A Bit of Nothing

Alright. This popped out of my head last minute ago (@April 17) and am immediately writing this, like, in a raw draft/ pre-writing before I'll even forget this story.

This one came out watching clips of Miss Meadows (2014) right in TikTok, and find the actor, James Badge Dale, playing as the sheriff mesmerizing. Like, no shit, he saunters on screen and makes me wanna say rawr (lol). As a romantic lead for the titular character, he's dripping hot. So here I am fantasizing.

Themes explored are pretty much romance, family dynamics and the medical condition of dementia. It's introspective and psychological. It's also slow-paced. Meaning, it can get really boring if you're into more of an action and plot-driven type. With only few steamy cuts.

So... yeah.

Sex is not the main dish (sorry, xo). But sexual overtones and strong language remains unfiltered. It's Literotica, baby.

Content Warning: This story explores marital infidelity or CHEATING and its effect on the main character. If one is not comfortable with it in some way, here's a heads up.

Also, I have a disclaimer: This is set in the United States written by a non-American. So if there are flaws about its take on the complex socio-political and cultural issues that's touched by the story, it has something to do with me being a foreigner.

If you allow me, I'd like to spill this story that kept floating around my head recently. Thank you in advance!

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Chapter 1

My mom is an emotional cheater. When I was sixteen, my reaction made me fantasize about splashing muriatic acid on her skin just so she could feel the pain her actions caused those around her.

Of course I didn't do it. I was sixteen, dependent, with the values of filial piety raised deep in my bones. Typical of my Asian and conservative household. Sometimes relatively mild, sometimes moderate, and sometimes extreme in its strictness. It's a sin to talk back to your parents, right? Or to even call them out for this form of betrayal.

My dad did nothing wrong except try to make ends meet as a cab driver, working the graveyard shift just to keep this family together. I guess on his behalf, I'm sorry to mom if he doesn't deal in business like she does, and that driving a cab is all he knows. But at least he never contemplated finding an escape elsewhere. Unlike her with her "business colleague."

Whatever that fucking means...

This went on for two more years. They constantly communicated through their phones, and I would find my mom's screen blinking with messages like: I miss you.

Fuck them. That loser and that selfish bitch.

When I turned twenty-three, I got my diploma and became a fresh graduate unwilling to enter the workforce. I'm one of those Gen Zs who couldn't give a fuck about corporate life. We moved to a more homogenous neighborhood--whiter, as they say--when my family's livelihood became a little more stable. But just as this favorable mobility happened, my dad, with news that came too late, was diagnosed with dementia.

It was only a few months before I could see the rapid effects. All his sharpness plunged away, that when he looked at me, it was often with a vacant stare. A crashing wave of despair made me lose my ground for a while, and I ended up becoming his caretaker. We were a family of seven. I'm the eldest, with two sisters and two brothers. They didn't know mommy was cheating, nor did my dad.

But we could all see the lack of interest my mother exhibited toward her own household, constantly checking her phone and randomly smiling.

Have you ever wondered why I sometimes call her a selfish cunt out of deep-seated resentment? It's because I never understood her. When I was young, she was a mother, doing the bare minimum of parental duty. But ever since then, whenever she didn't get what she wanted, she became controlling.

She hated being defied or disobeyed. She also enforced corporal punishment towards us as a means of discipline. Over time and we grew up, when things finally didn't go her way, she chose infidelity. Apples don't really fall far from their trees, do they?

Soon I grew to understand that we, the children, were actually surviving in a dysfunctional family. My father is really a wholesome man--as long as you don't listen to his bigoted views and endures his verbally abusive tendency. My father is also egotistical; he wanted to be the main character of his every narrative.

As a result, I suffered. I like to think it was depression, but a functional kind. How would I know? I never asked a licensed professional. When life gives you lemons, as cliché as it sounds, I give it brief acknowledgment. But once that acknowledgment is done, I bury it and never, ever mention it again.

I don't think healthy families exist. And I'll never believe that a husband and wife can actually be sweet and deeply in love like high school couples in YA rom-coms, where the very concept of infidelity is almost non-existent in their vocabulary. Adult parents introduce you to the word "adultery" since it comes from them, you know... being adults and all that.

Adulting also makes you understand that it doesn't work that way. And deep inside me, I'm convinced it never will. Romantic intimacy repulses the shit out of me. But I like men, unfortunately. If I could get sex out of them. Just that: no more, no less. Since that's their only benefit to me.

