Keep This Promise

by Willow Winters

  “Dr. Hawkins!”

  His head snaps up as he walks through the automatic glass doors, holding his son’s hand. The little boy looks about four from his height. Tall. Probably his dad’s genes. Dr. Hawkins has to be at least six-four—a full foot taller than my five-four stature. But I know, in spite of his height, little Roman is only three. Lots of rumors about the hottest doctor at the hospital float around. I’m fairly certain the age of his son is correct.

  “Dorothy …” he says my name slowly, like the smile that grows on his face.

  “For you.” I hold out a large reusable shopping bag, but it hasn’t been used before. I bought it for his stuff. He can reuse it. He can think of me when he reuses it. Unless it brings back memories of me spilling coffee on his ass and down the back of his legs. Then maybe I prefer he not think of me when reusing the bag.

  He releases the little boy’s hand and takes the bag. “What’s this?”

  “What’s in the bag?” Roman says in choppy increments. He’s a spitting image of his dad. They both have the same dirty blond hair. A little longer on the top and shorter on the sides. They have the same rich brown eyes too. His shirt reads TROUBLE.

  “Dorothy …” Dr. Hawkins shakes his head, lifting his gaze from the contents of the bag to me. “Why did you do this?”

  “I ruined your scrubs. So I bought you new ones. Underwear … just took a guess on the size. Hope you’re good with boxer briefs in black. And the shoes are in two sizes. I guessed either a ten and a half or an eleven. Am I right?”

  Dr. Hawkins nods slowly, wearing a distorted mask of confusion. “Eleven. But …”

  “Donate the other pair.” I shrug.

  “You …” He shakes his head again, brows knitted together. “You should return them and get your money back. You should return all of this and get your money back. And what is—” He pulls out the superhero cape.

  “Oh!” I laugh. “That’s not for you. I heard you usually arrive with this little guy because he goes to the hospital daycare. Apparently, a lot of the nurses’ ovaries explode when this happens.” I roll my eyes. “Seems a bit farfetched. Anyway, I had an uncle who used to include me whenever someone in the family had a special occasion like a birthday. He’d get them a gift, and he’d get me some sort of dress-up gift. My mom said he was spoiling me, but he said fostering a child’s imagination is an investment into the future, not the spoiling of a generation.”

  Dr. Hawkins opens his mouth, but nothing comes out for several seconds.

  I glance at my watch. “I have to get upstairs. Hope everything fits. Especially the cape.” I grin at Roman. He’s adorable, hugging his dad’s leg and watching me with big brown eyes.

  “Thank you, Dorothy. Really … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Daddy … go.” Roman tugs on his leg.

  “Yeah, buddy. We’ll go.” He shares a big smile, not the confused and guilty expression from just seconds earlier. Dr. Hawkins has a great smile.

  I can tell he’s a flosser. Tall and he flosses. Journal-worthy.

  “I’ll give him the cape later. If I show it to him now, he’ll want to take it to daycare, and there will be a meltdown when I don’t let him.”

  “That’s cool. So … later.” I turn and push open the door to the stairs.

  “You’re taking the stairs?”

  I glance over my shoulder. “Yep. I like to close my movement and exercise rings before noon.” Lifting my wrist, I show him my watch.

  He holds up his watch. “I already closed my exercise ring this morning.” He winks.

  Tall. Flosser. Fit. Yeah, totally journal-worthy.

  Chapter Three

  Accidental Babysitter

  Elijah

  “Cute cape.” Mom smiles at Super Roman as he flies around my parents’ backyard, chasing Elmo their golden retriever.

  I nod, sipping my Sunday brunch mimosa, finding it impossible to hide my grin while looking at that cape and thinking about the woman who gave it to him. “The burn incident…” I glance at Mom, leaning to my right since the burns on my left butt cheek and the back of my left leg prevent me from sitting with my weight evenly distributed “…the culprit is a patient transporter at the hospital. She replaced my items of clothing … including new underwear.”

  Mom’s eyebrows inch up her forehead.

