Save the Secret Date Read online

  Save the Secret Date

  A Romantic Comedy

  Ellie Cahill

  Contents

  Also by Ellie Cahill

  1. Can You Keep A Secret?

  2. Self Control Is Not My Strong Suit

  3. Sunday Spaghetti

  4. And Then He Kissed Me

  5. How to Embarrass Yourself at the Airport

  6. Homocidal Thoughts at 30,000 Feet

  7. Classier Than Me

  8. Double Double Negatives…I Think?

  9. Just Like Old Times

  10. I Want That

  11. Bachelorettes on the Beach

  12. Pub Crawl

  13. Hadley’s Secret

  14. Hypothetically, Of Course

  15. One Data Point

  16. Mandy’s Secret

  17. Mermaid in a Sports Bra

  18. Just When Things Were Going Well

  19. Les Misérables sur la Plage

  20. Mysteries of Middlesex

  21. Advice of Varying Qualities

  22. The Wedding Party Draft

  23. I Dos and Don’ts

  24. Everyone Conspires Against Me

  25. Jake’s Secret

  26. Not Your Average Wedding Shower

  27. No More Secrets

  28. How to Plan for No Plans

  Six Months Later

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ellie Cahill

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  ALSO BY ELLIE CAHILL

  When Joss Met Matt

  Call Me, Maybe

  Just a Girl

  I Temporarily Do

  The Designated +1

  AS LIZ CZUKAS

  Ask Again Later

  Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless

  Throwing My Life Away

  Uploading this or any digital copy of this book to an unauthorized site without permission of the author is a violation of copyright and a pretty dick move.

  To the many bad ideas that didn’t make it into this book, and especially those of you that tried to fit into this book only to ruin it for months at a time.

  * * *

  Don’t worry, some of you are perfectly good ideas, you simply belong to different characters.

  * * *

  Wait your turn.

  1

  Can You Keep A Secret?

  Can you keep a secret?

  Most people think they can, but they can’t. People are terrible at keeping secrets. But I have made it my personal policy to be an excellent secret-keeper. If you tell me something in confidence, I will take it to my grave. My brain is like Fort Knox. If I were an app, I’d be Whisper. If I were a Constitutional amendment, I’d be the Fifth. If I were a person in your life, I’d be your defense attorney.

  I can be trusted.

  And it’s a good thing, too, because I have always been the sort of person that people want to tell things. I don’t really know why. Virtual strangers will confide in me, and they have no way of knowing that I can keep a secret like nobody’s business.

  I’ll be sitting in a waiting room, and the person next to me will strike up a conversation, and inevitably they’ll end up saying one of the following:

  “I can’t believe I’m telling you this…”

  “Just between us…”

  “I’ve never told anyone this before…”

  “You’ve got a kind face. I feel like I can tell you anything!”

  It’s not that hard to keep secrets, really. Most people’s secrets aren’t important to anyone but them. What does it matter to me if a stranger at the dentist wants to tell me that she has an unpaid speeding ticket in Indiana?

  It also helps that my job puts me in contact with a lot of people I’ll never see again. If my patients want to tell their nurse (that’s me!) a secret or two while they’re at their most vulnerable, I can’t really blame them. I see a lot of people at their worst.

  That’s sort of a given in the hospital. Nobody goes to the hospital when they’re feeling 100%. But since I started on-demand IV infusions, I’ve gained a new perspective on people at their worst.

  It’s entirely possible my patients make excellent decisions on other occasions. But I wouldn’t know. It’s my job to be on the bad decision clean-up crew. It involves a lot of underwear. A lot of bodily fluids and unpleasant smells. And a lot of old pizza.

  My current assignment was about the most classic example I could have imagined. It was a group booking at a hotel. Sunday morning, status post bachelor party. Some of them had the decency to get dressed, but like always, there were a few guys in their underwear. The ubiquitous congealing pizza boxes tossed in a corner of the room. And a distinct, sour smell emanating from the bathroom.

  I already had three of them hooked up. The groom was proving to be a bit of a baby about the whole thing.

  “I hate needles,” he said as he jerked his hand away for the third time.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said, trying to sound more patient than I felt. The guy had a tattoo of a tiger on his forearm. It actually covered the entire area where I’d looked for a vein. It never failed to astound me how people with multiple tattoos claimed to be afraid of needles when it came to getting a little blood drawn, or an IV started.

  “Dude, trust me,” said one of the guys who was already hooked up. “You want this.”

  “My hand is tingling,” he said.

  No, really? I felt like saying. You’ve got a giant rubber band cutting off your circulation. “I’ll take the tourniquet off as soon as your IV is in place. If you hold still, it’ll just be another second…”

  “Quit bein’ a pussy,” one of the other guys said firmly. He was next in line and I could tell from the greenish hue of his face that he was epically hung over.

