Candy | MouthWashing Game Curly X OC

𝘖𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦

"Mom, he's really done amazing progress." I started stacking the plates on the side of the sink on the counter. Mom stayed silent and I could basically feel her stare.
I continued.
"He really enjoys going on small walks with just us two."
Her eyes seemed to burn holes in me. I stopped stacking the plates from the sink and turned around, hands on my hips, to return her stares. "What is it?"

"Nothing... and what's tomorrow's schedule?" She slowly turned around and started putting the plates I stacked, in their respective spots in the cabinet. I still stood there with my hands on my hips and my eyes lowered to the floor.

"Just my usual laundry routine-"
"I meant with Grant."
I nodded. "Oh." Silence as she finished the plates. "I'm going to be going over his options of being independent, then we're going to go about his regular day."

"What are the options?" Mom asked, now double-checking the calendar.

"A service dog, prosthetic arms and-or legs. There's a few more on the list I haven't written out." I watched her face for a reaction. Mom simply wrote something on the calendar, licking her bottom lip in thought. I could just tell she was thinking of something to talk to me about and I would not like it.

"Which one do you think he'll want?" She asked finally. I leaned my back against the kitchen counter and crossed my arms.

"I don't know. I'll talk to him tomorrow." The clock on the wall ticked, echoing and making the wait unbearably long. I wish she would just confront me with whatever it was she was thinking about. Mom hummed slightly. The frogs outside in the night croaked loudly, loud enough to hear through the window.

"You feel something for him."
There it was.

"Mom!" I scrunched my nose.

"You have spent more time with Grant than you have with any other patient I have seen and I'm not scolding, but observing." She turned and copied my movements of crossing her arms.

I rolled my eyes. "Of course, not scolding but observing. I don't have feelings for a patient."
Mom's lips were straight but the twinkle in her eyes showed that she knew me better than that.

She tilted her chin up slightly. "You feel nothing?"

I looked down at my shoes and wiggled my toes in my shoes, curling and uncurling them, feeling anxiety pulsing in my ears. It wasn't that I felt nothing. In fact, I did feel... things.
"It's inappropriate," was all I could say.
Mom pursed her lips.

"I'll let you alone to your thoughts. Think on it. Don't forget to start the dryers." She took a small clipboard that was on the counter and walked away, giving my shoulder a thoughtful squeeze.  I stuck my bottom lip out in annoyance. She's always doing that. Giving me a reason to "find myself". Figure out myself. Sometimes I don't want to.

I trudged myself to our laundry room.

I told myself it was nothing. There was no reason for me to feel that way. He was just someone I was helping, someone I was supposed to care for professionally. I repeated that to myself over and over, hoping it would quiet the fluttering in my chest whenever he did that half smile or looked at me with those eyes, so full of vulnerability. Vulnerability and trust.

At first, it was easy to convince myself. If I told myself I was just being empathetic, that the tenderness I felt was nothing more than compassion... I believed it. But then, my heart felt lighter when he spoke to me, and I caught myself staring longer than I should. Thinking more. My thoughts drifted back to him when I was alone. It felt wrong, like a betrayal of my role, of what I was supposed to be doing. I loved caring for him to see progress but his personality was so vulnerable mixed with a hint of who he was. Charismatic, nice, a good listener. He liked to joke. He loved candy.

I tried to push it down, to bury the feelings deep inside. I told myself it was just a passing moment, that I was overthinking and pressed the buttons to the dryers, starting the clothes so they would be dry in the morning. But no matter how many times I tried to redirect my focus, no matter how many walls I put up, there was always that soft, insistent pull in my chest—a reminder that maybe, just maybe, it had been more than I was willing to admit.

Mom could've been right. But even then, where would I go from here? Nowhere. I can't simply pursue a patient because I wanted to. Poor man was so traumatized about everything and I couldn't jump at the opportunity to cause more stress. Especially when I'm sure I was the last thing on his mind.

"Dammit, mom."