  “Yeah.” I chuckle. “She also bought Roman that cape, having never met him.”

  “I already love her. When are you bringing her to Sunday brunch?”

  I laugh some more. “In another life where I’m not emotionally stunted from my wife leaving me and only spending half the year with my son. Or when I’m not buried in my lab or attending funerals of deceased patients.”

  “Well…” she taps my leg with her toe as she bounces one leg crossed over the other “…in that pathetic spiel you call an excuse, you failed to mention that you’re not interested or attracted to this woman. That’s progress, Eli.”

  I scratch my jaw, focusing my gaze on Roman. “She’s young.”

  “How young?”

  I shrug. “Maybe late twenties. I’m not sure.”

  “Married?”

  “I don’t know.” I grin. “Our interactions have been limited.”

  “Wedding band?”

  “No. But she might just not wear it to work.”

  “Ha!” Mom throws her arms in the air like someone scored a touchdown. “You looked! Eli, you actually looked to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. That means something, my dear boy.”

  Great. Yes, I looked to see if she had a ring on her finger after she went on about the podcast on burn research. For the tiniest, fleeting moment, I wondered if she went home to some guy who got to listen to her sexy, nerdy-girl chattering about medical research.

  Jesus …

  Did I really just think “sexy?”

  “You should ask her out on a date.”

  “I work with her. Not a good idea.”

  Mom pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose to look at me over the frames. “She’s a patient transporter. I’d hardly call that working with her.”

  “I’m not ready to date.”

  Mom drains her drink and sets it on the mosaic tile table between us. “Roman sure does like that cape.”

  On a sigh, I bite back my grin. “Yeah, yeah … it was the perfect gift. I’ll write her a thank-you.”

  “You do that.” Mom nods slowly. “Make sure you leave your cell number on that thank-you.”

  “Aaannd … I’m out of here. Where’s Dad?”

  She juts her chin toward the detached garage. “Playing with grease, as always. You know, you’ll never get over Julie if you don’t crack open the door to other possibilities.”

  “Yup, I think I’ll go help Dad.” I make my escape to the garage to help my dad. He doesn’t ask questions beyond what’s up—a man of few words, always under a car, covered in grease. My parents are opposites in every way possible—the mechanic and the psychiatrist. But somehow it just works. Maybe Julie and I were too much alike. I never thought that really could be the case, but the list of things I never thought seems to grow every day.

  “I asked Dorothy out on a date,” Dr. Warren informs me two seconds after I walk into the lab Monday morning.

  My forward motion comes to a halt, crashing into a strange reality. It’s not that he asked her out on a date. It’s the way my hands ball into fists because I want to strike him square in the nose. And I’m not a violent person. Relaxing my fists, I stare at them for a few seconds before shaking them out, shaking out the completely irrational sense of anger he spurred in my unstable mind.

  “Why would you do that? You were making fun of her just last week.”

  “I wasn’t making fun of her. Just making observations. But I sensed it pissed you off, so I thought what better way to make you see that I’m not a dick than to ask her out. Buy her dinner. Show her a good time.”

  How did he make it through medical school? Why did our educati
onal institutions not require an ounce of common sense to receive a diploma? “Your level of ignorance knows no boundaries.”

  “I graduated top in my class.”

  “Good for you. I hope you find the cure for all cancers because your chances at finding success as a decent human are pretty slim.”

  He chuckles like I’m joking.

  I’m not joking. Clearing my throat, I thumb through some papers next to my computer. “Did she say yes?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she needs to check her calendar, but she didn’t say calendar. She actually said ‘list.’ Do you suppose Dorothy Mayhem has a waiting list for dating?” Warren laughs, shaking his head.

  “Maybe it’s a sex offender list.”

  “Real funny.” He tips his chin, looking through the microscope.

  “Did you…” I play it casual like it’s not bugging the hell out of me “…just ask her out this morning?”

