“I have to tell you,” he says, “I didn’t expect you to order an Old Fashioned. You don’t seem like the type.”
“Mmm.” I try to keep any interest out of my voice, so he’ll go away and leave me alone. I should never have sat at the bar. But to be fair, the bartenders here are rarely this chatty.
He smiles disarmingly. “I thought you’d order a Cosmopolitan or lemonade spritzer or something like that.”
I bite my cheek to keep from responding. I love drinking Old Fashioneds. That’s been my drink since I was twenty-one, and maybe even a little before, if I’m being honest. They’re dark and boozy, a little sweet and a little bitter. As I take a sip from my drink, my annoyance with the chatty bartender evaporates.
“Anyway.” The bartender gives me one last long look. “You give me a yell if you want anything else.”
I watch him walk away. For a split second, I allow myself to appreciate the lean muscles that stand out under his T-shirt. He’s attractive in a nonthreatening way, with light brown hair and mild brown eyes. The stubble on his face is not quite enough to be called a beard. He’s very nondescript—the sort of guy you couldn’t pick out of a lineup. Sort of like my father was.
I start to tick off on my fingers the number of months since I’ve had a man over at my house. Then I start counting off the years. Actually, we may be getting into the decades territory. I’ve lost track, which is disturbing in itself.
But I’m not interested in a rendezvous with the hot bartender or anyone else. A long time ago, I decided relationships wouldn’t be a part of my life anymore. There was a time when it made me sad, but now I’ve accepted that it’s better that way.
I lift my drink again and swish the liquid around. I still have that crawling sensation in the back of my neck like somebody is watching me. But maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s all in my head.
Twenty-six years. I can’t believe it’s been that long.
The game show host on the screen interrupts my thoughts, ripping my eyes away from my drink.
What serial killer was commonly known as the Handyman?
The bartender glances at the screen and says in an offhand way, “Aaron Nierling.”
My father is a game show answer tonight. It could be because of the anniversary of his arrest, but it’s more likely a coincidence. No matter how many years go by, what he did will never be forgotten. I wonder if he’s watching. He used to like game shows. Is he allowed to watch TV in there? It’s not clear what they allow him to do in prison. I haven’t spoken to him since the police took him away.
Even though he writes me a letter every week.
I push thoughts of my father out of my head as I sip on my drink, allowing that nice warm feeling to wash over me. The bartender is wiping down the counter on the other side of the bar, his muscles flexing under his T-shirt. He pauses briefly to look over at me—and he winks.
Hmm. Maybe my self-imposed abstinence isn’t such a great idea. Would it kill me to enjoy myself one night? To wear something besides scrubs? Or let my black hair hang loose instead of pinning it into a tight bun that makes my hair follicles scream with agony.
“Dr. Davis? Is that you?”
At the sound of the voice from behind me, the good warm feeling from the whiskey instantly vanishes. I was right. Somebody was looking at me. I wish I could have been wrong just this one time. All I wanted was a little quiet tonight.
For a solid two seconds, I consider not turning around. Pretending I’m not really Dr. Nora Davis. That I’m some other lady in green scrubs who just happens to look like Dr. Davis.
But at least he didn’t call me Nora Nierling. Nobody has called me that in a very, very long time. And I intend to keep it that way.
The man standing behind me is in his fifties, and short and stocky. This man is most definitely a patient. I can’t recall his name, but I remember everything else about him. He came to the hospital with a fever and abdominal pain. He was diagnosed with cholecystitis—an infected gallbladder. We attempted to remove it laparoscopically with cameras, but halfway through, I had to convert it to an open surgery. That’s how I know if he were to lift his shirt over his protruding gut, there would be a diagonal scar running along his right upper abdomen. Well-healed by now, I’m sure.
“Dr. Davis!” The man beams at me, showing off a row of yellow, slightly rotted teeth. “I was looking over here and I wasn’t sure but… It is you. Oh man, I wouldn’t have expected to find you in a place like this.”