There was one certainty in this moment, Scott Eastwood looked perfect naked.
And he looked even better naked in my bed.
“Good morning, Melody,” he said with that signature grin of his and pulled me on top of his ridiculously beautiful body—toned, firm, and sculpted, it was the kind of physique that Greek gods aspired to have.
“Morning, Scott Eastwood,” I said, and his smile grew wider.
“I think you can drop the formalities,” he teased, and I blushed. “We’re married now, honey. It’s about time you started getting used to just calling me Scott.”
Even though this is most likely a dream, Mel, we’ll never stop calling him Scott Eastwood…
Shit…am I dreaming?
I stared into Scott Eastwood’s heavenly blue eyes as he looked at me like the sun rose and set inside of me.
“You’re so beautiful in the morning, Melody,” he complimented and brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes.
Hmmm… Yeah… This seems a little too good to be true…
“I could spend the rest of my life just staring into your eyes,” he whispered and pressed a soft kiss—that included a little tongue—onto my just-woken-up mouth.
“You taste so perfect,” he told me.
I took pride in good dental hygiene, but even the cleanest mouths couldn’t escape the morning breath culprit.
Goddammit. I’m probably dreaming.
“We’re married, Scott Eastwood?” I asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Eastwood,” he responded through a soft chuckle, pressing his lips to mine once more. “We’re married.”
“Did I sign a prenup?”
He shook his head. “I’d never make the love of my life, my soul mate, sign a prenup.”
Fucking hell. Definitely a dream.
Shades of pink and yellow started to filter over Scott Eastwood’s face, and I knew it was only a matter of time. “Kiss me again,” I demanded and he listened.
A man who listens instead of arguing? Most assuredly a motherfucking dream.
“Fuck me, Scott Eastwood,” I insisted, but it was too late. My dream husband’s face and our luxurious white bed started to vanish into thin air as the morning sun finally worked its way beneath my lids.
I opened my eyes and immediately groaned at the sight—pink walls, cardboard boxes, and work-out equipment. In a matter of thirty seconds, I’d gone from floating dreamily on cloud nine with Scott Eastwood’s naked body pressed against mine to one of the seven circles of hell that was actually my reality.
My parents’ two-bedroom nightmare in Hell’s Kitchen. Bill and Janet thought it was a dream, though. One provided by the grace of two little words: rent control.
But I didn’t really see it that way. Not right now. My life had been reduced to six cardboard boxes stuffed inside my old bedroom, and every effort I’d put into being my own woman for the last six-plus years was gone. I was back home. With my parents. In the place I grew up.
Although, it no longer looked like my teenage youth. The beige walls used to be littered with posters of eighties’ New Wave bands like Modern Talking and Rick Springfield.
Hey, don’t judge my teenage music preferences.
I might’ve been an outcast in the early 2000s because I refused to jump on the boy band and mainstream pop wagon, but no one could resist songs like Modern Talking’s “Brother Louie,” and let’s be real, even to this day, everyone wants to be “Jessie’s Girl.”
But now, the room had turned into something out of a bubblegum pink jazzercise nightmare—aka my mother’s “fitness” room. Apparently, pink was one of those colors that motivated people to strive for buns of steel.
To make a long story short, my life outlook was grim—twenty-nine years old, and I had officially moved back home into my parents’ apartment. I was newly single, had no job, and would be spending my nights sleeping between a treadmill and a thigh master.
Ugh. Come back to me, Scott Eastwood!
Shit had just gotten real. Well, real sad. And depressing. And fucking pink.
“Rise and shine, Melody!” My mother announced her entrance with two soft taps to the already half-opened door. The hinges squeaked, and before I knew it, Janet Marco’s smiling face was in full view from my perch on top of my new bed—a mother-flipping air mattress from 1982. It was old enough to be vintage—and not in the fun way—and you couldn’t even use an air pump to inflate it. This baby required the kind of lung capacity that usually resulted in passing out.