That's on me. Anyone who believes otherwise, I'll respect that. I don't have the need to shove my problematic perspective in anybody's face anyway. And I don't plan to change my views either.

I graduated with a Computer Science degree when AI was becoming rampant. I also got out of college without thinking about the direction of my next life. I don't care. In the end, I live with my parents, with a routine that centers around my dad.

I find strolling through this small grocery store every morning really fun, because I tend to be greeted by a middle-aged Mexican mother who I've gotten to know well since I buy adult diapers from her any time of the day.

"¡Hola, chica!" she chimes with morning energy.

I used to greet back, "¡Hola, mami!"

Then we would laugh together. I love her, she's unassuming yet open and sizzling with life.

"How's my Filipina 'miga this morning?" She asks, checking out the eco bag that's balled on my hand. "Big buys, no?"

"Sí, mamita. Same old, same old," I replied, nodding in cheeky resignation.

I tend to call her mamita but her name is Rosana Camacho. She works for her children's education at the outskirts of this neighborhood.

Basically, the main residents of this neighborhood are the well-off middle class. Luxurious modern houses that are empty by day since most of them have this managerial role or some executive-level gigs in expensive suits. At night, they light up their beautiful residences with this cozy ambiance. Quiet, secured....

If not sterile and remote.

I'm a third generation Filipino-American who used to live in Brooklyn. That's where my family scraped to get by, where my father worked as a cab driver, and where my mom cheated with a white man named Robin or Rob. I pieced that together from her text messages. Brooklyn is also where I spent my junior high years, juggling school with my part-time waitressing job at a local restaurant.

When Rob took advantage of my mother's contributions to their business venture, he kept all the credit and profits for himself. Their romantic affair, therefore, fell out from their delusional high horses.

Humiliated by receiving just pennies for her investment and facing the community's judgment after everyone found out she'd been played, my mother moved us to Michigan with all that money she had.

This exclusive neighborhood.... is just so white?

You know what I mean? Like that house in Clueless where Cher have this, like, mansion. But then it's so rare to find a Dione. Does anybody understand what I mean?

And fucking dead. The streets here are fucking dead silent except the chirping birds and goddamn squirrels that sounded like New York rats. Occasionally a Porsche or Vanguard drives by with their muffled engines. Everything's shiny but lifeless. I couldn't care less, though I'll admit those Hummers do catch my eye.

The only people who bring any real life to this fancy postal code are the workers--people like Rosana at the grocery store, the garbage collectors who actually say good morning, the gardeners and street sweepers who chat with me about local happenings. They're the heartbeat of this pristine facade.

These are the faces I see during my daily routine, including my regular trips to the grocery store where I'm currently standing, staring at the diaper section and noticing with irritation that the prices have jumped since yesterday.

I grabbed two packs and headed to the counter. "Mamita, why's this?" I complained to Rosana, dropping the bags with a thud. "That's two dollars more than yesterday! Can I haggle?"

"What?!" She interjects. She's not having it. "Katarina, you live in this neighborhood. How come you deal like a merchant? You're supposed to be a patron to make the economy here thrive."

"In a high price? What neighborhood, mami?" I denied. "I live down south over there," I added, pointing a direction beyond the glass walls of this store.

Rosana dropped her face and served me a chagrined look. "That's south two blocks away from this main avenue which you walk into everyday," she tested her words. She put her hands on both sides of her hips and gave me that very mamita scolding. "Hermana, you get your shit altogether or you drop all your items and drive to the nearest Walmart."

"But I don't know how drive," my voice mumbled in complaint. I looked up, more determined, with eyes pleading. "Mamita, please," came my attempt at it, even putting both my palms together in front of her. "How 'bout a raise of 75 cents only?"

"The door is always open for an exit to Trader Joe's," was her curt reply.

"Mamita," I held the counter's edge and slowly sunk down. "Have mercy on me," I continued with my Oscar-winning whine. Then I snapped back upright with a bright idea: "How about a dollar?"

"Get out."

My face crumpled in reluctant pettiness as I gave in. Rosana punched in my purchase with that I-knew-you-would look. "That'll be 55 dollars."

My pocket hurt. I dug through my meager purse and counted out the bills, mentally closing my eyes on what I was about to do. Damn it. This could've been just 50 dollars. No, 40 even. Damn this neighborhood.

Once I'd packed everything into my eco bag, Rosana's cheerful face returned. "Now that's done, what are your plans today?"

"Daddy check-ups," I said, struggling to fit the bulky diapers into my bag.

"Who's driving?"

