Fuck. No wonder my family thinks I’m a screw-up. I am a screw-up. My bachelor’s degree in Art History was supposed to set me free, but it just ended up being an albatross around my neck. It didn’t open a single door for me, didn’t get me a single job offer. A position at a museum or in academia now requires more than a measly bachelor’s degree. You need a master’s or a PhD, and I can’t exactly afford to go back to school for another hundred years.
Besides, lately I’ve been wondering if I even belong in a creative field. I’ve tried and failed at so much shit, but this nursing thing… It feels right. When I think about doing it, it’s like my entire being just…centers. This is the first time I’ve ever felt that way.
“Did you consider any Canadian schools?” Dyson asks.
“No, why?”
“They’re cheaper. I didn’t know that when I was applying, but I work with some nurses who studied in Vancouver to save money.”
I make a mental note to investigate.
“And listen,” he says gruffly, “if you’re really serious about nursing, then I’m more than happy to sit down with you and tell you all about it. The good, the bad and the disgusting bedpans.”
I giggle.
“Seriously, babe, this job can be gross sometimes. But it’s super-duper rewarding, too. It’s the best decision I ever—oh sweet Jesus of Nazareth, who is that? And what are those?”
My head swivels to the other side of the tent, and I immediately let out a strangled shriek.
Oh hell no.
4 We’re Number One. Or Two
Blake
Cheezus. This is going to be a nice party. As I carry two giant balloon bouquets down the sloping lawn, I like what I see. There’s a long line of tables for the buffet, ensuring good access to the chow later. And some dudes in white shirts and black vests are setting up what could only be a generous bar.
“Check it out,” I say to Granny Canning. “They’re putting down a dance floor right on the lawn.”
“I’ll bet you like to boogie.” She gives me a wobbly smile. “I’m saving a dance for you, hot stuff.”
“Awesome. You stay cool, GrannCann.” I lead her over to a nice wicker chair facing the lawn. “I gotta deliver these babies.”
“What about my luggage?” she asks. “I think I left it in your car.” She covers her mouth to smooth over a little belch.
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you, honeybuns!” she calls as I walk away.
The babes. They all dig me.
“BLAKE RILEY!”
A shriek cuts through the air, its pitch as high as a dog whistle. “Whassup, J-Babe! I got your balloons and your grandma. What’s next on my list?”
She marches across the grass on those long legs, her soft hair bouncing on beautifully tanned shoulders. Jessica Canning is a vision of sexiness in her sleeveless dress and perfectly pink lips.
Her face is a little red, for some reason. But hey, nobody’s perfect.
“What the hell are those?” She points up into the air.
I look, too. “You know, now that you mention it, that cloud does kinda resemble a camel.”
“No, those!” She points nearer to my head.
“Balloons, duh.” I admire them. “The white you ordered turned out really boring in person, though. You shoulda seen it. Just…whiteness on white ribbons. So I dressed ’em up a little. It’s sporty, you know? Aren’t they perfect?” I’d bought fifty Mylar balloons in the shape of those big foam fingers you see at hockey games. “This is a sporty wedding. I saw those puck-shaped chocolates you got, and the hockey-themed wedding website. So these fit right in.”
They’re bright blue and say WE’RE #1 down the finger.
“N-no you don’t,” she sputters. “No fucking way.”
“Language, Jessica!” Cindy Canning chides, gliding up to where Jess and I stand facing each other. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“Those are not the balloons I ordered.” Her pink, pouty lip sticks out, and I want to give it a nibble. But I’m sensing now isn’t a great time.
“Well, they sure are shiny,” Cindy says. “They’ll do, honey. Let’s not get all stressy.” Cindy waves at her mother-in-law. “Thank you for picking up Nana at the airport, Blake.”
“Don’t mention it. We had a little scare there when the airline couldn’t find her luggage, but I calmed her down. I’m good at that. Right, GrannCann?” I call over my shoulder.
“Everything is fine!” Granny yells. “Hi, Cindy! Let me see that dress. Lace, honey? That’s very mother-of-the-groom.” She cackles.
Cindy’s eyebrows lift. “Blake, is it possible that my mother-in-law has been drinking?”
“Well, she was pretty stressed out. I bought her a couple of beers while the airline guys ran around and found her luggage.”
“Oh dear,” Cindy says, marching off to check on Granny.
That leaves me and Jess alone, and she’s staring at me like she wants to rip off my clothes. Or just rip something. I’m not quite sure which.
“Those blue fingers have to go,” she hisses, low and threatening. “Where are the rest of the white ones?”
I shrug. “Didn’t need ’em, so I gave them to a kid who was having a birthday party. Man, that kid was stoked. Said he was going to try that thing where you hold ’em all and jump off the roof of the garage.”