by JD Hawkins
Naturally, I already know the place, because Maeve was one of the first to fall in love with it, and the first to get bored of it. She told me a rumor that it was set up by a major crime boss, and though I don’t believe it, I believe that whoever built it certainly thought of himself that way.
There are about twelve of us who end up going—the rest of our colleagues still clocked in at work—and we all arrive at different times. Some of us dressing up in the locker room or at home, others going straight from the hospital in their work clothes. I manage to hitch a ride with Bob, and I’m almost glad. He talks my ear off on the car ride there, and helps me think about something other than Colin.
“I tell you, Mia, if we pull this off it’s going to be huge for Santa Teresa. I’ll be honest with you—we’ve been getting swamped these past few months. I’m no hospital manager, for God’s sakes! The accounting’s a mess, that issue with the parking lot next door is going to get us a damned fine… And we’re short in almost every department. ‘Delegate’ they keep saying—pah! To whom? Christ… When I finally get to go back to being a doctor, I’ve got months of work to catch up on, and it’ll still feel like a vacation…”
“So who’s this new candidate?” I ask.
“You know I can’t tell you that!” Bob says. “But if we get them—and it’s still an ‘if,’ remember—things are going to be a lot better. You’ll see. This person knows what they’re doing. We’ll start having proper fundraising, we’ll get ahead in line for machines, attract some of the best staff again. Oh yeah. You bet. She’ll get Santa Teresa ticking over like—”
“It’s a ‘she’ then?” I say, turning to Bob, who slams his steering wheel.
“Dammit! I knew I’d let something slip.”
I laugh gently and put a hand on the shoulder of his ragged suit.
“It’s all right, Bob. I won’t tell anyone.”
It’s evening when we pull up to the bar. The last rays of the sun streaking the darkening sky pink and gold, the heat still bouncing off the asphalt of the parking lot, still too early to tell that the big sign is lit up in pink. And yet I still feel a little underdressed.
I catch sight of Deanna and Sylvie—Deanna in those Cluedo-murder heels Jackie mentioned—both of them arm in arm, both wearing minidresses. One blue, one pink, the two of them coordinated as ever. A glamorous couple steps out of a limo and makes their way to the entrance. I realize that soon enough, the Three Flamingos will technically go from bar to nightclub—and my jeans and cardigan combo will look distinctly out of place.
No matter. I’m just having a few drinks and then heading home. Same as always. I’m one of the first to arrive, and I’ll be the first to leave. Clubs and bars were never my thing. If I’m there when Jackie starts dancing, and Sean starts macking it to some random girl, and Bob starts talking about his ex-wife—that’s when I know it’s time to go.
Bob and I head on through the large carpeted entrance and soon find ourselves in the vast space lit in various shades of garish. The place is mostly still empty, a few businessmen at the bar, a few hot girls laughing loudly on one of the balconies, a few couples starting their nights out early, one of them bravely trying out the wannabe-Cuban food.
A few raised arms and shouts draw our attention to a couple of the booths across the dance floor. That’s where everyone is, half of them already nursing colorful cocktails from big glasses, a pitcher of margaritas in the center of one of the tables. Deanna’s sitting next to Colin, though she’s pressing up against him so much she’ll soon be in his lap instead.
I shove into some space in the other booth and Candace immediately pours me out a margarita. One of my favorite songs comes on—pretty loud, but then everyone at the table is even louder.
“Get Bob something hard to drink,” someone shouts. “Maybe he’ll tell us who this new admin is.”
“He’s not that kind of drunk,” Jackie says between gulps. “He’ll just ask the DJ to put some Elvis on and start crying if you get him loaded.”
The table laughs and I join in, the alcohol softening my thoughts until I’m content to just watch and listen as the others rib one another for a while.
They say time flies when you’re having fun, and as I relax for the first time in weeks I start to realize how slow the rest of my life has been going. Soon enough, I’m on my third margarita and I’ve completely forgotten that I’m dressed more appropriately for a midday movie than a flashy nightclub. The Three Flamingos is full of girls in tight clothes and guys with hungry looks now, but I’m oblivious as Candace roars her way through another story.
“…he’d been out in the summer heat all day so everything from his face to his toes were swollen—and the costume was too small for him to begin with. And he’s ranting and raging and all I can see are these two little puffy eyes—like red with anger, I’m talking pure, unadulterated rage. And he’s screaming ‘I’m gonna die in a fucking taco costume!’ ‘I’m gonna spend my last hours as ground beef and guac!’ And I’m trying not to laugh. Haha! I’m trying not laugh, but I’m genuinely worried he might be right, cause this guy’s looking on the verge of a heart attack! And I swear to God I didn’t mean this—really, I swear—but it just comes out of me. I’m just trying to think of what I can say to calm him down. It’s the only thing I can think of though. I say, ‘You really do look delicious though.’”
The story draws another round of infectious, full-bodied hooting, from Jackie’s screaming giggles to Nathan’s pounding chuckle. I’m feeling good enough to gulp down another mouthful of cocktail—even though I’m already feeling euphorically dizzy—and that’s when I catch sight of him standing beside me at the edge of the booth, smiling down over the whisky glass in his hand.
