And once again, Dr. Nicole was right because I could tell you without even putting his face pieces together that this guy was seriously handsome.
That must be its own brain system right there.
It was the way he stood there. The way he held himself. That haircut—so professional and competent. I’d always thought handsomeness must be all about facial features and shapes and mathematical proportions. And maybe it was. But this guy also just had a way about him—like he was commanding the room without even doing anything. Just standing there generating handsomeness like a sexy, living light-up statue.
Most people nowadays made me want to avert my eyes. The intensity of those puzzle-piece faces—the impossibility of it all—was physically uncomfortable, like a buzzing in my body.
But this guy? I couldn’t make myself look away. I took in the sight of him, and he did the same right back to me, for a good minute. Finally he turned and walked off down the hallway—hands in pockets and coattail trailing jauntily behind him like a male model on a runway—forcing me to note that Dr. Nicole was right yet again.
Because that man had one hell of a gait.
Holy shit.
It was love at first sight—and I couldn’t even see him.
Okay, I take it back. It wasn’t love.
Love requires actually having spoken to a person. At the minimum.
Maybe it was infatuation at first sight. Or preoccupation. Or obsession.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t complaining.
All along, I’d been classifying leaving my textbook narcissist boyfriend Ezra and then running out of money and then almost dying in a crosswalk and then getting surprise brain surgery and then having to board my dog at an unfamiliar clinic and then going face-blind … as bad things.
But now?
I was all good.
The sight of that vet—for a minute there, anyway—seemed to fix everything.
I stopped crying, at least.
I turned to the receptionist to see if her world had also been rocked by the appearance of that mystery veterinarian across the room. But nope. She was checking her Instagram.
“Was that the vet?” I asked her.
She looked down the hallway. “Oh, yeah. One of them. That’s Dr. Addison.” Her voice was all casual, like he was just a regular, everyday person.
“He works here?”
She nodded. “Yeah. He’s the newest vet on staff.”
I wanted to ask more questions—What’s his deal? What’s he like? Is he as handsome as I think he is?—but I couldn’t settle on anything that didn’t sound bananas.
Instead, I just said, “I think I should probably schedule Peanut for a checkup.”
* * *
PEANUT, OF COURSE, had just had his checkup two months ago—with my old vet, a lady in her sixties who I’d known since I was a kid—and he was in perfect health. For a canine gentleman of his years.
But could you ever have too many checkups, really?
Preventative pet health care is so important.
Though it turned out Dr. Addison—Dr. Oliver Addison, I noted, when I snagged his business card off the front desk—did not have any openings for a month.
“Wow,” I said. “He’s really booked.”
“Yeah, he books up fast.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Plus he leaves a lot of space in his schedule for emergencies.”
See that? Not just handsome, but also a thoughtful planner. Leaving space for emergencies so no one was ever turned away. Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t perfect? More important, if I married him, would I change my name?
I pondered this on my walk home. Trying the sound out in my head as I mouthed the words: “Sadie Addison.”
Sadie Addison! It was the best name ever. All those S’s and D’s.
I could see myself at my engagement party—tipsy with joy as I explained, “I never planned to change my last name, but Addison just felt like such an upgrade.” I could see a future me, face blindness all cured, leaning confidently in to meet new people with an assertive little handshake, saying, “Good to meet you. Sadie Addison.” I could picture our newlywed holiday greeting card: “Happy Holidays from Oliver and Sadie Addison.” Maybe we’d wear matching Nordic sweaters.
Or should we hyphenate? “Warmest holiday wishes from the Montgomery-Addisons”？
No rush on that. So many options to consider.
I could see myself running into old beaus or former school mean girls at the grocery store while Dr. Addison and I held hands on, say, a late-night Ben & Jerry’s run. We’d be so happily goofing around in the freezer aisle—him maybe tickling me or trying to pick me up as I giggled wildly like the happiest in-love person in history—that we didn’t even notice whoever it was at first. Then we’d pause from our delirium for pleasant introductions. “Oh, hello. Look how well my life turned out. Please meet my so-gorgeous-he-doesn’t-even-need-a-face husband, Oliver. I’m Sadie Addison now, by the way.”