"Not me, definitely," I answered, working on the impossible knot.

"Is it Mike?"

Mike is the nurse who specifically attends to my dad. My tongue clucked. Once I secured the knot, I looked up. "You know, he's a little sus."

"Sus?"

"Suspicious. You said he lives here," I muttered.

"Chica, he lives in that blue mansion on the East," Rosana supplied.

"Yeah," I grabbed my bag hastily. "That Mike is also a son of that man who wears suits while somebody drives a black Benz for him. Does Mike have nothing else to do?"

"He's a longtime volunteer as a forest ranger," Rosana answered in good faith.

"Let me guess, he's also a Boy Scout?"

Rosana shrugged. "I guess."

I scoffed. "Damn, that's good role-playing."

I hate privileged kids. What only lacks for this Mike is to follow a script and be a good actor. Or maybe he genuinely cares about century-old native trees and moose crossing the road. What is he, their traffic enforcer while these buffalo cross?

"Now that's the thing," I wagged a finger at Rosana. "Mike actually does our driving. He picks us up and assists us to the healthcare center."

Rosana's mouth opened, then slowly closed. She gulped. "Bueno, Katarina! I was about to invite the two of you to my kid's birthday dinner--"

"You're friends with Mike?! When?" My voice rose in shock.

Rosana flipped her wrist dismissively. "I knew him separately. He helped with my kid's field trip every year as their forest ranger."

"Huh? But every other year they go to beaches. Last year they went to the Pacific coast in L. A."

"The school hired Mike as their personal lifeguard," Rosana whispered with a reassuring wink.

"And this bloke agreed," I murmured, taking a deep breath. "Seriously? What doesn't this guy do? He's becoming more and more sus..."

Rosana's brows knitted at the word "sus," but I didn't elaborate. Instead, I set down my bag and threw my hands up in confusion.

You see, I met this Mike occasionally. My first impression of him was he's drop dead gorgeous. Dark blonde, light-eyed. His face passes Greek god quality--golden ratio symmetrical harmony and sculpted cheekbones. His body is obviously well-toned, visible even in his mint green scrubs. My perverted thoughts immediately screamed yes please, I want a taste of that. Agreed, it's that bad. I was satisfied ogling and objectifying him until he opened his mouth and destroyed my fantasy.

Turns out, Michael Sanditon isn't even aware his sweet smile affects women. It's fucking annoying because I can't talk dirty with him or get into his pants without being accused of only wanting his body.

Which is true, but it wouldn't hurt if this hot-ass is a fuckboy. Win-win for both of us.

Which. He. Is. Not.

Just fucking annoying.

So I'm obligated to engage with him as a person rather than a sex doll. Tsk, tsk. Such a shame. I'm indifferent and detached to whoever he might be as a person. He's rich and lives in a privileged bubble. End of statement. Whatever he says goes in one ear and out the other.

"If you have nothing else to do after your day's over, there's a birthday party at my house," Rosana's voice anchored me back. "I invited some friends from around the neighborhood."

"Will Ricky go?" I asked, thinking of our electrical technician--a black man whose family lives near Rosana. It would be comforting if they attended since his kids are about Rosana's children's age, and his wife teaches me how to cook. They're the only people I know well besides Rosana.

Don't count Michael Sanditon and my old school friends. They're all just faded memories from lost contact.

"I'll keep you on tab," I sighed. "As long as it's Mexican dishes, mamita. I can never say no."

"Ay! You can count on that, chica."

I grinned cheekily, taking my bag and waving goodbye. "Mami... quesadillas, empanadas, nachos and more!"

"You'll never know if you never come!" Rosana called after me.

"Tempt me, mamita. Make up for those four dollars I paid," I shouted back.

"Dios mio, Katarina!"

I laughed and ran giddily back home. Contrary to assumptions, it's not a mansion--just the bare minimum acceptable size here. Our house design is a modern farmhouse my mother didn't bother renovating since buying the estate cost enough already.

I think she just wanted to burn Rob's little token out of slighted pride. If I saw Rob now that I'm older, maybe I'd seduce him. I'd fuck him, ride his pathetic dick just to spite mom. Since mommy can only go as far as texting I love yous and I miss yous but never sexually engaging her gigolo.

Am I even hot enough to talk like this? No, I'm average. Brown skinned, brown-eyed, black-haired and short. Common Asian features. But when I'm truly enraged, I can raise hell. I survived a dysfunctional family, didn't I? What possibilities couldn't I inflict on those deserving returns? If I decided to fuck Rob, I'd do it thoroughly. Record his creampie dripping from mom's daughter's younger cunt and send it to her with a note: no hard feelings, Mom.

