Because you’re twenty-seven and single, girl. Live your damn life! I can hear her voice echoing in my head along with the steady thump thump thump of last night’s dance music.
I’m pretty sure there was drinking. No, I’m positive there was drinking. What else explains why my tongue feels superglued to the roof of my mouth?
Oh god—I think I’m gonna be sick. I’m getting too old for this. I can’t bounce back like I could when I was eighteen. There’s only one solution: I’m just never drinking again. No more dancing. No more bars. Consider this my retirement from night life.
“RA-CHEL! Girl, get up!”
I roll onto my back, wincing as I gaze up at the blades of my slowly circulating ceiling fan. I think I slept with my contacts in. My eyes itch so bad.
Make a list, Rach. Make a plan.
That’s been my mantra for the last two months as I’ve tried to put the pieces of my shattered life back together.
Hot shower, strong coffee, maybe some eye drops. And get a cheesy bagel from that place around the corner from the clinic—
“RACH!” Tess stomps down the hall and stands in the doorway, her wild, red curls spilling around her shoulders. She’s a smokin’ hot size twenty with a perfect, pear-shaped body. Per usual, she’s wearing nothing but a crop top and her undies, a spray of peachy freckles dotting across her chest. The girl sheds clothes around this apartment like a husky sheds hair.
Not that I mind. I’m a rock star’s daughter, born in California and raised on the road. A naked Tess doesn’t bother me.
“Girl, did you not hear me hollerin’ for you?” She pops a hand on her hip and tosses my phone on the bed. “Someone’s been trying to get ahold of you for like thirty minutes.”
I reach blindly for it without turning my head. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. A New York number, I think. And there was a missed call from Doctor H.”
I bolt upright, swallowing down the instant wave of nausea that hits me. “Ohmygod, Tess!” I snatch up my phone. “My boss is calling and you let it just keep ringing?”
“Hey, I’ve got my own boss breathing down my neck, thank you very much,” she says with a huff. “You handle your arrogant asshole, I’ll handle mine.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder as she turns. Her cheeky undies show off her freckled booty as she saunters away.
I roll my eyes, knowing she means well. Strictly speaking, we both make enough money to afford our own places, we just like the companionship. Tess is the best friend a girl could ask for. She’s honest and loyal and so deeply caring. She’s just being overprotective because she’s never liked Doctor Halla. She doesn’t like the way he micromanages people or his aloof manner. I guess it’s just never bothered me. He can’t help that he’s European.
After two years as his resident, I’m used to his quirks. Doctor Halla likes order. He likes a plan of action, and he really doesn’t like deviating from a plan once set. He and I are a lot alike in that respect.
I drag a hand through my tousled hair, checking my text messages while I wait for my brain to warm up. Six texts and a missed call from my twin brother and his husband.
HARRISON （8:01AM）： In NYC for cooking show. Wanna fly up for taping on Sat?
HARRISON （8:04AM）： You skull emoji??
HARRISON （8:05AM）： MISSED CALL
I grin, shaking my head. Just like a twin to give me exactly three minutes to respond before he jumps to rigor mortis in his mind.
HARRISON （8:07AM）： Hello eyes emoji
SOM （8:12AM）： Girl, you better be dead bc your stupid brother just woke me up at 5AM. CALL HIM BACK
SOM （8:14AM）： Plz don’t actually be dead
HARRISON （8:20AM）： Tess says you’re hungover, not skull emoji LMK about Sat
Now I’m laughing. These two are too much. My brother and his husband are rising stars in the culinary world. Harrison just opened his own restaurant in downtown Seattle, which has been a smash hit. And Somchai runs a legion of Thai food trucks and takeout eateries. It’s brilliant—gourmet taste at street food prices. They can afford such high quality ingredients by making it all takeaway. No wait staff, no dining room, no cleanup except the kitchen.
Apparently Harrison was asked to be a guest judge on some new cooking show. He jumped at the chance for the free publicity. And he’s always been more comfortable trading on our famous father’s name and connections too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he drags daddy to the taping. Which means that, if I go, I’ll be seated in his shadow when the cameras inevitably pan to him for a closeup. Then I’ll get three weeks of hassle as the tabloids remember I exist.
No thanks.
I type out a quick reply in our group chat.
RACHEL （8:31AM）： Not dead. Can’t come bc I gotta work. But good luck kiss face emoji
Spotlight glare is literally the last thing I need right now. A decade of bimonthly therapy has helped me unravel and own my emotions, and I’m not ashamed to admit it: I’m stuck in a rut. Scratch that. I’m depressed. If my therapist doesn’t see marked improvement by my next visit, I think she’s ready to prescribe Prozac.
It wouldn’t be my first time on medication, but this rut is different from my lost years of mid-teens existential angst. This is completely situational. Carolyn assures me I have all the tools I need to work myself out of this darkness without the crutch of medication.
I’m less convinced.
Two months ago, my own career rocket crashed out of the sky. I was in Seattle for my brother’s wedding when I got the news that I lost out on the Barkley Fellowship. The top sports medicine fellowship in the industry, it pairs early career doctors and physical therapists with professional sports teams.
The last three residents Doctor Halla put up for it all won. After their ten-month rotations ended, they were all offered permanent positions. I was supposed to be lucky number four.
Doctor Halla was so sure I would win that he confidently started interviewing for my replacement in the residency program. I had to crawl back from Seattle with my tail between my legs and beg him not to give my spot away. He was kind about it, righteously indignant, swearing he’d never recommend a doctor to their sham of a program again.
So that’s where I’ve been for the last two months: back in my quirky loft apartment in downtown Cincinnati, going through the motions day to day. When I’m not putting in my residency hours at the sport injury clinic, I’m working out or hiding out…until Tess gets fed up and drags me out.
Carolyn might be ready to prescribe Prozac, but Tess has a whole other kind of therapy in mind. Dick therapy. Since I got back from Seattle, she’s been on a mission to get me laid. She thinks a wild night with a guy will cure me of my funk. But just the thought of touching another guy has me cringing.
I go still, my phone balanced in my hand.
Another guy. God, I’m such a mess. As if I already have a guy and Mr. Random Hookup would be the other guy.
I don’t have a guy. Not even close. But hey, a girl can dream, right?
In my case, my nightly dreams are full of only one guy. The guy. My Mystery Boy. I haven’t told anyone about him. Not even Tess, and we share every detail of our dating lives. We met on my last night in Seattle. I was sad about the fellowship and he was sad about his sister’s cancelled flight. We found comfort in each other. Friendship, romance, a total instant connection.