Jesus. What in the hell time is it? It felt too early for Workout Barbie to be in here working up a sweat. I snatched my phone off the cardboard box—otherwise known as my nightstand—beside the air mattress. I tapped it to life, and the bright screen all but blinded my tired eyes. I ignored the bullshit How’s the weather by you? text from Eli—my newly appointed ex-boyfriend—and focused on the time. The numbers 9:30 a.m. glared back at me, and I mentally gave my bubbly mother the middle finger.
“How’s my favorite girl?” Janet singsonged as she walked her spandex-covered ass into the room. She left no time for a response before hopping onto her treadmill and jogging at a leisurely pace.
“It’s too early,” I answered, and she immediately cupped her ear in my direction, giving the universal signal for I didn’t hear you.
“What was that, sweetheart?”
“I said, it’s too early,” I repeated, and she offered no response, seemingly still unable to hear what I was saying. I was no rocket scientist, but I’d say the recurrent pounding of her feet against the treadmill track wasn’t helping our conversation.
“Speak a little louder, Mel,” she instructed and tapped her finger against the controls to increase her speed.
Fantastic idea, Mom. Because increasing your speed will definitely help us converse like normal human beings.
A little-known fact about Janet: she was a little hard of hearing. She blamed it on aging and genetics, but considering she’d always had issues, I had a feeling it had something to do with all of the rock concerts she and my father used to go to when they were young and wild. Back in the day, Bill and Janet were hard-core Black Sabbath fans and attended no less than twenty concerts in a span of five years. Not to mention, they moonlighted as KISS groupies on the side.
I was no expert, but it seemed logical that years of Ozzy Osbourne and Gene Simmons shouting into her eardrums didn’t increase my mother’s hearing capabilities.
“I said, I’m fine,” I tried again, and she glanced down at her watch.
“It’s just a little after nine, sweetheart, but you still didn’t answer my question,” she said with a smile. “How are you doing this morning?”
Someone help me. I generally had more patience with my mom, but considering the time of morning and the fact that I’d yet to have a drop of coffee, I pretty much just gave up on having a successful conversation with her and focused on entertaining myself. “I’m a mime,” I said, and she nodded but stared at me skeptically for a few moments.
“Are you sure you’re fine?” she eventually asked. “You’ve had a rough few weeks.”
Interesting, I noted in my case study. Saying something ridiculous to her is actually more successful than honest discussion. Maybe I had just uncovered the secret to productive conversation with Janet Marco. “Yep. I’m a mime.”
“Okay, Mel.” She nodded and offered an apologetic smile. “I guess it’s a little too early for me to start meddling, huh?”
I held up my forefinger and thumb and gestured just a little bit in her direction.
Her smile grew wider, and she nodded again.
Hmm…maybe the whole mime bit isn’t a stretch after all…
“Okay…just one more question, and then I’ll leave you alone—”
“Mom,” I groaned.
She held up one determined hand. “Look, I’m your mother, Mel. It’s my job to worry about you,” she said through panting breaths. “You basically just uprooted your life in a matter of weeks. I mean, a little over a month ago, you were living in Portland with the man I thought you were going to end up marrying, and now, you’re back home and single. You’ve ended a relationship, quit your travel nursing job, and left the city you had been living in for the past five years. It’s just very abrupt is all,” she added and glanced in my direction. “I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
The air mattress squeaked and creaked as I tossed the comforter off my body and got to my feet. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and walked the four steps to stand directly in front of my mother, who was still running like a lunatic on the treadmill.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I reassured her with exaggerated pronunciation.
She quirked a questioning brow, and I nodded.
“Seriously. I’m okay,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie. Although my life had changed dramatically over the past few weeks, it had all occurred by my choice.
I wanted to move back home.
I wanted to leave my relationship with Eli.
I wanted a new start.
And yeah, I’d much rather not be sleeping on an air mattress in my parents’ place, but I couldn’t deny that I felt overwhelming relief by my initial steps toward change. My relationship with Eli was all about give-and-take; I gave and he took.
I had stayed in Portland because of Eli. I had stayed at a hospital nursing job I wasn’t all that fond of because of Eli. I had done a lot of things because of that relationship, and it was time I found my own way and lived the life I wanted to live. I loved Eli, but I didn’t love him enough to lose myself to a relationship I wasn’t even certain he was fully committed to.