  “Yesterday. She only works Friday through Sunday. She’s a nursing student. Willow said she lives on a farm with emus. I’m not buying that rumor, but I’m sure as hell intrigued. It’s been a while since a woman really intrigued me. But she wouldn’t hand over her phone number, so now I have to wait until Friday to see where I fit on her list.”

  “Who is Willow?”

  Warren’s head snaps up. “Dude, she’s your nurse.”

  “Willa. Not Willow.”

  He shakes his head, enjoying some sort of laugh at my expense. “No one calls her Willa.”

  My head jerks backward. “I call her Willa because that’s her name.”

  “I stand corrected. No one except you calls her Willa.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you were a woman in your twenties named after your great grandmother Willa, would you actually go by that name?”

  My lips twist, eyes squint. “Huh … how did I miss that? I’ll try to remember to call her Willow from now on.”

  “No. Don’t. I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping her from jumping you is the fact that you call her Willa. If you call her Willow, she’ll probably start dry humping your leg.” Warren glances at his phone. “I have to check on Opal.”

  “I want her lab results ASAP.”

  “You got it.” He tucks his phone into the pocket of his coat and slips out of the lab.

  My brain hurts more than my burnt ass. Warren and Dorothy. Dorothy and emus. Willa is Willow. Willow wants to hump my leg.

  Thursday night, Julie picks up Roman. Her mom watches him while she works—because only his awful father sends him to daycare … which he happens to love.

  Friday morning I arrive early to the hospital and park by the entrance where Dorothy gave me the bag of clothes. I may have pried a little to see what time her shift starts, and I may have been told that she usually arrives thirty minutes early for her twelve-hour shift that begins at 8:00 a.m. So I arrive by 7:15 to play it safe and not miss her.

  At exactly 7:30 a.m., a white Audi Q5 zooms past my blue Tesla and makes a ninety-degree turn into a parking spot. How did it not crash into the car next to it? A miracle.

  “Damn … didn’t see that coming,” I whisper to myself when Dorothy emerges from the vehicle—blue scrubs, pink undershirt, matching pink tennis shoes. She curls her dark hair behind her ears, hikes her bag onto her shoulder, and shuts the door.

  Dorothy Mayhem drives a luxury car like a bat out of Hell. On all accounts, I’m in shock. It takes me a few seconds to close my gaping mouth and climb out of my vehicle.

  “Good morning.”

  She turns just before the entrance. “Oh, hey! Good morning.”

  “That was quite the parking job.”

  Her gaze flits to her car. “Thanks. I’ve had a few issues with parking. So once I got my Q5, I decided to slow it down a bit.”

  I try not to react, but I feel my eyebrows inching up my forehead all on their own. That was her slowed-down version of parking? “Here. You really should not have done what you did last week. So the least I can do is give you this.” I hand her the thank-you card. “By the way, Roman loves the cape. Wears it all the time. You hit a home run with that gift.”

  “What’s this?” She takes the card from me.

  I feel stupid. Is the card a bad idea? Do people no longer give thank-you cards? Is everything communicated via text and email? “It’s uh…” I slip my hands into the pockets of my gray pants “…a thank-you card.”

  “Oh.” She inspects it. “Should I open it now? Or do you want me to wait?”

  I have no clue. Now, so she’ll see my number? (Thanks, Mom.) Or later, so she doesn’t have to acknowledge my phone number? Since common sense has a tradition of arriving late to the party, I want to pluck that thank-you card from her hand and buy a new one that doesn’t have my phone number scrawled on the inside of it.

  “Oh. It doesn’t matter. Whenever.”

  She shrugs and rips it open, making my stomach twist with regret. The phone number was a terrible idea. (Really … thanks, Mom.)

  I can’t stand here like an idiot waiting for her to react. “Thanks again. I’d better get to my office. I have rounds soon.” Slipping past her, I breeze through the automatic doors.

  “Is this your phone number?”

  I stop. Closing my eyes, I curse my mom and her terrible idea … that I didn’t have to take, but she’s smart and usually right, so … “Uh, yeah.” I cringe, unable to turn around like a grown man and face her.