“Room for one more?” he asks.
I swallow, the alcohol exploding heat in my gut even though I feel a shiver down my spine at his voice.
“Slide on in,” I half slur, pressing into Candace to make some space for him.
When he sits next to me, it’s a full-on, full-body press. The length of his arm against mine so close I feel the hard curve of his bicep every time he tenses it, even through the fabric of his jacket. Muscular thighs squeeze my knees together, his whole body relaxed and effortlessly engulfing me. His arm goes behind me, resting across the back of the seat, behind both me and Candace. Though it’s just a casual gesture, a comfortable position, it feels like a move, something dangerously intimate.
“I was going to get you a drink,” he says, nodding at my margarita, “but you seemed okay with them.”
“Huh. Yeah. Guess I am.”
I turn to him and smile but quickly look away, suddenly aware of how close he is. I can smell the smokiness of the whisky on his breath, see the drop of his Adam’s apple when he gulps. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone and I see the tanned skin beneath, the start of firm muscles that can’t lead anywhere but to a brawny torso. His face is inches from mine, and everything is supposed to be carefree and casual, but my body is reacting otherwise.
Clenching my hand between my thighs, I suddenly feel constrained by my clothes. There’s a tightness inside of me, like a knot being twisted, and it’s not entirely uncomfortable. My back’s suddenly so rigid I feel like I could snap. This doesn’t happen to me when I sit next to Nathan, or Sean, or any other hot guy. Why now?
I down the rest of my margarita, hoping to drown the strange tenseness inside of me, but it only makes it worse. Now I’m fighting against the heat flushing my body—only half caused by the alcohol—trying to maintain some sense of control.
I feel suddenly hyperaware of everything. Of the fact I’m not dressed for a nightclub, of the loud music and chaotic conversations around me. His body is so close to me already, I feel the powerful urge to pull him closer, to touch his jaw and turn his face toward me—and at the same time it feels like there’s a thick, impenetrable wall between us, one that I could never even dream of crossing.
“More?” he says, pointing at the pitcher
of margaritas, offering to pour.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, trying to sound normal. “I think I’ve already had a little too much. I’ll probably head out soon anyway—”
“Oh no you won’t,” Jackie says as she arrives at the table with a tray of shots. “Not before we’ve all had our medicine.”
Troy—one of the nurses at our table—reaches out for a glass and Candace suddenly stops him.
“Wait! Let’s play a game!”
There are a few groans around the table but they’re nowhere near enough to stop Candace’s enthusiasm.
“I’ve never needed a game to excuse having a drink,” Jackie says, but Candace stops her before sipping once again.
“It’ll be fun! Come on. ‘Never Have I Ever.’”
“What’s that?” Nathan asks.
“We go around the table, and everyone says ‘never have I ever…whatever—gone skinny-dipping or cooked naked—”
“Cooked naked?”
She giggles. “It’s just an example! Anyway, all the people who have done the thing, take a drink.”
Deanna appears at the booth, and though I’m half drunk and fully disoriented I swear I see a split second of a resentful, envious glance when she sees who’s next to me.
“You guys playing Never Have I Ever?” she says.
“Yeah! Join us!” Candace urges.
For the next minute there’s a little chaos and hubbub around the table as Deanna and a few people from the other table join, while Jackie decides to hit the dance floor and several others who aren’t up for the game decide to join her.
Despite the scooching and shuffling and the bringing of more shots (and a few more chairs) I somehow still end up where I am, sitting snugly close to Colin at the end of the booth.
“Okay, everyone shut up and let’s start,” Candace says, looking like she’s going to burst with enthusiasm. “Let’s start with the new guy, Colin, right?” Colin nods. “Okay, go.”
Colin looks around at the other people at the table for a second.
“So… It’s something I’ve never done?”
“Correct,” Candace says. “But it’s more fun if you think of something you think other people might have.”
Colin nods again and stares down at his shot as he thinks for a second.
“Okay… Never have I ever…thought a woman was ugly.”
There’s a second of silent incredulity among everyone around the table before it erupts into a strange combination of groans, laughs, and arguments.
“No way!”
“Come on!”
“You kidding?”
“It’s a game, but you got to take it seriously!”
Without missing a beat, the second there’s space for him to say it, Colin says, “I’m being honest.”
Something about the way he says it makes more protests impossible. He means it.
“How can you never have thought a woman was ugly? That’s impossible,” Troy says.
“I really haven’t,” Colin says. “There’s always something. A smile, the eyes, even a certain expression. I guess I just focus on those.”
I can see several of the other women around the table melt a little, and I try to think Colin’s being corny but there’s a part of me melting a little too.
“Hey, you all know the rules then!” Candace suddenly announces, picking up a shot. “Drink up if you ever thought someone was ugly.”
Everyone takes a shot and laughs as they do. I give it a second’s thought, even put my fingers around the shot as I try to remember, but then leave the shot there. Nobody seems to notice except for Colin, and I see in my periphery how he smiles at me. An expression that says “us against them, right?”
“Your turn, Mia!”
“Oh I don’t know… Um… Never have I ever… Never have I ever…” I trail off, thinking about the question way too hard.
