And three days later I may not have had much more than that it was a disposable cell phone with no contract or traceability, but there was a single ping off a cell tower that occurred when the text went out. A single black dot on a map that gave me a triangulation range and let me narrow down a general location of where she was: the Kansas City area.

Something about it fit for me. The funny look on her face that first time we met up with Omid when I said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” tells me that I’m in the right place. But my problem is that I don’t have much more to go on than intuition, a determined heart, and a pocketful of hope. On top of that, the pocket has a hole in its bottom, an hourglass of sorts, and I’ve promised myself that this time around, when the hope bleeds out, I’m done.

My gut tells me that I need to visit the hospitals, need to work that angle because she was transferred to a U.S. hospital and will need to continue with her care even if she’s been sent home already. It’s a long shot at best, but she gave me an opening, and if I don’t follow through with it, I’ll always wonder what if. I’ll always question whether she was my once-in-a-lifetime and I passed her up.

By early evening I’m wiped out and feel like I’ve exhausted every existing avenue. I’ve been to all of the hospitals – Saint Luke’s, University, North Kansas City, Select Specialty, and even Kansas Heart – trying to leave no stone unturned. But not a single person recognizes her picture; nor will anyone confirm or deny that a Beaux or BJ Croslyn has been or is a patient. I’m so desperate to find her that I’m willing to try Children’s Mercy just to make sure that all of my t’s are crossed and i’s are dotted.

With my head back against the headrest of my rental car, I debate what to do next. Should I just say fuck it and catch a flight home? I mean really, what the hell am I doing here, looking for the pot of gold that doesn’t exist? Desperation doesn’t look good on anyone, least of all on me, and I reek of it these days.

Sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall, I glance at the map in my hand with the circles around the hospital icons as I set it down, unsure where to go from here. I was so gung ho when I got here and now just feel pathetic. The radio drones on, and I switch the station out of boredom, stopping when I come to a Cardinals baseball game and just leave it on for background noise as I debate my next move.

The smart thing would be to get a hotel, wait for shift change, and then head back to the hospitals, flash her picture, and try with the different employees. If I’m here, I’d better satisfy my need to be thorough when investigating a story, because that’s how I’m trying to treat this, like it’s a story. It’s the only way I can approach the Beaux situation and consider the possibility I might not get the outcome I want. Put the filter up, turn the emotions off, treat it like the hard beat I had in the Middle East.

I start the car and turn out of the parking lot with thoughts of heading to a hotel, grabbing a quick shower, and then heading back to the hospital circuit. “And Ramirez hits one hard.” The announcer from the game breaks through my scattered thoughts. “It’s going, going, and it’s gone! A home run for the rookie to tie the game.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, but the minute they do, I flip a U-turn across the double yellow line and head back to the hospital because an idea has seated itself – and I swear that I know it’s going to be the break I’ve been looking for. Within minutes, I’m at Saint Luke’s, where I buy flowers in the gift shop, and then head to the front desk to greet the new person manning the desk.

“Hi there, what can I do for you today?”

I fidget back and forth as if I’m antsy, a nervous smile plastered to my face so that I can play the part, but at the same time I am nervous. “I think I’m at the right hospital. I just… I just need to see her.” While I speak, I dig in my pocket to make sure my boarding pass falls onto the desk between us.

“Calm down, sir,” she says sweetly, her head angled to the side and her eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses. “Who are you looking for?”

“My girlfriend. I’ve been in the Middle East, and she was hurt. Brought here or University… I can’t remember which one because it was such a whirlwind, but I was able to get leave from my unit and I got here as soon as I could and I came straight from the airport and now I just need to find her to make sure she’s okay,” I ramble on as her smile softens.

“Of course you’re flustered. Thank you for your service, sir,” she says, and I nod at the assumption she makes about my being in the military, hating myself for implying it but at the same time, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do and everyone loves a man in the service. Especially a middle-aged woman who could have sons of her own and can appreciate a man trying to get home to the woman he loves. “Now what’s her name and I can look her up for you, see what room she’s in?”

