揑 guess a small part of me is hoping that now that he knows I menstruate, he might actually realize I抦 alive. That the janitorial staff doesn抰 plug me in at night to charge my battery in a storage closet in the hospital basement.?
Despite Connor抯 friendliness today, he抯 never shown any actual interest in me as a person. A female. A young, healthy, hot-blooded woman who would jump on him like a pogo stick.
To him, I抦 a nurse, a coworker, an asset that抯 effective at my job who helps him do his job.
Like . . . the ultrasound machine.
I take another drink梩wo big gulps, right down the hatch.
揂nd on top of that, your blind date was a bust.?Aubrey says gently. 揘o wonder you抮e happy to just veg out with us and a glass of wine.?
I lift the long-stemmed glass and gaze at the sunny-colored liquid.
揧ou抣l never let me down, will you??
揧eah, that抯 healthy,?Presley remarks.
Then her voice brightens. 揧ou should write a poem about it. Were you going to write a poem about it??
Presley is head of publishing at LWW條iterature in any form is never far from her mind.
And I write poetry. Not good poetry or the kind that should ever be seen by human eyeballs. It抯 just for my own enjoyment and sanity, and the amusement of my closest friends.
揂bout the date with Evan? Probably.?
揙ooh梬rite it now.?Aubrey claps her hands. 揑 want to hear it, and you抮e fun when you freestyle.?
Why not? I clear my throat. 揙kay . . . here goes:
There once was a boy named Evan
Who learned a valuable lesson.
If you have a weak stomach few things are worse
Than going to dinner with an ED nurse
And asking about the cases she抯 assisted in
The ED nurse learned something too
When hoping for a night of romance and woo
Don抰 go out with a boy no matter how tall
扖ause it takes a real man to hear the words twisted balls
And still want the date to continue
Now poor Evan抯 alone
And the nurse is at home
Drinking her wine
With her friends on FaceTime
And writing this terrible poem.?
I take a bow in my chair. 揑抦 going to call that one 慣he Story of My Life.挃
Aubrey and Presley laugh as they applaud, making me feel giggly and good as I refill my glass.
Who needs men when you抳e got friends and FaceTime and copious amounts of wine?
Not this girl梟o way, no how.
Although . . . penises are really nice.
Right on cue, a particular penis immediately comes to mind梠n the epic day the owner of said appendage forgot to pack an extra pair of compression shorts to wear beneath his scrubs after his morning run to the hospital. How the outline of it pressed against the thin green fabric, slightly to the left, thick and long even at rest, with a heavy handsome shape.
It was a thing of beauty. The Chris Hemsworth of penises.
I wrote a poem about it.
Because it was perfect梛ust like the rest of him. Maybe that抯 why I turn into an idiot whenever Connor is around. It抯 hard to be close to someone you admire so much and not feel small and silly and intimidated. At least it抯 hard for me.
揧ou have to let me publish you one day!?Presley begs. 揧ou could write a book of poetry for all the single ladies. It would be hilarious.?
揧ep, that抯 me.?I smile. 揊unny all day without even trying.?
CHAPTER FOUR
Connor
揑 don抰 understand why I need to listen to her.?
It never fails. And it never ceases to amaze me.
揑抦 a doctor, she抯 a nurse.?
Interns. First-years. Short-coats. Newly graduated medical students who are technically doctors梑ut not really. They rotate through the different hospital departments working under the supervision of senior residents and attendings. They have a tendency to be jackasses. Pumped up by their shiny new medical degrees, with just enough knowledge, plus confidence, to make them dangerous.
揑 shouldn抰 be taking orders from her.?
But there抯 always one in the group who stands out. With balls of hubris. Arrogance to spare. Gold-medal-level annoying.
揝he should be taking orders from me.?
And every single year, they bring the same terrible question to the minds of the doctors who supervise them: Dear God, was I this much of an asswipe when I was an intern?
The cold, hard, truthful answer is: Probably. The answer we tell ourselves is: No. I couldn抰 have been. The nurses would抳e killed me.
揝top talking.?I tell the dark-haired, twentysomething, emptyheaded grasshopper in front of me.
I think his name is something like Jamie or Jonathan or Janas.
揊irst of all, you抮e not a doctor yet. Not in this building, not on your own. We抮e being nice letting you hang around hoping our knowledge sinks into your thick, high-on-your-own-supply intern skull.?
I walk down the hospital hall as I talk, because I抦 busy and I have to set this kid straight before things get out of hand. Jackson shuffles along beside me, dodging orderlies and gurneys.
揘umber two, Marisol has been a nurse longer than you抳e been alive. If she tells you there抯 a problem with one of your patients and you need to see them梚t抯 because there抯 a fucking problem with one of your patients and you need to see them. Immediately.
揟hird, nurses don抰 work for you梩hey work with you. You抮e a team. It抯 a vital symbiotic relationship in the ecosystem of the emergency department. If they hate you梐nd make no mistake, they all frigging hate you right now梚t will make your job harder than it ever needs to be. Are you getting this??
揧es, but棓
Johannesburg is not getting it.
I stop abruptly and look directly into his eyes. 揟hey will kill you. They know a thousand different ways to do it without leaving a trace of evidence behind. They抮e probably in the break room planning it right now.?
The gravity of his situation finally registers. He gulps.
揜eally??
I roll my eyes. 揘o, not really. They will make you cry, though. I抳e seen it happen梐nd crying is worse.?
揥orse than death??
揂bsolutely.?
揥hat should I do??he asks, in a low, hushed, appropriately panicked tone.
揅rumb cake.?
揥hat??
I scribble out an address on the pad from my pocket and shove it against his chest. 揂fter we examine Mr. . . .?I grab the chart from the bin on the wall ? . . Wilson. You抮e going to go to Polowski抯 Bakery and get a crumb cake. Full sheet, the high-end stuff, now is not the time to scrimp. Bring it back to the nurse抯 station, with an apology for Marisol. It抯 your only hope, padawan.?
He looks at me helplessly. That抯 a good start.
揥ho??
Jesus, do they teach kids nothing these days?
I wave his question away. 揓ust go. After we look at Mr. Wilson.?
I give the door to Exam Room 1 two raps, then breeze in with Jacques the intern trailing behind like a less knowledgeable, less good-looking shadow.
揋ood morning, Mr. Wilson, I抦 Dr. Daniels.?
Mr. Wilson, a medium-build eighty-year-old man with thick gray hair and a frowning disposition, sits on the table wearing a hospital gown and black shin-high socks. The tear of Velcro rips through the air as Violet removes the blood pressure cuff from his arm.
?56 over 98,?Vi tells me.
High BP, I mentally note as I scan the blood work on his chart.
揥hat brings you in today??
I could read the triage notes, but it抯 always better to hear it from the patient.
揟he wife,?he grumps out, glaring at the petite elderly culprit sitting in the corner chair.
揟he wife??