“Oh God, it’s not an exam question,” Deanna says, rolling her eyes.
“Wait,” I say. “So the goal is to find something I’ve never done but that all of you have done? Like… I’m supposed to get you all drunk and stay sober myself?”
Candace shrugs. I don’t think she’s ever thought of the game as a strategic or competitive thing.
“I mean… I guess…” she says.
“Oh that’s easy then,” I say. “Never have I ever forgotten a patient.”
Unlike with Colin’s, there’s no whooping or groaning at mine. For a second I feel like I’ve ruined the game, because everyone just stares at me.
“You’ve never forgotten a patient?” Colin asks.
I shrug and shake my head. “No. I haven’t.”
“Bullshit!” Sammy, the lab technician on the other side of the booth, says.
“I’m serious,” I say. “I remember every person I’ve ever seen in practice, every diagnosis, every course of treatment—even going back to my residency. My cases get imprinted on my brain. I guess it’s sort of like my superpower.”
“Okay then,” Troy says, leaning forward. “That woman who visited you last year around Christmas time. She had purple hair and wore these really hot skirts.”
“PCOS,” I say. “A cyst ruptured. Left ovary. I ordered an ultrasound and then performed a laparoscopic surgery, with follow up.”
“Damn…” Troy says meekly, settling back in his seat. “Well…she was super hot, so I’m not surprised you remember.”
Nathan leans forward, one eyebrow up with intrigue. “Earlier this year I did an intake on a patient who’d caught an STI from a cheating husband and—”
“I remember. Chlamydia’s a lot more common than people think… Anyway, I prescribed a ten-day course of doxycycline, which cleared the issue up nicely. As for the long-term prognosis of the marriage, I can’t speak to that.”
Nathan snorts and looks at the others with a big grin before grabbing his shot.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, raising his glass to me before downing it.
For the next few minutes, everyone throws old cases at me like they’re testing a party trick, and I don’t get a single one wrong. Soon everyone but me has taken a shot.
“Is that some kind of photographic memory thing?” Nathan asks.
“No… I don’t think so,” I say. “I forget other things all the time. When it comes to patients, though, I just remember.”
It’s an honest answer. Half of one, at least. The rest is something anyone who knows me could figure out—I’m obsessive over my work. There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t returned home and gone over all of the patients and problems I’ve encountered.
Candace goes next. Something about never being arrested, though now that I’m out of the spotlight I feel the full effects of the alcohol. A heaviness in my chest that I can’t quite center, making me feel like I’m swooning a little. Colin’s big arm still behind me, making me feel almost trapped—by the tension he induces in me more than anything.
There are a few more rounds of the game, though I only pay attention in bursts, laughing with the rest when I find out Troy knows every dance move to N’Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye” and that Nathan once spent half an entire year’s salary on a suit. It’s all good clean fun until Sylvie has her turn.
“Never have I ever…” she says seductively, fingers tracing her shot glass as she flicks green eyes up at Colin through her eyelashes, “had a crush on a coworker.”
Candace raises her glass ceremoniously and laughs. “Cheers, everyone! Everyone takes a drink!”
“Bullshit have you never had a crush on a coworker!” Troy calls out to Sylvie, who answers by sucking down a shot through a relishing smirk.
“I thought that’s not how this goes,” Nathan asks.
“She took a drink,” Candace laughs, shrugging and laughing.
I don’t take a shot—mainly because I’m already as drunk as I want to be, but I still justify it to myself. I don’t really have a crush, per se… I don’t know what I feel.
Then I see Colin
take a shot and can’t help turning to him. I’m not the only one who noticed.
“Hey!” Sylvie calls from the other side of the table, pointing a red fingernail at Colin. “Tell us who!”
Colin holds his palms up.
“A gentleman keeps his secrets,” he says, causing a few more laughs. Charismatically playing it off, but sitting this close to him I think I can see something beneath the charm. A slight tension in the neck, a straightness about the mouth. Something less than playful. More like a warning.
“Never have I ever,” announces Deanna, seizing the moment, offering her own version of a seductive glance toward Colin, “fucked a coworker.”
The screams around the table could probably be heard across the Three Flamingos, even though the dance floor is packed and the volume of the music is twice what it was when I arrived. Candace points at Troy, still screaming with laughter.
“You’d better drink, Troy!”
“So had you!” Troy answers back sassily, to which Candace responds with an expression of mock offense.
I feel a weight beside me shift, and before I know it Colin has gotten up.
“Running to the restroom,” he says quickly to the rest of us, already turning away.
He does it so nonchalantly, so naturally, his movements so easy and confident, that nobody would think he was doing anything but going to the bathroom when he needs to. A few of the people around the table nod before turning back to the scandalous conversation, but I find myself watching him leave, trying to interpret a sudden, strange feeling.
“I need to go too,” I say to Candace beside me, before getting up from my seat a little more clumsily and then following him across the dance floor.
He moves quickly, long strides that remind me of lead actors in black and white movies carrying him back through the tables and then toward the large passage that leads to the entrance. When I see him there I hurry up a little, pushing through two couples until I’m close enough for him to hear me over the music.