“Thank you so much.” I set the vase of flowers down and keep up the act to look scattered by collecting my boarding pass and stuffing it in my pocket. “Her name is BJ or Beaux Croslyn… but she goes by Rookie, Rookie Croslyn. So I’d try that,” I say, my hopes lodged in my throat as I spell out the last name for her.

“Just give me one second, sweetheart,” she says. Her fingernails click over the keyboard as I watch the reflection of the screen in her glasses, the blue hue an easy thing to see, but it’s the slight frown on her lips as her eyes flicker back to mine that has my heart stopping in my chest. She knows something. The hesitation, the pause in her fingers, and furrow of her brow tell me more than any words could. “I’m so sorry. There’s no one by that name,” she responds, shattering any hope I’d had. A defeated thank-you is on my lips when she murmurs to herself, “Only a Rookie Thomas.”

“That’s her!” I all but shout as I’m overcome with emotion. There’s no need to continue my Oscar-worthy performance because my heart leaps into my throat when I hear the name. It can’t be a mistake. Beaux used my nickname for her and my surname – the thought that she’s kept a part of my feelings for her alive knocks me back a step.

She has to be telling me something. What it is, though, I have no idea.

The receptionist’s face smiles broadly, all trace of the hesitancy I saw moments before gone. “Well good news, Mr…”

“C-Clint,” I stutter, her comment giving me an instant high, that buzz that’s been nonexistent since I left Germany running rampant for the first time.

“Clint.” She smiles again when all I want to do is tell her to spit it out. “Rookie was discharged three days ago, so I guess that means she is doing much better.”

I contain the stab of disappointment that rifles through me because as much as my hunch that she was here was right, it does me no good now. We’ve just passed like ships in the night, the only thing left being the ghost of memories. The problem is that I can’t let the sweet receptionist know my disappointment and realize that she’s just been duped.

So I use the think-on-my-feet tactics that have propelled my career over the years and only have a split second to hope that this works. “Oh that’s such a relief to know she’s okay!” I say as I bring my hand up and accidentally knock the vase of flowers over.

She shrieks and jumps back as water and flowers spill across the desk and toward her keyboard, which she quickly pushes to the side. “Shit! I’m so sorry!” I round the U-shaped desk in an instant. “I’m so clumsy. So excited she’s doing better. Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” I repeat the comments over and over, making sure I play up the bumbling boyfriend, all the while hoping this act is all worth it and that what I’m hoping to find is actually there.

The minute I breach her space behind the desk, my actions reflect a contrite man, head down, hands busy helping to push the water away from her paperwork and electronics, but my eyes are laser focused on the computer screen. It takes a heartbeat for my eyes to find the name Rookie Thomas and to not sag in relief when I see the address listed below her name.

That damn buzz? It’s full-blown electric shock right now.

I read it several times to etch the street and numbers into my head. “Let me go get some paper towels,” I offer once most of the water has been pushed to the floor so that nothing on the desk is compromised. “I’m so sorry. I don’t —”

“Towels. Please,” she says, her patience wearing thin, and I’m perfectly okay with that. I rush over to the lobby restrooms. Once inside, I immediately pull my phone out and type in the address so that I don’t forget it before grabbing a handful of paper towels and heading back to help pick up the mess I made.

Chapter 27




So many emotions course through my veins as I get out of my car and walk toward the quaint little clapboard house on Elm Street. And I can’t help but feel now as I did last night sitting and watching the house that it doesn’t fit the Beaux that I know. None of it. She’s all hard lines and fiery edges and not a postage-stamp-sized patch of grass in the front yard in need of mowing, petunias in the planters, and a porch swing that sits a tad crooked.

Even though I sat parked on the street for a few hours last night, watching as the lights in the front windows went dark, it took everything I had not to knock on the door. But I knew I had to wait. I had to be patient until the morning to see if John got into his manly little Prius and went to work. Because a good husband goes to work every day, right?