  The groom-to-be finally squeezed his eyes shut and said, “Do it,” through his teeth. I slid the safety needle easily into his large vein and pressed my thumb in to cut off blood flow as I retracted the needle. After that, it was all automatic: take off the tourniquet, attach the primed tubing and put a few pieces of tape in place to hold the line while he got his liter of liquid relief.

  “Done,” I announced.

  “That’s it?” the groom asked, opening his eyes.

  “Yep!” I kept my tone cheerful, even though I wanted to say, I told you so, you giant baby.

  “That was quick,” he said.

  “Now just relax and let the infusion flow. You’ll be feeling better in no time.” I smiled. “Who’s next?”

  By the time I finished hooking up the last guy, it was time to go back and disconnect the first. It was always like that with the parties. No time for the usual chit-chat. My one-on-one patients tended to talk a bit—more and more as the fluids kicked in and they started to feel better. That was when I heard a lot of their secrets. But the parties weren’t like that.

  Sure, the bachelors were getting chatty by the time I disconnected the last one, but it wasn’t confessional and it was mostly directed at each other. They were already starting to retell the stories of the night before to each other. From what I could piece together, it was just a few degrees from The Hangover status. The groom was lucky he wasn’t locked on a rooftop somewhere. And these guys were lucky I was so dedicated to keeping secrets. Because if I’d had their names and some of their girlfriends’ phone numbers, I could have given those poor women an earful.

  I thanked them for booking with H2U and packed up my supplies to head off to my next appointment. Just before I let myself out of the hotel room, the groom’s brother hurried over, his hand extended awk
wardly.

  “Hey, thanks,” he said, looking down toward his hand.

  I caught a flash of green through his fingers. Ah, so they were going to tip. Not everyone did, but it was definitely allowed. And it always brightened my day.

  “Thank you.” I smiled, but didn’t look down at the cash as I took it. I never did. I didn’t know if that was how you were supposed to handle it, but it was the only way I could avoid feeling totally awkward. Or making a weird face if they gave me a crappy tip. Like a dollar.

  It’s happened.

  Tucking the money into the pocket of my black scrubs, I headed back to my car with my box of supplies. I didn’t let myself count the money until I was in the driver’s seat with the engine running, the doors locked, and the windows up. To my complete shock and delight, the bills were all twenties! And most of them were even dry! I’d assumed it would be a wad of clammy ones when he handed the stack to me, but the bachelors had come through in the clutch! I had over $200 in my hand.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I chanted to myself, doing a little happy dance in my seat.

  The smart thing to do would have been to drive away, not loiter with visible cash. But some things just have to be shared immediately. I got out my phone and dashed off a message to my sister Rachael.

  Highlight of my day:

  Just got a $200 tip from a bachelor party!

  I didn’t expect her to answer right away; that’s just the way my sister and I operate. We tell each other everything.

  But her answer came quickly: Do I even want to know what you did to earn that?

  I smiled to myself as I answered: Poked them with needles.

  Rachael: And what were you wearing while you poked them?

  Me: Scrubs. Get your mind out of the gutter.

  Rachael: I’m just saying, imagine what your tips would be if you wore this. Her words were followed by a gif of a woman in a latex catsuit snapping a whip.

  I sent her three laughing/crying emojis, and added, I have to drive now, so don’t make me text.

  I tapped my next destination into the GPS and started the drive. There weren’t a lot of advantages to working weekends, but the lack of traffic on Sunday mornings was glorious. I would make it to the next appointment in record time.

  Rachael totally disregarded my warning that I was driving and continued to send me texts every few minutes. She always did. But, to be fair, I did the same thing to her.

  Rachael: Seriously, I worry about you on these hotel gigs. Your boss should at least send you in pairs.

  Rachael: Did I tell you I have to get a new dress for Brylee’s wedding? I was gonna wear the blue one but then I remembered I have to wear that one bra with it, and it broke.

  Rachael: Seems easier to get a new dress than a new bra.

  Rachael: What are you wearing for it?

  At a stoplight, I sent a quick reply: Still driving….

  She sent me a gif of a car driving off a cliff.

  The light changed, giving me no chance to reply. I should have dropped the phone face down on the passenger seat so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at anything else Rachael sent, but I needed to follow the directions to my next job. It was going to have to a matter for willpower.

  Rachael seemed to have taken the hint, however, and I was able to drive to my next client’s house in peace.

  2

  Self Control Is Not My Strong Suit

  She was a repeat customer—a sweet, but miserable young pregnant woman. She had the kind of morning sickness that had put Princess Kate in the hospital. I’d been to her house before, playing an endless game of catch-up with her hydration status. The poor thing was definitely not in the mood to talk. I used a super small gauge needle to make the stick as easy as possible, and it went in on the first try. Thank god. Her veins were all but invisible with dehydration.

  “Thank you,” she croaked with a weak smile.