  “I’m in school during the week, and I work twelve-hour shifts over the weekend, but—”

  “No.” I turn, feigning confidence mixed with indifference. “It was stupid and impulsive of me. I’m not really sure why I felt compelled to do it. Just—”

  “No. I mean … as long as it’s after lecture and clinical during the week. Or I guess if you’re thinking late on the weekends. I can totally babysit Roman for you.”

  Oh, for the love of …

  I’m just that oblivious to reality. I have been since the day my wife left me. How can I be just that stupid? Dorothy is younger than me. Of course she thinks I’m looking for a babysitter, not a date. Dr. Warren is closer to her age. And what a dick move of me to even leave my number after Dr. Even Bigger Dick asked her out.

  “You uh … have a lot on your plate. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to babysit my son.”

  “Well …” She waves the thank-you card. “Clearly, you thought of it at some point.”

  Nope. Just thought we’d grab a drink this week while Julie has Roman.

  “My intern said he asked you out.” If in doubt, throw your intern under the bus. When you fail at properly asking a woman out on a date, you move to plan B—discuss other men who are waiting for her to answer their date invitation.

  I’m clueless. Maybe I should stick to looking for a cure for cancer. I honestly think it might be easier than asking Dorothy out on a date.

  “Dr. Warren.” Her face scrunches. “Yeah, I’m not sure about him. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t know what we might discuss. And there are rumors that he’s the hospital’s man-whore, which makes his invitation to take me out on a date that doesn’t involve the on-call room feel a little suspicious.”

  Her lips twist. “On the other hand, I’ve heard he’s good at what he does.”

  “Mmm … yes. Dr. Warren is an excellent doctor.”

  “Oh.” She grins. “I meant what he does in the on-call room.”

  Rubbing the back of my neck, my gaze drops to my feet. “Well, I can’t vouch for that. You’ll have to get other references for that.”

  “Did the underwear fit?”

  I need to get out of here. The conversation has taken way too many sharp turns. My brain hurts from the whiplash. Why didn’t I stick with a simple, verbal “thank-you?”

  Babysitting.

  Dr. Warren’s inappropriate behavior in the on-call rooms.

  The gifted underwear from a stranger I’ve known for all of two seconds.

  Really—no words.

&nb
sp; Yet, I gave her my phone number. And at the time, my only explanation was impulse … and my mom. I’m not ready to date. But I need to date. The commiserative looks from everyone around me chips away at my sense of self-worth. Yes, my wife left me. But those looks stopped months after it happened and have evolved into “poor thing can’t get over her” looks.

  No thank you.

  “Yes. They fit just fine.”

  “Good.” She nods, a pleasant smile stealing her face for several seconds before it simmers into cork screwed lips. “You need my phone number. I mean. If you want me to babysit, you need my phone number. It’s not like I’m going to call you and tell you when you need a babysitter. Right?”

  Why? Why the phone number? Do I really expect her to call me and ask me out? I would have paid top dollar for a shot of clarity and common sense while writing that damn thank-you.

  She slips her phone out of her pocket and moves her thumbs along the screen. A second later, my phone vibrates. I glance at the text.

  Hi, Dr. Hawkins. It’s me, Dorothy Mayhem. Now you have my number.

  My grin grows exponentially. It feels good. Better than good … it feels pretty damn amazing as I glance up at her. “Thanks. I’ll add you to my contacts.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you around.”

  “Oh … Dorothy?”

  She turns. “Yeah?”

  “Is Dorothy your grandmother’s name?”

  She wets her lips and rubs them together a few times while her brows pull toward her nose. Then her face relaxes, welcoming back that contagious smile. “No, silly. It’s my name.” And just like that, she heads up the stairs as I replay the train wreck in my head.

  Cool. Julie never says cool. And she never calls me silly. She speaks to me on a need-to basis, scowling at me like a tumor protruding from her neck, giving her a perpetual frown.

  Chapter Four

  On-call Room