simply, but the wave of shock nearly knocked me on my ass.
Huh? I squinted my eyes together in confusion. “The paperwork for the…?” Did he just say clinic? As in, Melody’s dream clinic?
“Clinic,” Wes confirmed. “The one you talked to us about,”
“But you guys said…” I paused and glanced around the room at each of them in surprise. “You laughed about this. Called me a love-sick idiot.”
“We remember,” Thatch spoke for the group.
“He doesn’t realize love-sick idiots are our favorite,” Wes stage-whispered.
“Oh,” Thatch said with a laugh. “Well, they are. And we love the idea of the clinic. So long as my name is on it.”
“Thatch, we talked about this,” Kline said with a laugh.
“We did. We talked about putting my name up in big neon letters.”
“Shut up, T,” Wes muttered with a slight smirk on his face.
“No way. You can’t shut me up. No one can shut me up! I am El Duce, and you are nothing but my minions.”
“Jesus,” Kline said through a sigh.
I shook my head, my mind spinning at how fucking amazing this was. How it would change countless women’s lives—and dramatically improve the health of their babies. And then I thought about how the one person who wanted it most wasn’t even here anymore, and my elation quickly faded. “It doesn’t even matter.”
“Of course, it matters,” Kline replied confidently. But he didn’t understand.
“No,” I disagreed. “She’s gone. From here. Probably from New York. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“They always say that,” Wes remarked.
“Mel isn’t a part of a they. She’s not like anyone else. When she said she was leaving, she meant it,” I said, and fuck, the words tasted bitter on my tongue. “Believe me, I’ve spent the last two weeks of my life trying to get her to talk to me.”
“They always fucking mean it,” Thatch boomed, holding out his hand toward me and looking to the others in a gesture of Do you believe this guy? “But they very rarely want it. They just want you to stop fucking up.”
Somehow, for some insane reason, I found myself looking to Thatch, of all people, for advice. “And how do I do that?” My voice sounded desperate even to my own ears.
“You don’t. You’re a dude. But you can work out a system where your fuck-ups line up with her tolerance, and everything comes together in a neat little package.”
“Start by opening the clinic,” Wes advised.
“We did already do all the paperwork,” Kline mused.
“And ponied up the money,” Thatch added.
Was it all that simple? Could a new medical facility and an honest effort on my part make it all better? Was it the big gesture? The kind of gesture that I’d been trying to figure out, but couldn’t find…
“Uh-uh,” Thatch clucked. “I can tell by your face you need to stop thinking right now. This isn’t going to solve any of your problems. Not at all. In fact,” he emphasized, “it’s probably going to make it worse.”
Kline nodded. “But only until you make it better.”
Huh?
“I don’t know what the fuck you guys are talking about. Is the clinic good or is it bad?”
They all looked to one another and smiled. I’d love to know what’s so fucking funny.
“It’s good,” Kline promised. “But there’s a chance she’s gonna be pissed about it, but that only lasts until you can convince her it’s a symbol of what you’re willing to do for her.”
“You see, William,” Thatch cooed. “Women are very complicated creatures.”
I flipped him off. Kline looked to the others and nodded to the door. “We’ll get out of your hair. Just look through the paperwork and think about it, okay?”
“Me, think about it?” I asked. “You guys are the ones who are going to lose money.”
Thatch turned back as he was moving through the door, his hands going to the top of the frame so he could lean back in. He filled the entire space. “Some things, young William, are worth the money,” he said and followed it up with a wink and a smirk. “Plus, we could all use the tax deduction in the form of good charity and the ultimate gesture.”
As they all filed out, giving waves and jerks of their chins, I looked down at the stack of papers on my desk and read the first few lines.
“Those do-gooding bastards,” I muttered, the absurd amount of money they’d each pledged to the formation and operation of the clinic blinding me with the reality.
Frustrated by my own discord, by how conversely happy and twisted inside-out miserable I was, I banged around on my desk like it held important things and yanked open the middle drawer to toss some knickknacks inside.
I didn’t have a purpose, just a fuse to burn out, but as soon as the old drawer squeaked to a stop, so did I.
Right there, on top of everything else, was that very first tongue depressor.
Open wide! Everything you’re looking for is inside yourself.
It was Mel. It was me. It was everything that was us, together.
And it was the only reminder I needed to make a plan.
It was time to get my shit together.
This should have been an awesome day. I should have felt liberated and free and excited as I unpacked my belongings from their cardboard boxes and filled my new apartment with everything that was me, but I had never felt more alone.
It was a soul-crushing kind of loneliness, and it made it damn near impossible to set up my apartment without doing something ridiculous like painting everything black or impulsively running to the nearest shelter and bringing home a cat.
I didn’t even like cats. I was more of a dog person, but I had a feeling me and a sassy feline would have more in common in this miserable moment than a happy, tail-wagging puppy.
I looked around my apartment, and it just didn’t feel like home.
I honestly didn’t know what was home anymore.
Will.
Ugh. One day, my heart would catch up with my brain and get the memo that it was time to move the fuck on from Will Cummings… Right?
It had been so fucking easy to move on from Eli.
Why in the hell was it so hard to move past Will?
Because you’re in love with him, and love never makes sense. And deep down, you think you might have made a mistake…