He’s wearing faded jeans and a white hoodie under a black jacket. Simple, classic. He looks good. Literally the wholesome boy-next-door, but my rock-and-roll heart craves a clean-cut good boy now and then.
“Ready.” I reach for my black peacoat while he greets the rest of the house.
“It’s pretty cold,” he says. “We can drive if you want.”
January in Austin is brisk. We might get into the low sixties in the day, but at night, the temperatures drop into the forties, and it’s a bitey forty, the humidity in the air sharp in the cold.
“It’s okay. I like to walk.” We’re not going far anyway.
We wave to the roomies and head out, turning onto Lynn to take us toward the restaurants and shops.
He tucks his hands into his coat pockets and smiles over at me. “Walkability is one of the main reasons I bought my place, but I have a feeling I might appreciate it more in May than I do right now.”
“For sure. But it’s not like it snows, so if you can man up for a few minutes, you’ll survive.”
He grins. “Challenge accepted.”
It’s only three blocks from the Grove to all kinds of restaurants, bistros, and bars. The girls always ask me why I don’t perform in any of them, and the answer is because these aresmall. We only perform at a handful of live music venues, ones that showcase rock. Places like the Galaxy and other local cafés are intimate and acoustic.
Josh asks me about the best places to eat, and we decide on pho. Warm soup feels perfect for a cold evening. I like that it’s super casual too. I don’t know what our vibe with each other is yet, but an upscale place would have made me nervous no matter what.
“So, you’re a nurse,” he says when we’re settled in a booth, each with a steaming bowl of pho. He picked steak and tripe, and I give him points for adventurousness. “Do you like your job?”
“Yes,” I answer, but I hear the question in my own voice.
“But . . .”
I shake my head. “I love the patient side of things. I never saw myself doing geriatric care, but in a way, it makes perfect sense. I’m pretty tight with my grandmother. But I’m the care manager too. I don’t really like doing that stuff.”
“What does care manager mean?”
“Administration.” I shrug. “I end up overseeing and delegating routine things like blood pressure checks or administering meds, but I don’t get to do it much myself. I have to hire the nursing assistants and orderlies. And order medical supplies. I don’t like doing that either.”
“So your ideal day as a nurse is hanging out in an old folks home all day and talking to the old folks?”
“Pretty much.”
He nods. “I like old folks. I get it. And your job sounds important.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not how most people feel about it. Some people think I’m a glorified candy striper.”
“A what?”
“A candy striper? It means volunteer.”
He blinks at me. “I wouldn’t draw a line from ‘candy striper’ to nursing home volunteer if you gave me a million dollars and a map.”
“It’s an old term,” I say. “I never really thought about it before. That’s what I was called when I volunteered at the hospital when I was in college.”
He pulls his phone out. “I’m not being rude. I’m looking it up.” He taps out a search and then scans a few sentences. “I guess back in the olden days, volunteers wore pinafores with red-and-white stripes that reminded people of candy canes.”
“I didn’t know that, and I can’t believe I’ve never stopped to figure it out.” He’s tapping on his phone again. “Now what are you looking up?”
“I have no idea what a pinafore is.” He reads for a second then looks at me. “Do you know what a pinafore is?”
“Some kind of dress?”
“An apron. Did you wear an apron when you volunteered?”
