A Little Crazy

Chapter Three

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June 13th

“So how do you fill your days?” Drew asked, scooping up the last bit of soup with a chunk of bread. “Besides feeding hungry men that is.”

Nora smiled. “I work, I garden . . . I watch cooking shows.” She swirled her spoon in her soup and shrugged, realizing how incredibly ordinary that sounded.

“When you work, do you work on anything in particular, A-Little-Crazy neighbor girl?” he teased, lowering his chin to meet her eyes. She couldn’t keep from smiling.

“I’m a freelance editor,” she began, resting her spoon across her plate. “What do you do?”

“I help people,” he stated simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"By playing the drums?"

He wiped his mouth, placing his napkin on the table before leaning back on his hands, a hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Sometimes."

"Why do you do that?” she asked, watching him through narrowed eyes.

His smile broadened. “Do what?”

“Never really answer anything?”

He leaned toward her, arms folded on the table, his gaze meeting hers. “I’ll answer any question,” he said softly, his fingers reaching out to brush a stray piece of hair from her eyes. He tucked it behind her ear, his index finger tracing her jaw briefly as he retreated. “You just have to ask.”

Nora felt her pulse quicken at his proximity and took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Okay," she said, drawing the word out and attempting to keep the slight tremor from her voice. "Do you do anything in particular?"

Sitting back, he regarded her for a moment before running a hand through his hair. "I travel a lot," he started, motioning to his instruments. "And, I'm a doctor."

"How is that possible? I mean . . . wouldn't you need to be in one place?"

"Well, I go where I'm needed. If there is a humanitarian crisis in Thailand, I go to Thailand. After the Wenchuan earthquake in China, I went to China for several months. And whenever I can, I go to Africa. Because there is more work there for me than I can possibly handle, and I never feel finished."

Aware of her stunned silence, he leaned forward again, propping his arms on his knees.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked, his soft eyes full of genuine interest.

She shook her head distractedly. “In this town, my whole life. Across the street, three years.”

His eyebrows rose.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s . . .” he trailed off and shrugged. “I don’t know, just hard for me to comprehend. Don’t you ever get the urge to leave? To see new things?”

She considered this as her eyes followed the vivid blue ink that wound up his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his T-shirt. A river perhaps. From what she'd seen, his tattoos were all that way. Not shapes or drawings from a book, but his memories. Scenes of mountains and rivers, lush trees and thick vines. Art that told a story.

She met his eyes again. “My life is here."

"But is your life a place? Or is your life made up of the few important things you can carry with you?"