Page 1 of Bronson

CHAPTER ONE

Paige

What can I say? I like nice things.

I love nice things. I crave nice things. I have to have them.

They fill a hole inside of me.

The feel of silk. The scent of Ralph Lauren. The pinch of a Jimmy Choo.

What’s the point of living without luxury?

Don’t even get me started on my shoe collection.

Anytime I get a little down—going up a few pounds on the scale, getting into a screaming match with my annoying boss, or feeling that old emptiness creep back in—all I need is a fresh pair of red-bottomed Louboutins to breathe life back into my soul.

I sound like a shallow girl.

I’m not.

I have a heart. One as big as my curvy ass, in fact.

But sometimes that big heart feels more like a hole in my chest and I don’t have any way to fill it.

I’m a medical assistant. Paid by the hour to do the dirtiest work you can imagine.

And my place of employment?

A drafty old nursing home.

Not the posh kind the rich kids pop their aging parents into and forget they ever even had parents.

Their dollars drain from their padded bank accounts right along with their guilt.

And I love every corner of it.

No glitz, no glam. Just an understaffed, poorly maintained, New York City home for the elderly. A drab, crumbling gray building tucked in a poor neighborhood.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Our patients, or my family as I call them, don’t have a penny to their name.

And I love every one of them.

We do our best with the little bit of assistance they get.

Delayed refills, cheaper substitutions, and supplies stretched far beyond what any decent facility should permit? We make impossible choices and pray no resident pays the price.

Ms. Tulla Gold in room 101 used to be a nurse. On days when she doesn’t think she’s a famous talk show host, she’s very helpful to us, doing the morning rounds with her blood pressure cuff.

We make it work.

I wear scrubs for a living. A far cry from my closet full of couture. Ones with tacky, colorful prints dotting the scratchy fabric—the patterns make my patients smile. And the shoes we have to wear, my goodness, how disgusting can footwear be? Thick soles, black Velcro sneakers to protect my arches from the concrete floors. Not flattering for anyone, but especially ugly on a twenty-five-year-old.

And I would never think of getting a blowout before work. It’s ponytails or messy buns, every day, all day.

But I love my job. And the only thing I love more than my fancy labels are my patients. Especially the saddest cases.