“Will you do me a favor, Mel?”
I tilted my head to the side skeptically. “What kind of favor?”
“Do you remember Savannah Cummings?”
“Your weirdo sex therapist friend?”
She nodded. “Yep. Her.”
My eyes bugged out of my head. “You want me to go to sex therapy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother laughed and shook her head. “Her son Will is an OB/GYN, and his practice is currently interviewing for an office nurse. His office is only about ten blocks from here, and since you’ve been doing labor and delivery for the past five years, I think you’d be a perfect match for the job.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I sighed. “I mean, working in an office setting? I think I’d rather just apply for an actual labor and delivery position at one of the hospitals here.”
“You’ll also get to assist Will in deliveries at St. Luke’s. You’ll get the best of both worlds with this position.”
“You seem to know a lot about this job…”
She shrugged it off. “I had lunch with Savannah last Thursday, and she happened to mention it.”
I scrutinized her facial expression and found a couple of cracks—mostly in the skin between her eyebrows, a Janet Marco tell. “What aren’t you telling me right now?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “I told Savannah to have Will’s office manager schedule you for an interview on Monday.”
“Monday?” I questioned in annoyance. “As in this Monday? Like, tomorrow, Monday?”
“I had to, Mel,” she defended. “I was afraid the position would be gone if you waited any longer.”
“What if I didn’t want that job? Did you ever think of that?”
“But you love nursing, Mel.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “What time is the interview tomorrow?”
“Eight thirty.”
“In the fucking morning?”
“Language, Melody.”
I refused to feel bad for dropping an f-bomb over this news. I mean, my mother had just gotten me an interview for a job I wasn’t even sure I wanted. Not to mention, she’d scheduled it for eight thirty in the goddamn morning. I’d been working night shift for the past five years—I was the furthest thing from a morning person. My internal clock was accustomed to sleeping at eight in the morning, not waking up to be interview-ready and fight the morning NYC rush.
Hello, God. It’s me, Mel. Can I go back to my dream life with Scott Eastwood? He’d definitely be on board with staying in bed all day.
“8:30 was the only available time they had left for an interview,” she explained. “I didn’t want you to miss this opportunity.”
Fucking hell. I considered miming a very distinct gesture, but only briefly. No amount of bird-flipping was going to get me out of this one.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The rapid sounds of my heels tapping against the sidewalk berated my tardy ass as I rounded the corner of 10th Avenue. My Monday morning had started out like only a true Monday morning could. First, I’d slept through my alarm and woken up to my mother’s shrill voice shouting that I was going to be late for my interview before she hopped on her treadmill and started jogging while the Bee Gees serenaded her with “Stayin’ Alive.”
Of course, then, since I’d only had fifteen minutes to get ready, I’d found myself fixing my hair and makeup on the subway. It was pretty much an exercise in futility, applying mascara on a metal contraption speeding across tracks with enough bumps and grinds to make R. Kelly proud, but I’d done it anyway. And then there’d been the old man sitting behind me who’d appeared absolutely fascinated with making creepy eye contact with me in my compact mirror.
Did I mention Mondays are my favorite?
And even more than that, the best kind of Monday is one where you have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to attend an interview your mother scheduled for you.
An interview you don’t even really want.
An interview that would keep you in a career you aren’t even sure you like.
Happy motherfucking Monday.
As my lungs struggled for oxygen and my feet screamed inside of my heels for a reprieve, I realized I’d forgotten what three New York city blocks actually equated to in terms of distance. Sure, walking three blocks at a leisurely pace with a pair of comfy Converse on was no big deal, but practically sprinting that distance in a pair of heels was the equivalent of Mean Girls’ queen bee Regina George—a real fucking bitch.
As I headed for the finish line—Dr. Cummings’s office—I tried to pick up the pace. I was already fifteen minutes late, and I had a feeling most medical practices preferred applicants who could get to work on time.
Interviewing 101: Be on time to the fucking interview, Melody.
There was a good chance I’d already screwed this opportunity before I had the chance to hand them my resume. I was a fighter, though, so I kept onward.
