Myron trails behind me like some hulking bodyguard. At twenty-four, he’s nearly six and a half feet tall, towering over my modest five-foot-three frame—a noticeable difference. And those broad shoulders of his? I doubt I could wrap my arms around them. He’s a good-looking guy, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why he’s bothering to babysit me. Do I really look as pitiful as that wet kitten he mentioned?
I rummage through my pockets, trying to find where I stashed the list. Turns out, I managed to shove it into my purse. It’s only when I grab the piece of paper that I notice how much my hands are shaking.
“Hey there, beautiful. We’d like these medications, please. Same quantities as listed here,” Myron says, snatching the list from my hands and passing it through the pharmacy window with a charming smile for the clerk. “Irina, want some water?” he asks, casting a sharp, assessing glance my way. He’s confident, brimming with determination and a quiet strength. Feeling his energy, I suddenly want to stand taller, to feel like a Woman again. Yes, exactly like that. Only now do I realize how long it’s been since I felt this way. With my Alex, I lost that sensation somewhere along the line, and I can’t even pinpoint when. Shaking my head to decline the water, I pull out Tamara Pauline’s card to pay for the meds at the counter. But Myron still asks the clerk to add a half-liter bottle of mineral water to the bill. He’s doing things his way, as usual. Stubborn as a mule.
“Lead the way,” he says, handing me the water, grabbing the bag of meds, and nodding toward the exit. I’m not in the mood to argue, so I obediently head up to the third floor. We hand over the medications to the nurse, who informs me that the patient’s condition is stable but that a family member needs to be present. The thing is, our Broomstick doesn’t have any family. No one to visit or care for her. There were rumors about a nephew living somewhere far off in Australia, but I doubt he’s eager to shower his dear aunt with warmth and affection. So, it seems she’s only got her cat… and, oddly enough, me.
“Myron, you don’t have to keep following me around. Don’t waste your time. I’m fine, and I’m really grateful for your help. These days, this kind of kindness and attention is rare, so I’m touched, but it’s not fair for me to hold you up,” I say, genuinely feeling awkward. Though, if I’m honest, it’s also a little nice… to know someone cares.
“Back in the park, you mumbled something about a hungry cat. I’m guessing it belongs to this lady? I can tag along. I’m pretty good with kitties,” he says. The longer he sticks around, the stranger this whole situation feels. Sure, I no longer feel like curling up and dying over my husband’s betrayal—thanks to this guy, I’ve managed to get a grip on my emotions—but is this level of attention normal?
“This might come off as rude, Myron, but tell me straight: do you get a kick out of comforting sad, abandoned women? Free hookups or something?” I stop abruptly and turn to face him.
“First off, you’re hardly old enough to be my mom. There’s only a ten-year gap between us. If you think you’re over the hill, that’s your mistake. And second, take a good look at me and tell me if I seem like a guy who’s desperate for action,” he counters. He’s got a point, and I feel like an idiot. A handsome guy like him probably has no shortage of women throwing themselves at him.
“Irina, you don’t have to believe me, but this is just who I am. When I was training to become a certified fitness coach, we learned first aid—heck, they even taught us how to deliver a baby. I’ve got the certificate to prove it. We also had a psychologist work with us for months because our job involves dealing with people. So, I’m not just about sculpting perfect glutes; I’m trained to understand how physical exertion impacts mental health. Some of the folks who come to us are real head cases, God help me. But that’s not the point. What I’m saying is, I can read people, and looking at you, I know you’re not okay. You shouldn’t be left alone. Trust me, this has nothing to do with ulterior motives. Though, for the record, you’re pretty hot. …Is it really that hard to accept help?” Damn, his charisma is off the charts. Being near him feels so good that I’m starting to envy the people close to him.
“It is hard,” I admit honestly.
“Give me the address. I’ve got the day off, and I can spend my free time however I want. If you relax a bit and let yourself get distracted from the noise in your head, you’ll see I’m a pretty interesting conversationalist.”
“Oh, I’ve already figured that out. You must’ve been a guide dog in a past life.”
“Is this payback for the wet kitten comment? Fair enough,” he says with a grin, and when he smiles, dimples appear on his cheeks, making him even more attractive.
I need something to do, something to keep me busy so I don’t lose my mind before my husband gets back. I keep fighting the urge to call him just to hear what lie he’ll spin about his “business trip,” but Myron’s presence stops me from doing anything rash. So, I get back into his car, and we head to a residential area of the city, to Tamara Pauline’s apartment. I’ve got her keys and know the address, but I’ve never been to her place. None of us from the office have. Everyone dislikes Broomstick, and with her difficult personality, she’s managed to get under everyone’s skin at some point.
I keep glancing at Myron, unable to believe this is happening to me. The day started out so ordinary, and then my personal apocalypse hit. My familiar world crumbled, and… this guy showed up, like a lifeline for someone drowning.
“Do you love him?” His question catches me off guard.
I don’t even know what I feel anymore. The image of my husband stroking that woman’s pregnant belly—clearly carrying his child—is still burned into my mind, and I don’t know what to call this hollow void humming inside me.
“My love feels like it’s been skinned alive. Whatever I’m feeling now, it’s definitely not love. It’s some dark, twisted version of it. …What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?” I try to shift the topic, not in the mood to dissect the wreckage of my personal life with him.
“No steady one. I prefer short flings, nothing too attached. I’m all about the vibe, the thrill, the excitement, and equally intense hookups. The girls I hang with are on the same wavelength. My generation doesn’t obsess over love. Or rather, our version of it is… free. You can’t let yourself become so dependent on that feeling, building up expectations that eventually don’t match reality and end up hurting you.”
“A little philosopher, huh? Or maybe you’ve just never truly been in love?” I can’t help but smile, hardly believing I’m debating such serious topics with this young guy. “When you meet the one, when you’re completely hooked and all your past thrills and beliefs about ‘free love’ suddenly don’t matter anymore, you’ll see how wrong you were.”
“Irina, you’re not gonna convince me. But that smile looks amazing on you. You’re a good person. A bit guarded, but interesting.”
“And you’re not exactly a master of compliments,” I say as I step out of the car, eyeing the nine-story building. We need the third entrance, seventh floor. I’ll have to ask one of the neighbors to feed that poor cat since I can’t keep coming here every day. Myron joins me a moment later.
“Actually, I’m pretty good at it. I’m just worried my blunt compliments might scare you off. You’ve been flustered the whole ride,” he whispers, leaning close to my ear. He’s standing so near that, right here in the middle of the street, I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. I don’t understand my reaction. I lift my eyes—and see the same thing reflected in his gaze…