Grace

 

 I haven’t thought about a man since the day Brent left me laying in a hospital bed and never looked back. Being alone doesn’t bother me one bit. I fix people. Because that’s a hell of a lot less painful than loving them. People walk away. Or they die. That’s what love does.

  Some might say I keep a full schedule on purpose. Whether or not that’s true, the fact remains that I don’t have time to date. I don’t even have time to think about dating. Bringing a man into my world wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.

So, why am I letting some guy I’ve seen twice creep his way into my thoughts?

 

 His eyes are dark and daring, like nightfall over the ocean. I want to get lost in their seas. And his voice. When he speaks, his voice breathes life into a darkness I’ve held onto for so long. And his smile. With just one smile, he stilled the silent screams of my broken heart.

 I stick a fourth lettuce leaf onto my fork like I’m trying to win some sort of challenge. I feel his eyes on me, watching, coaxing me to look up. When I do, I find him staring, unashamed. As if eye contact were an invitation for him to join me, he walks up to my table and takes a seat. His long legs stretch out in front of him as he leans back in his chair. I wonder what it would be like to have my legs tangled in his. Good grief, Grace, stop. I clear my throat and attempt to have a normal conversation.

“How’s the patient?”  God, I suck at small talk.

“Sleeping.”

I finally sit the fork down and stop poking at the salad I’m never going to eat. I push the plate to the side, and he snickers. “Sleep is a sign he’s pain-free. So, you must have done a good job.”

“I’ve had practice.” He doesn’t explain, and his eyes give nothing away. I’m not sure I even want to know. I realize in this moment I know nothing about the man sitting across from me. He could be dangerous. He doesn’t feel dangerous. At least not in a way that frightens me. Not like the guys I see in MacArthur Park on my way to work, with guns in their belts and tattoos representing the tears of the dead on their cheeks. He holds my gaze, his dark blue eyes answering my unspoken question. Yes, Grace, this man is dangerous. I’m not too blind to see that. But he is no danger to me. “You should eat. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay. My appetite seems to be in hiding. It happens sometimes. Then it comes back with a vengeance, and I’ll devour a T-bone and a pan of brownies.”

 Great, I’m rambling.

 “Not likely.”

“Oh? You calling me a lightweight?”

A playful smile tugs at his lips. “Just saying, if you’re devouring brownies, I can’t seem to find where you’re hiding them.” His eyes flicker with mischief, and the compliment about my figure brings an instant flush to my cheeks.

“Thank you. If that was a compliment?”

 Why am I second guessing his words? I’m confident. I’ve never been not confident. Why does he make me so nervous? Do I even want it to be a compliment? The sudden throbbing between my thighs says yes. I do.

“It was. And it’s not because of Johan, I hope. That your appetite has disappeared.” He changed the subject. There is a God.

A soft, breathy laugh escapes me. “No. Not because of Johan. I’ve seen worse than that on a good day.” He gazes at me, his eyes full of curiosity and fascination. He’s not the only one who can be mysterious. “I haven’t even been here a whole day, and I’ve already been chased by an angry man with a machete and tended to a man with a gunshot wound. I can’t wait to see how the next five days play out.” A glimpse of genuine interest flashes across his face.

“A machete, huh?” 

“An angry man. With a machete.”

My response provokes another one of his radiant smiles. “Right. Well, that’s entirely different from a happy man with a machete.” He’s mocking me. But not in a condescending way. It’s a welcome contrast to the man I met back in that room an hour ago. I take advantage of the moment and share a piece of myself with him. These pieces I only give out in small doses. Something tells me he’s the same.

“I guess I just thought it would be different.”

“You thought what would be different?”

“People.”

The waitress finally shows up to take his order. He orders it to-go, and my heart sinks a little. I place my napkin on my still full plate, letting her know she can take it from the table.

 “People are disappointing,” he says, relishing the drink of cold water she sat in front of him.

“I just want to help. To make a difference.”

“Not everyone wants to be helped.” His eyes express a sadness I haven’t seen until now, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. “So, tell me about this angry man.”

Whatever memories were flashing through his mind, he is obviously fighting to get rid of them. “I was with a group of missionaries, and there was a boy with no shoes. I just wanted him to have a pair of shoes.” I can still see him, kicking the soccer ball across the hot pavement. “His father didn’t agree.”

 He doesn’t even flinch at my memory, not at all surprised by my words. Is this a daily occurrence? People getting shot and chased by madmen? “So, you’re a missionary too?”

 His comment makes me chuckle. “No. I’m nowhere near that saintly.” There’s no way I could do what those men do on a daily basis. “I’m just a doctor.” He waits for me to continue. “Here to serve.” His eyes flicker at my comment. “The hospital has regulations, an orientation process, so to speak. So, since I couldn’t start today I did the next best thing.”

“The Gateway?”

“How’d you know?”

“Intuition.”

“I could’ve used some of that today.”

“It never occurred to you that any of this would be dangerous? Riding through townships with people you don’t know. In a place you don’t know. And Johan. You know nothing about him. You saw a man with a gunshot wound and you followed him to his room.” 

 Is he scolding me? He knows nothing about me or why I do the things I do.

 “I don’t focus on the danger. I see need. I see hope.”

“That kind of vision gets people hurt.”

 “Then it’s a good thing I’m a doctor.” I laugh at my own joke, and for a second I think he might, too. But the mask comes up, and the moment fades. His concern is heartwarming in its own way. This man is a stranger to me, yet somehow, I feel protected by him.

“You’re not from here.”

He says the words as if they explain my lack of good judgment.

“No. Just a visitor,” I reply with a smile. “I live in Los Angeles.”

He visibly stiffens at my answer, forcing a groan from the rattan chair beneath him. His posture relaxes when the waitress shows up with his food, stored in neatly stacked Styrofoam containers inside a brown paper bag.

“It seems like we’ve both had a long day. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” The change in temperature is palpable as he stands to leave. Did I say something wrong? We went from him invading my space, sitting at my table, and making flirty comments about my body to him not being able to get away from me fast enough. He stalls, as if he’s about to say something else but can’t find the words.

 “So, are you going to tell me your name? Or should I just call you Miss Matthews?”

“My name is Grace.”

He huffs a laugh. “Of course.”

 What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing funny… or predictable… about my name. Grace was my mother’s favorite princess. My mom used to tell me if I’d dye my hair blonde, I’d look just like her.

“You never told me yours.”

 Or should I just call you Long Legs? Maybe Daddy for short? I don’t see either of those going over well.  

“Deacon.”

 Deacon. It figures. Even his name is sexy.

 “Goodnight, Grace.”

“Goodnight, Deacon.”