Free A Different Kind of Normal by Cathy Lamb Page B

reassuring manner. I think of how he looks at me through his glasses, with tenderness and indulgence, as if he cares about me. He reminds me of a hike through the Columbia Gorge when the leaves are on fire with color, hot cocoa in winter in an outdoor hot tub with snow all around, a day at the beach in spring, and kayaking on a river in summer. He reminds me of life and in any other situation, I would throw myself at that man, I would try to be gracious and elegant while throwing myself, but I’d still take a dare and do it.
    But I can’t.
    Ethan is Tate’s neurosurgeon. He is the best on the West Coast. He knows Tate’s history and he has operated on him three times. If we were to be involved, he could not be Tate’s doctor. He has cried with me several times over Tate.
    He might, possibly, be interested in me. Maybe I’m reading the signs wrong. I am desperate. Desperate people will see signs that are, in reality, not there.
    But sometimes when we’re in his office, we stare at each other. Even Tate has noticed and one time said, “Okay, you two, quit staring at each other or your eyes will pop out of your heads and roll on the floor and I’m not pickin’ ’em up.”
    Another time Tate said, “Should I leave and go find a scalpel to play with? Maybe I can open one of your patients’ brains. Do you mind, Dr. Robbins?”
    And finally, “I think I’ll go and flirt with Leena. I think she wants my body, physically speaking.”
    Leena is a nurse and sixty-five years old.
    One time Tate said to Ethan, “Doesn’t my mom look great today?”
    And, before he could think it through, Ethan said, “Gorgeous, as always. She’s sunshine.” Then he coughed, and blushed, and tore those brown eyes away, brown with a touch of cinnamon in them, and I felt myself heat up like a bonfire.
    Leena said to me one day, peering over her glasses, “You know, Ethan is single, Jaden. Funny thing, but your appointments are always scheduled for a full hour, dear. We call it Happy Ethan Hour around here because he’s always happy when you’re coming in.”
    See? There’s a possibility there. My normal, aggressive personality is all softened out around him. I don’t have a streak of temper or testiness in me. No black thoughts. Love and lust is floating around, turning me into a bumbling, cotton candy-ish, amiable . . . klutz.
    Three times now, I have actually stumbled getting up from my chair in front of him. Twice he had to catch me.
    I’ve run into an open door and into a closed door right in front of him. I’ve tripped and landed on my face. On my face. Repeatedly I’ve been talking and had to stop mid-sentence, flummoxed and flustered, because I looked into those soft, sexy eyes and couldn’t figure out what on earth I’d been talking about.
    And Ethan waits me out, nodding encouragingly, or he picks me up off the floor.
    Ethan is kind and funny with Tate during his appointment, fielding all of his questions about brains, neurosurgery, etc., and then we talk. When I finally relax into him our conversation runs all over the place. Sometimes Tate says, “I’m going to leave you two alone, keep it G-rated,” or, “Off I go, leaving for Tanzania, but you two won’t notice,” and he leaves and goes to chat with the nurses, and we ride that roller coaster of our conversation.
    We discuss current political messes, his brothers, my herb garden, my greenhouse, funny jokes, delicious bread at a bakery down the street, our favorite pies, where we want to visit in the world, the most bare and raw feelings and fears that I have, his grief over his mother’s death, the grief his father still feels for her, mountain biking, and my exotic tea collection.
    But we go no further, and we won’t.
    I can’t.
    I am in love with Ethan, but I will not jeopardize Tate’s medical care. If I am involved with Ethan, he cannot be involved with Tate.
    Tate must have the best. His condition has been too delicate, absolutely life-threatening