I did my best impression of The Matrix as I maneuvered through the workweek foot traffic cluttering the sidewalks. But it was of no use. My elbow still managed to bump into a man in a power suit holding a cup of coffee. The liquid splattered out of his cup and onto his dress slacks.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” he shouted toward me.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I muttered, but my legs kept moving toward Dr. Cummings’s office. I knew not stopping made me seem like an inconsiderate asshole, but for one, I was already running late, and, well, that guy appeared to already have a job. And thirdly, the damage was already done. What was I going to do? Stop in the middle of the sidewalk and lick the coffee off of his crotch?
A girl could only handle so much bullshit on a Monday morning.
The words St. Luke’s Hospital shone like a beacon as I stopped in front of the entrance closest to Dr. Cummings’s practice, and quickly headed through the front doors, down the hall, up the stairs, and through the doors of the office. Apparently, Janet had been so excited about this opportunity that she’d invested in the research, drawing me a schematic of the hospital’s layout and the fastest route to the office last night after dinner.
The instant my heels hit the hardwood floors of the waiting room, everyone, including the receptionist, glanced up in my direction. I had a feeling my entrance was less than graceful. It could’ve been the whole out of breath with my hands on my knees performance I was displaying or the windblown hair and wrinkled dress shirt that I hadn’t worn since high school.
Whichever it was, both things pointed to me being a bit of a mess.
“Can I help you?” the young female receptionist asked around a mouthful of gum.
“Uh, yes,” I muttered and walked over toward the desk. “I’m here for an interview. My name is Melody Marco.”
She stared at me for a good thirty seconds while she made popping sounds with her gum. Eventually, she sighed, blew a giant pink bubble from her lips and sucked it back into her mouth, and then moved her fingers to the computer and tapped her long, acrylic nails against the keys.
“Your interview was at 8:30,” she announced.
“I know. I was a running a little late,” I excused. “I just moved back to the city from Portland, and I guess I forgot how busy New York is on a Monday morning.”
“It’s 8:50.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”
Good Lord, this receptionist was sassy. And repetitive.
“I know. And like I said, I’m really sorry.”
Melissa, as her name tag indicated, sighed and picked up the phone. “Melody Marco is here for her interview. She’s twenty minutes late.”
Wow. Thanks, Melissa.
“Okay. I’ll send her back,” she responded into the receiver before hanging up the phone. She tapped the button for the doors that headed toward the offices, and they swung open on command. “Even though you’re late, Betty will still see you. You can go on back.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said and glanced toward the doors. “Which office is hers?”
“You’ll find it.”
“Gotcha.” Perfect. I’ll just stroll through the hallway and, hopefully, find Betty’s office. No worries about me accidentally stumbling into one of the exam rooms while a woman is getting a pap smear or something.
Luckily, Betty’s office actually said Betty—well, it said her full name, Betty Matthews, with the title Office Manager below it. And it was easily spotted a few doors down from the reception desk.
The door was shut, so I rapped my knuckles against it three times.
“Come in,” she responded. I opened the door, walking in and shutting it softly behind me.
Betty sat behind her desk, tapping her fingers across the keys of her laptop at a rapid-fire pace. What is that? A hundred and twenty words per minute? She didn’t even bother to look up at my entrance, her eyes staying completely fixed on the computer screen.
“Uh, hi, I’m Melody Marco,” I announced. “I’m here to interview for a nursing job.”
“You’re late,” she stated, but she did at least look up in my direction.
“I’m so sorry. I just moved back to the city from Portland, and I guess I misjudged how busy New York is on a Monday morning,” I repeated my earlier excuse in hopes it would help for something and ran two sweaty palms down the wrinkles of my skirt. This whole interview thing was off to a phenomenal start. Everyone I’d met in the office appeared to completely despise me. I wasn’t a psychic, but I felt like a prediction of me not getting this job wasn’t too far off base.
“Please, take a seat,” Betty said as she finally looked up from her laptop and gestured toward the leather chair in front of her desk.
I handed her my resume and sat down.
“Is tardiness an issue for you…” she started and glanced down at my resume, “Melody?”
“No,” I answered confidently. “I’ve never had any issues with tardiness or absences with any of my past jobs.”