Your lover's dick was too stale anyway.

But then I'd return home to dad feeling dirty for involving myself with the same man mom soiled her reputation with. No thanks. One person suffering is enough. If one's a bitch, life's also a bitch. Let karma do the cold serving to the rightful ones.

I stepped onto the front porch, opened the door, and yelled, "Dad, I'm back!"

"Kat-kat?" Dad's hollow voice came from the kitchen. It was a typical childhood nickname, one Dad kept using even after I started college.

I rushed to the kitchen and saw him cutting tomatoes and onions--with a butcher knife. God, no. Not with that knife in his hand.

"Daddy, what are you making? Here," I said, forcing a smile as I tried to gently take the knife from his hand.

Dad scolded me. "Don't," he snapped, pulling the knife back. "You're too young to handle knives," he reprimanded.

If I told him I was grown up, he wouldn't register it; in his mind, I was still nine years old. He wouldn't believe our two youngest brothers, Sean and Sven, even existed. And he probably didn't recognize their names now. Sean had opted for military school, while Sven enrolled in aviation school in Texas. Away from this mess.

My two sisters were in college, living the relatively carefree life of students. As they should be, stopping by to visit Dad now and then. I couldn't send him to a nursing home; I probably never would. It was my choice.

"But what are you making, Daddy?" I tried again, gently taking hold of the wrist gripping the knife. "I want to learn too," I insisted. "Pretty please?"

"It's monggo," he replied, but his eyes wandered around the room instead of focusing on the chopping board, now splattered with tomato juice.

"Really?" My voice was bright--mostly forced, but with a touch of real warmth. "Ah!" I squealed, finally managing to slide the knife away from his grasp. "How about I prep the ingredients while you do the taste testing? I wanna cook! I wanna cook!"

It felt funny and awkward, playing the child again. But it was Dad. I'd do anything for him.

My dad gave an amused chuckle, a low, warm sound that eased some of my tension. It brought back a wave of nostalgia for all the times we'd spent together like this.

"You know, it's nice to come home early out of 8th Avenue today. We can prepare your mom some good dinner before she comes home," he said. Enthusiasm running through his voice.

I could feel my eye wrinkles fading a little but I managed to retain a smile. "Yeah," I exhaled. But then remembered a good excuse to bring back the energy away from my mother. "She'll pick up Betty and Chelsea at school, and we'll eat my dish!"

"You're dish, huh?" Dad swung his attention and looked at me with a hundred yard stare. He wagged his finger. "Kat-kat, your taking all the credits of my dish, huh?" He chides. "That's bad."

I broke into a grin and made a playful harrumph. "Dad's recipe is my recipe," I declared.

"Oh!" Dad threw up his hands in mock surprise. "It can't be!"

But I insisted, and he laughed. We fell into our old rhythm, the main difference being how carefully I steered him away from sharp objects and boiling water. His only allowed task was wielding the tasting spoon, offering critiques with his old, exacting scrutiny.

"Too bland, add more salt. Did you put the shrimps in already?"

"Dad," my voice dropped. "Why so harsh?"

"And add more malunggay in it, your soup looks like a stagnant pond," his criticism continued.

"Dad!" I sulked, my annoyance getting the better of me. I wanted to show him how irritated I was, but seeing his vacant gaze, I didn't bother. Instead, I just did what he told me. After a few more critiques, I gave up and let him take over the cooking while I stood aside.

When he finally got what he wanted, we waited a few minutes while we cleaned up the mess before getting lunch ready.

"I want to go outside. Dad, can we go?" I asked him as we sat across from each other at the square table. The rice and bowl of monggo soup steamed on the table between us.

Dad furrowed his eyebrows. "Where will you go?"

"Check-up. Mommy says I have to go for a monthly check-up," I lied. If I told him the truth, he'd just get confused and start asking questions until I'd eventually have to tell him about his condition.

"You have your colds again, Kat?"

I nodded. But I obviously didn't have a cold - it was just the most efficient way to get Daddy to the clinic. "Later. A nurse will pick us up," I added.

Dad didn't say a word, just tilted his head slightly. When we finished eating, I led him to the living room for his siesta--his afternoon nap. He always does this during the lazy afternoon hours. He watches HBO for a while before drowsiness takes over..