  “You are very welcome.” I loosened the roller clamp to get the drip going and sat down on a nearby chair to keep an eye on the flow and make sure she was comfortable. She looked so small in her bed. She wasn’t even far enough along to show a baby bump, which was usually the case with our pregnant clients. The worst of morning sickness was usually in the first trimester. Misery, and nothing to even show for it. I always felt bad for them.

  As it usually happened when I was alone with a non-chatty client, I found my mind wandering. We weren’t allowed to have phones or tablets or anything to distract us from patient care. Of course I kept mine in my pocket anyway, and it was hard to resist a peek at it. Especially when it was pulsing repeatedly against my body while I worked.

  Someone was seriously blowing up my phone right now. Rachael, most likely, but with my client seemingly dozing, I couldn’t resist checking. Instead of my sister, it was the only name that could make my heart race at the mere sight of it’s four letters: Jake.

  It was embarrassing how much I still reacted to every text from him. We’d been friends for six years. We’d been roommates in college. Even after he moved to Chicago for grad school, we stayed in touch. I would absolutely count him as one of my best friends. Yet, I could never quite quash the happy little flip-flops in my stomach every time I saw his name on my screen.

  This is the exactly the sort of situation where extreme secret keeping comes in handy. Because I have never told a soul how I feel about Jake. Especially not Jake himself.

  Here’s the truth: I have an epic crush on Jake Knight.

  Don’t get me wrong, he knows I love him as a friend. We’re close. But so far, I have managed to keep the embarrassing depths of my crush on him a secret. Thank god. If I’d been in middle school when we met, I would have covered pages with doodles of Mary + Jake and Mrs. Mary Knight inside of hearts. I would have made playlists of love songs for him that I’d never send him. If we were in kindergarten, I would have thrown sand at him and burst into tears.

  The last few weeks had really tested my cardiovascular health, as every day brought me closer to seeing him in person again. I’d be seeing all of my friends soon. Finally. The thought made me smile all the way down to my toes.

  We’d been scattered to the winds after graduation. I was the only one still in California, as a matter of fact. Ashley had gone home to Nevada and was now working as a concierge at one of the most upscale hotels on the Strip in Vegas. Brady had returned to Texas to join his father’s construction business. Jake was off to Chicago to get his Master’s in psychology. Emmy and Beckett were the only ones who’d gone to the same place. To Iowa, of all places, for grad school. When they left California, I would have sworn they were only friends. But somehow in the intervening years they’d become something more. Much more. And now they were getting married. In Mexico.

  I was beyond excited to be back together with my little family of friends. I would have happily gone to Iowa just to be with them all. But Emmy and Beckett were having a destination wedding, which made it all the sweeter. Mexico with my best friends in the whole world for a week? Yes, please!

  My distracted mind wandered back into the present for a moment, and realized my client only had about 50mL to go in her IV bag. She needed my attention.

  I finished my appointment with her—she didn’t tip, but I couldn’t hold it against her in her current state—and got back in my car before I let myself look more closely at my messages.

  The group text going on with my roommates had exploded.

  Jake: When does your flight get in? I’m leaving at the crack of dawn.

  Ashley: Same! And a fucking layover! Why do airlines hate me?

  Jake: Same here.

  Brady: Non-stop. Suck on that.

  Jake: Blow me Brady

  Ashley: How did you get direct from Austin and I can’t get one from Vegas?

  Brady: Flying from Houston

  Ashley: That doesn’t count!

  Ashley: I could get direct from LAX but I’m ain’t gonna drive my ass all the way there!

  Ashley: This some bullshi
t Brady.

  Then there was a series of emojis and gifs going back and forth between them, at first trading insults. Then Jake interjected a gif of the Jets from West Side Story which led to a virtual dance battle that inevitably ended in Bug Bunny in a tutu, as many chats with Brady did. It was hard to argue with Bugs.

  It was at this point that I finally caught up and answered Jake’s original question.

  Me: I couldn’t get a direct flight either. You’d think it would be easy to get to Mexico from San Diego.

  Jake: It’s not like Chicago is exactly a Podunk town.

  Ashley: OR LAS VEGAS

  Brady sent another Bugs Bunny gif. This time of the rabbit playing poker with Yosemite Sam.

  Me: We should all share our flight details. Maybe some of us can take the same shuttle to the hotel.

  Jake responded first, with a screenshot of his flight confirmation.

  My heart started its flip-flopping dance once more. I was going to see Jake a few hours earlier than I’d expected.

  I couldn’t help it. I squealed. My hands shook a little as I sought out my own flight info and sent him a screen shot, adding, We’re on the same flight from DFW!

  Jake: No way!

  Me: Yes!!!!!! This was one of those times that all the exclamation points and emojis in the world couldn’t adequately convey my excitement.

  Ashley: NOT FAIR! She followed her complaint with a screenshot of her own flight details. She would be arriving about 40 minutes after Jake and I, and connecting through a different airport.