“You did travel nursing for a few years, I see,” she stated and continued to browse through my credentials. “And it looks like for the past few years your sole focus has been labor and delivery.”
“Yes. I have over five years of experience as a labor and postpartum nurse.”
“And what made you move back to the city?”
Because I broke up with my asshole boyfriend, and now I’m stuck sleeping on an air mattress beside a treadmill at my parents’ home. “My family is here. I just felt like it was time to move back home.”
“And what made you apply for this job?”
Because my mother loves to meddle in my life and actually scheduled this interview for me without my knowledge. I don’t even think I want this fucking job. “I have a passion for obstetrics and loved the idea of having a more set schedule. My last job in Portland, I was working twelve-hour night shifts,” I informed her. “Working night shifts occasionally isn’t bad, but after a few years of doing them full time, it really starts to wear on you.”
“All right, Melody,” Betty said. “I’m the type of woman who likes to cut through all of the crap, and seeing as I’ve already interviewed over fifty women for this position in the past week, my patience is starting to wane, and I’d rather just get down to the important shit.”
“Uh…okay.”
“Have you seen the show?”
“What show?”
“The show.”
I looked back and forth, half expecting to see a camera hiding behind her potted plant, and then back to Betty. What in the hell was she talking about? “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The documentary that Dr. Cummings is on.”
“He’s on a documentary?” Now? Cripes. I didn’t want to be on camera.
She tilted her head to the side and scrutinized my expression. “You honestly haven’t seen it?”
“No. I’ve honestly never seen it.” I could feel my eyebrows drawing together to form my what the fuck face, so I tried to fight it. I’d been told it made me look really bitchy.
“Okay. Well, I have a few more interviews scheduled this week, and then we’ll give you a call sometime next week to let you know either way.”
“Oh. Okay. That sounds good to me.”
“Would you like me to give you Dr. Cummings’s phone number in case you have any specific questions about the job?”
“Um…” What? “I’m not sure that would be appropriate… Couldn’t I just contact you?”
Betty smiled and clapped her hands together in excitement. “Oh, thank God!” she exclaimed and hopped up from her chair. She walked toward the front of her desk and pulled me—literally pulled me—out of my chair and into a tight hug.
“Uh?” I mumbled, but she completely ignored my confusion.
Once she was finished embracing me, she let go and held out her hand in my direction.
“Melody, I would like to offer you the job.”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“Yes,” she said with an enthusiastic nod.
“But I was like twenty minutes late for the interview,” I blurted out.
“Yeah, but you have the right experience, and you’re not here to seduce Dr. Cummings.”
My eyes went wide in confusion. Seduce Dr. Cummings? What in the ever-loving fuck?
“So, Melody Marco, is that a yes? Would you like to accept the position?”
Did I really want the position? Probably not.
But did I need money? A thousand times yes. I could only handle having Janet and Bill as roomies for so long.
Was I a little creeped out with how this whole interview process had just gone? Definitely.
But money, Mel. You need money…
I nodded and smiled. “Yes. I would like to accept the position.”
“Fantastic,” she said and shook my hand. “Paul from Human Resources will contact you to discuss benefits and pay and start date,” she informed me and handed me a folder filled to the brim with new-hire information. “He sounds a lot tougher than he actually is, so whatever he offers as your base pay, I’d counter with something at least ten percent higher,” she whispered and winked.
“Uh…okay, thanks.” Was the office manager really giving me tips on how to get more money from the hospital? What in the hell is this place? I thought to myself as I glanced around her office again to make sure there weren’t hidden cameras for some kind of prank show.
But they weren’t there.
And Betty just kept smiling like she’d won the lottery.
“And don’t hesitate to call or email me with any questions that you might have.” Her fingers tapped the folder. “All of my contact information is in that folder.”
As I walked out of Betty’s office, a bit dazed and a lot confused, I couldn’t deny that I’d just experienced the weirdest interview I’d ever attended. I felt like one of the main reasons I’d gotten the job offer was because I hadn’t seen the documentary with Dr. Cummings, and if not having seen the documentary was that important, I only had one question.
What in the hell kind of documentary was it?