Being the beast of burden to my parents' economy, I did the menial chores while packing everything Daddy would need for the appointment. About an hour after two o'clock, Mike the nurse arrived, honking his pickup truck in our yard.

"Dad, the nurse is here," I whispered, gently poking him awake. He gasped in frightened shock as if his senses were snapped back to reality. At first it was terrifying, but I've gotten used to it.

"Today's my check-up, Katarina?" His brown eyes were clearer, more focused as he watched me.

Hope surged in me as I gave my most confident nod. "Let's go, Daddy," I said. He got out first while I fixed everything before leaving. I could hear him chatting with Mike, the baritone voice mixing with my father's weathered tone.

"Mike! Let me introduce you to my daughter, Katarina Nievez," my father spoke once I got out of the door, locking it. "She just graduated Computer Science from a scholarship in NYU," he boasted, enthusiastically bumping Mike's shoulder. Flexing the unsolicited information to him.

Trust me when I say it washes me with embarrassment. I turned around and made a close-lipped smile briefly to Dad and to Mike.

Both Mike and I knew that Dad said this multiple times on random occasions. I guess that's where his current lucidity brings him - our family's beginning years here in Michigan.

"Miss Nievez," Michael Sanditon gave a polite nod of acknowledgement before rushing to carry the bags I had pulled from the house. "May I help?"

I simply nodded and gave the rest to him. What? It's his job. Put some good use on his gym training when opportunity has it. Dad was riding shotgun while I ended up in the back.

Dad's curiosity and topic of conversation, had this time, ended up with those god-fucking buffaloes I mentioned earlier.

"So hunting deers are only allowed from its regulated season?" He asked his seatmate beside him as we move through the wilderness of high trees and sudden appearance of goddamn deers. No moose this time, thank god. Those horns are gigantic.

My rude ass couldn't help to butt in. "Why, Dad? You planning to hunt?"

"You would need to have your shotguns licensed first," this hot-ass giving too much information, insensitive about leading my father some encouragement.

"How about a try, Kat?" My dad looked at me in the rear mirror, asking some validation.

I saw through that rear mirror how Mike the Nurse's brows rose and gave a cheeky smile. "Kat," he repeated. "That sounded lovely for your girl's name, Mr. Nievez."

Smooth talking asshole...

Want me to smash your head? He heard me a being introduced as Katarina Nievez multiple times, but it's his first time to hear me being addressed as Kat by my Dad. I dare him to take advantage of that, I'll murder him. Beautiful man or not.

"You have money, Daddy? Don't go on trying to pitch your cause to Mom, I'm telling her."

Dad, defeated, didn't react any further. Not until this asshole proved himself utterly lacking in tact. "You can always borrow mine, sir," Mike, the goddamn nurse, suggested.

"Can I actually use your own shotgun instead, perhaps straight to your wild skull?" I couldn't help seething.

Dad turned with sternness of his face. "Katarina!" He scolded. For a minute, his voice makes me feel bad about what I said. "You're making yourself unlikable already with this gentleman--"

I scoffed, "You don't say."

"Uhm--" Mike, the goddamn nurse, butts in.

My head snapped towards his attention and pointed a finger at him. "Mr. Mi-ka-el Sanditon, you stay out of this," cutting him off.

"It's Michael," he trailed.

I ignored him. Then turned my attention towards Dad who's now facing back the road ahead. "That's a very concerning behavior, Kat-Kat. You apologize to Mr. Sanditon for the bad words."

I wanted to speak something, but it's Daddy who suffers dementia not me arguing over a goddamn word I say. I covered my face with my palms and breathed out. "My bad Mr. Sanditon--"

"Mike," he interjects.

Can he just let it be? He's ruining my very mood to even apologize?!

"Mike," I bit in frustration. "Mike, look, my words are horrible. I beg pardon, but please," I drawn out. "Please, please don't even try to encourage my father to hunt and hold a barrel."

"I'm doing fine, Katarina. What do you take me for? An invalid?" Says my father.

"No, Dad. I'm just saying you might mistake Mike's dog for a deer and shoot it," I snide, aiming the dark possibility straight at Mike--a coup de grâce, hopefully, to his reckless encouragement.

Mike, however, was so startled he steered the wheel sideways that we took a swing.

"Woah. Easy, boy," says my father who had a history of driving taxi in densely packed New York.

"Please," Mi-ka-el Sanditon breathed out in daze, and looked into the rear mirror once he gathered his senses. "Not my dog, Kat. But you're right. Mr. Nievez, I think kayaking and hiking will do you good instead."

