In Sheets Of Rain - Nicola Claire Page 0,37

under the arms.”

“You were working with your husband?”

I huffed out a laugh. It was borderline hysterical.

“We don’t work together often,” I said.

“No,” Gareth offered.

“Sean drove. I was in the back with the patient. His daughter followed behind in her car. She hadn’t seen him since Boxing Day.”

“So you said. That bothers you?”

“Of course, it bothers me. He’d been alone.”

“Is that what you think about the most?”

“He had a low blood pressure. Erratic heart rate. He was so cold.”

Gareth didn’t say anything. I kept going.

“He needed fluids.”

Gareth still didn’t say anything.

“I couldn’t get a line in,” I whispered. “I tried. I stuck him everywhere I could think of. Sean pulled the ambulance over, but I’d already tried so many times, there weren’t any decent veins left for him to use. He needed fluids. His blood pressure was too low. I couldn’t get the line in.”

Gareth said softly, “Is that what you think about the most?”

“I wasn’t good enough.”

“Kylee,” Gareth said. “You didn’t fail. You tried your best. His veins had collapsed. There was nothing you could have done differently.”

“But I wasn’t good enough.”

Gareth let out a long, barely perceptible breath of air.

“Is that what you think about the most, Kylee? That you weren’t good enough?”

I looked him in the eyes and said, “Yes.”

27

I Think She’d Be An Amazing Person

“I’m not sure I understand the concept of pick and mix,” Suit Guy said.

“What’s there to understand?” I asked.

“How do you know the product is sanitary?”

“You have to trust in your fellow shoppers not use their hands.”

“And kids?”

“Their parents stop them.”

“Have you seen the kids tearing around this supermarket?”

I took a look around us and watched a boy about the age of seven pick his nose and then surreptitiously place the booger on a nearby shelf when his mother wasn’t looking.

“Point taken,” I said, returning the scoop I held to its slot.

I stared at the liquorice allsorts for a few seconds and then sighed.

“I don’t like the green ones,” I said.

Suit Guy walked over to the lollie aisle and started sifting through the packs of allsorts until he found one with less green ones inside. He turned around and handed it to me.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“You don’t like the green ones. This packet has a minimal green per allsort ratio.”

I stared at him and stared at the packet and then looked at the dozen or so packets he’d gone through on the shelf.

“You act like I’ve done something strange,” he said.

“You have,” I pointed out.

He stared at me, then said, “Has no one ever done something for you simply because you wanted it?”

“I didn’t want this.”

“Didn’t you?”

I huffed out a breath of air, realising he was right.

I’m always right.

“You’re strange,” I said, placing the liquorice allsorts in my trolley.

He smiled.

We walked toward the canned goods aisle.

“Have you been reading?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, with decidedly more enthusiasm.

“And do you think you know your audience a little better now?”

I screwed up my nose and shook my head.

“Might have to read a little bit more,” I admitted.

“Sell me your book,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Sell me on the concept of your book.”

I reached out and grabbed a can of creamed corn, turning it over and over in my hand. I couldn’t tell him about the book I’d been writing. I just couldn’t do it. The story had been stupid. Pathetic. How could I possibly think I could let strangers read my writing if I couldn’t even handle the man I loved telling me it needed more work?

I looked up at the man — the stranger — beside me. He waited patiently. An attentive look in his blue eyes. He didn’t seem in a hurry like everyone else was in the supermarket right then. He looked like he’d stand there all night waiting for me to tell him about a stupid story and a pathetic protagonist and my delusional ideas of being a writer.

“Do you enjoy writing?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What do you enjoy about it?”

“Getting lost in the story.”

He was silent a moment. Then said, “Just getting lost?”

I slowly shook my head. “No, not really. Getting . . . wrapped up in it, I suppose.”

He smiled.

“Tell me about your story,” he urged.

I shook my head.

“What made you start writing it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you hope to achieve by writing it?”

“I want . . . I want to touch people’s lives. Give them a moment to escape reality.”

“Tell me about your story,” he said.

I laughed.

“I bet it’s a good story,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know