Who the hell gave him the freedom to address me like that? Kat? Kat?! Fuck this man and his undue familiarity. I stopped talking and plunged my face into my palm and breathed. I waited until I calmed down.

Once these two men got along so well they talked about the technicalities of driving, gears and automotives, all of that shit that fascinates the hell out of them, I leaned into the seat and feigned sleep. Closing my eyes and listening to the rhythm of this truck and the long windy road.

"Are we there yet?" I complained.

"Not yet, kid. Gotta sit still for a while," says the not kid among us, Mike.

Well, well, well. Man's got a spine. But I didn't plan to socially engage with him, so I focused on the rustling pine trees instead. The road ahead was lined with thick leaves, neatly arranged as we drove past.

Mike's a good guy. A really wholesome person. It's just me acting like a bitch when I feel like it. That's why I don't care enough to be mindful around him, even if he's hot. Engaging with him as a person makes my pussy dry.

Ah... If only I'm allowed to objectify him. 'Cause girl...

One look makes you wanna kneel. I'll be more than likeable for him. Fuckable too--if that word exist. If he's a sex doll, it carries less burden about considerations. Maybe if I met him not in this circumstance, I'd probably chase after him, that's for sure.

Out of boredom.

Why is it so unfair that he has everything, with no obvious flaws like being a fuckboy who hooks up with anyone willing?

Which would probably lead to STIs anyway.

Couldn't Mike-the-hypothetical-fuckboy have enough sense for safe sex?

Could he strip tease? I'd pay for Mike-the-Stripper for a night. Could I buy him for a night?

Damn, I'm so sexually frustrated I wish he were just a sex doll.

These thoughts exhaust me until I finally snapped back to reality.

I tried asking my father, "Dad, how are you?"

Dad didn't respond. My eyes fluttered open and I saw him sitting motionless. "Where are we? Who are you?"

I shot forward and reached for him. "Daddy?"

"Kat-kat? Where's my baby Kat-Kat?" he asked.

My stomach lurched and my smile disappeared. I signaled Mike to pull over. "He'll sit with me," I told him.

When the car stopped, I jumped out and yanked open my father's door. "Daddy, you okay?" I repeated.

He looked at me without recognition. His forehead creased. "Madam, who are you?"

"Daddy!" I exclaimed, raising my voice to a higher pitch. I shot up my arms and grinned childishly. "Kat-Kat. It's me, Kat-Kat," I kept repeating while making high-pitched giggles. I jumped on him for a hug and snuggled into his neck that smelled like an old man. I tried to make playful noises and giggled.

Honestly, I just wanted to cry. I wanted to go home and cling to him like this. But I couldn't because that would be embarrassing in front of Mike.

I pulled away from Dad and looked at him even though he couldn't really see me. "Daddy, let's go there," I suggested, pointing toward the back seat.

"Where's Luisa?" he asked, looking at me in those clouded eyes.

That's his wife. My absent mother.

"Oh!" I chimed. "She's waiting for us to arrive, Daddy," I added, giggling and tugging him like an excited child. "Let's go! We'll be late!"

Despite some reluctance, I managed to get him into the back seat. I quickly closed all the doors as I settled inside. Then I clung to his neck again, resting my head on his shoulder.

"I want a lullaby," I told him.

So he started humming the 70s song "Aubrey" by Bread.

I tried to close my eyes and be soothed by almost anything rather than give in to the urge to break down crying. The engine started running again, and Daddy's absent-minded patting on my back unexpectedly put me to sleep.

"Mr. Nievez, Miss Nievez, we're here," Mike's deep voice woke me up.

Awake?

Shit. What about Dad?

I jerked and looked around for Dad, finding him reclined and sleeping with his mouth slightly open. I wanted to laugh but stopped myself. I turned to Mike and moved slowly toward the door.

I got out and closed it silently while gesturing for Mike to join me. When he did, I moved a bit closer. Damn, he wore cologne. Shouldn't nurses smell like sanitizer?

"Can we move him without waking him while the doctor examines him?"

He placed his hands on his hips. "How?" he questioned, wiping his mouth with his hand. My eyes lingered too long on that gesture.

Bad bitch. Control yourself.

"Kat, you'll break my back for unpaid extra service."

"Who the hell are you calling Kat?" I said through clenched teeth. "Are you my father? Argh! Forget it," I exhaled, reining myself in.

And just like that, all my fantasies disappeared. I raised my index finger. "I'll deal with you later. Let me find more willing healthcare staff at the help desk," I replied before walking away.

Dad was already asleep. What was I supposed to do? Wake him up, lead him into the hospital, and let them sedate him with needles? His sleeping state would reduce the need for that anyway.

They better not put any IV fluids or needles in him. I swear.

After explaining and insisting to the medical professionals, they brought a stretcher while carefully moving Dad to a room. I even saw Mike finally helping, carrying most of Dad's weight. There's your answer, Mike. A no-brainer solution.

I sighed and waited outside Dad's assigned room. The doctor would call me later. While waiting, Mike showed up in the lobby.

He approached me. "You okay?"

"The idea of a stretcher is a no-brainer, isn't it?" I said.

He sighed, raising both hands and shaking his head. "Look, I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry for whatever's causing you to act this way."

When he said that, I almost wanted to let out a deep breath too. To just let it all go. I nodded. "I'm stressed. Don't take it personally when I'm being a prickly bitch," I advised.

"Hey..." he said gently. "Want to get a drink?"

I looked up at him and saw his bright eyes. Damn, why does he have to shine like that? But no. "And leave my father? Pass."

"It'll be a while before they need you. They have to check his vitals and put in some IV fluids--"

"What?" I didn't wait to hear more and ran to the patient ward. I checked room by room until I found Dad reclined and sleeping, thankfully without needles in his hand. Only then did I realize I'd left Mike standing in the lobby.

The doctor turned to me. "Miss Nievez?"

I nodded as she asked me to sit down. She explained that Dad was in the middle stages of dementia. She asked if I could still handle his care, since as it advances, one person wouldn't be enough. A trained professional would be advised.

The doctor suggested that Dad might be better in a nursing home. I replied that I'd wait and see--if he still had periods of lucidity, I wanted to make the most of our time together.

She then suggested Mike as an assistant nurse, noting that he lived close to our neighborhood and could visit our house regularly.

My inappropriate thoughts immediately went to a bad place. Mike and I alone with Dad sleeping in another room would end with me seducing him, right?

And he'd be fired if they found out he was sleeping with a client, right?

Why am I such an unhinged bitch?

"Can he not just visit?" I blurted out.

I could seduce him at Mamita's birthday party first. If he came to our house, I might greet him naked.

Wait...

Am I going to Mamita's party?

When did I confirm that?

I considered that I might as well go. Who knows what Michael Sanditon wears off-duty? I could wear something revealing.

"May I ask why?" the doctor questioned.

Then I realized...

Mike in his nurse scrubs is a turn-off. Mike at Mamita's party might be hot enough to bang. Not when he's giving dumb excuses about healthcare logistics when there's clearly a gurney available.

"You have to understand, Doc. I'm a young woman--"

Pfft. The young woman card. Really?

"--taking care of a vulnerable man. Mike is, well, overwhelming in attending to our needs. I might have difficulty communicating comfortably with a man alone."

The doctor wasn't buying it. "Are you rejecting your neighbor, who's most convenient, because of gender bias?"

"I-I didn't say that," I stammered. "But as a woman yourself, Doc, there's a sense of relief when another woman understands your struggles."

"Miss Nievez, let me be direct. Has Mr. Sanditon made inappropriate advances toward you?"

No! But I might, and him biting back. I don't want us caught in an unethical patient-staff relationship.

Yuck.

How confident am I that he'd want it rather than reject me?

I'll make him.

"Miss Nievez, give me a valid reason," the doctor pressed.

I looked at her with wide eyes. "Doc, he's too attractive. It's distracting. If he visits at night, I will seduce him," I warned.

The doctor laughed. "As a woman, I understand that," she said between chuckles. She wrote something on her paper. "If that's your concern, we can arrange for a female nurse for late afternoon and evening shifts. It will prevent indeed the risk of any misconduct that might arise. However," she sighed.

Then she put down her paper, looking me straight in the eye, "Mr. Sanditon will be your assistant nurse during daytime hours. He's competent, skilled, and professional. He's perfect since he has many activities nearby."

"Professional?" I asked skeptically. "What activities? He seems like a quack to me."

"He's a casual nurse. It might not look like it, but that attractive man is fully licensed," the doctor assured me.

I frowned, unconvinced. But the consultation ended when my father woke up. He asked if we'd finished his check-up, and I told him yes, we were going home.

As we left and saw Michael Sanditon waiting by his truck in scrubs, my face couldn't help to express a streak of pettiness about him being a daytime nurse. Our daytime nurse.

We drove home without issue. Dad sat up front while I was alone in the back. He seemed lucid again, asking Mike about Michigan's crop seasons. When did Dad become interested in apples and cherries? He was a New Yorker through and through. Wasn't he supposed to be a city boy?

But great ol' Mike satisfied all his questions like a human Google. When Dad drifted back to drowsiness and fell asleep, something important occurred to me.

"Michael, if you're going to be my father's nurse, don't ever give him oral medications," I warned.

I refused to have him dependent on drugs with their avoidable side effects. I hated medications myself.

"Only if necessary, Kat," he replied.

See? This is why we can't have nice things.

I sat up straight. "May I know why you keep calling me by a name I didn't permit you with?"

"It's fair play. You can call me Mike or Michael. In return, I'd like to call you something simpler. Besides, I prefer Kat," he said.

"It has nothing to do with your preference," I rebuked.

He gave a tight smile in the mirror.

"You're being too familiar--"

"Actually," he interrupted, "Rosana already mentioned you when I became your father's nurse."

"How come she never mentioned you to me?"

"Maybe because you never asked?" he replied.

"Why would you ask about me?" I gasped. "Are you stalking me? Obsessed with me?"

Bitch, when? But audacity knows no reflection to hypocrisy. I hope it will put off Mike the Nurse. I hope it will put off Michael Sanditon completely he will never become my father's nurse.

"Chill," he exhaled. "We're the only people Rosana knows who live where she works."

I grumbled. "So you know Rosana. I heard you're a Boy Scout."

Michael's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

I shrugged.

"I'm involved in community projects. If that seems like a Boy Scout to you, fine." He made a dismissive expression. "Whatever feeds your idea."

Many ideas you'll never know, Sanditon.

"Mamita invited me to her kid's birthday party. She said she invited you too. Will you go?"

"Who's mamita?" he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Right.

"Mrs. Camacho," I explained.

"You call Rosana 'mamita'? What does that mean?"

"Something only mamita knows. Ask her yourself. So, will you go? I'll go if you do," I said cheekily, hoping reverse psychology would work.

"Sure," he confirmed.

Hell no. "I changed my mind," I backtracked.

Mike looked confused. "Kat, are you teasing me?"

I feigned shock. "Oh, the privilege..."

"What the fuck?" he snapped.

He...

Snapped...

Did anyone else hear that? The perfect guy just swore. Let's celebrate!

"Sorry," I answered, unable to hide my smile at hearing him curse. "I'll go. I love Mami's empanadas and nachos. They're the only things that could tempt me to go out."

We both fell silent, and I found myself enjoying the scenery. But then he surprised me.

"Do you want me to pick you up?" he offered.

Some people have no sense of self-preservation. This guy tops the list. I smiled and turned to meet his eyes. "Free rides, Mike? Tempting," I said, smiling suggestively where it shows my urge to taste his body.

I don't know if he caught my meaning. I gave him my best look, to the best of my average attractiveness. Have him fucked.

But it didn't register. Our attractiveness levels were too mismatched--his reaction didn't even suggest he understood I was flirting. Oof. Bless my poor ego. I'll survive. I guess Michael Sanditon would remain just a fantasy, y'all.

I sighed. If there's no chance of hooking-up, I don't want him anymore. "I have to decline your thoughtful offer. I always wait until my father falls asleep."

That was true. Dad needed to be settled before my hoe phase commences. Should I make Mike wait until 10 PM when Dad was definitely asleep? Nah.

That ended our meaningful interaction. When we arrived home, I thanked him as I guided Dad through our gate. Once inside, I felt my face light up at being alone with Dad again.

"Daddy!" I exclaimed, hugging him tight.

Just what I needed. He was surprised but was used to it. He chuckled once more, affection and amusement coming out in his voice. He wrapped his arms around me and squeezes a bit, giving me a little swing. He smelled like the traces of that hospital, but so were the air that passed through our ride.

Dad...

Please don't leave too soon. I couldn't bear being alone with Mom. She's a selfish, cheating, conniving bitch. She couldn't even remain faithful, not even loyal enough to be with you during your toughest times.

"Dad," I asked with pleading eyes, "remember when you taught me to cha-cha? Can we practice?"

Dad laughed, remembering it well. One-two step, then cha-cha-cha. He agreed enthusiastically, so I rushed to our sound system and played "Mambo Italiano." With his hands on my shoulders and mine on his waist, we dance in the living room. Giggling as our feet lost their timing.

Dad, never leave me, okay?