Pulse

  Aimee’s smile glittered, and I felt, at least briefly, like a twenty-two-year-old on the cusp of graduating should feel: excited. Lit-up by the promise of something new, waiting for me around the corner. I just wasn’t holding it yet.

  Fast forward: bare knees on filthy tile, my head hung over the toilet, cussing under my alcohol-riddled breath.

  After I was sure I could leave the stall without vomiting all over myself, I found Aimee, who was dancing closely with a boy who looked not exactly unlike Justin Bieber, and I said:

  “I need to go home.”

  She pulled away, just slightly, her arms still hung around Strange Boy’s neck, looking appropriately concerned.

  “Home?” she said, as in am I driving you? “Do you want to leave right now?”

  “Uber app,” I flashed my phone, a reminder that technology was grand and also a life-saver. “You stay here. I’ll call you later.”

  “At least let me wait with you outside.”

  “Aimee,” I got as close as I could to the two of them without being blatantly drunk-awkward, and we hugged. “Have fun, okay? I’ll call you.”

  So I left alone, the night full of Florida heat. It hung over everyone like a wet blanket, wringing with the scent of fried food from the myriad of fast food joints, cigarette smoke and engine exhaust. Looking up, you couldn’t even see the stars; they were lost in the neon lights, hiding.

  Collapsing outside, my back against brick-siding, I lit up my phone, contemplated texting an Uber driver to come pick me up, and still found myself hovering over Dr. Greene’s number.

  In some horrible romantic comedy, the girl would call the guy, drunk, and he would pick her up and drive her home and take care of her.

  Was this going to be how things went? Was I really going to do this?

  A brief pause, hesitant with dread; the booze still coursing through my veins, making everything tilt just slightly, and my reasoning was no exception.

  I hit call. The phone rang three times, and he picked up.

  “Hello?” his voice was like gravel. He sounded tired. He also sounded like he didn’t know who was on the other end. Repeat: “Hello? Dr. Alex Greene speaking.”

  I almost laughed at his formality. Oh, look at me, I’m a doctor. I have a fancy title and everything to prove it, too.

  After he repeated himself a third time, I answered.

  “It’s Mia,” I said. “I know what you’re thinking: God, aren’t Millennials such a pain in the ass? They aren’t even aware of the art of subtlety, you know? We just dive right in. We just go for it.”

  He said nothing for a long, long time.

  “I’m at the hospital,” his voice, when he finally answered, was hushed. “Mia, what’s going on? Have you been drinking?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  A clipped second passed. Was he angry? Well, he had a right to be, I suppose, given that I was being about as mature as a six-year-old that didn’t find the prize I wanted in a box of Kellogg’s cereal.

  “Where are you?” he asked. I heard a door close, then lock. The lock was loud. “Mia?”

  “I’m at Chiller’s,” I told him. “I’m waiting outside. It smells disgusting out here. I don’t even want to breathe the air.”

  “Wait where you are,” he commanded. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Then he hung up, and I was caught in the lapse of dead air. A car sped by, honking its horn. Another vehicle – this massive SUV, nearly side-swiped it. Two people got out, started throwing insults, then fists, and finally the cops came and broke them up. And I watched all of it unravel, the unseen bystander.

  Damn, I thought, feeling dizzy. They give out driver’s licenses here like sparkly star stickers on a grade-schooler’s spelling test.

  When Dr. Greene arrived, there was no missing him. His Porsche emitted this aura of sleek importance; you wondered who was sitting inside, and what they did, and who they were.

  I stumbled over to the door, opened it, and slid into the passenger’s seat.

  Dr. Greene handed me a bag, instructing firmly.

  “If you need to throw up, please do so in here.”

  I shut the door, and we sped off. Cutting a sideways look at him, he was in full apparel; lab-coat, shirt, tie, slacks. His hair was combed neatly. He smelled like hospital, too, if that was possible.

  I nuzzled the leather seat as he adjusted the air-conditioner, muttering:

  “I’m sorry if you’re mad at me,” I said. “I know this is terribly immature.”

  He sighed softly.

  “I’m not mad.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you were, though,” I pressed, then added. “You look so handsome. I probably look like I just rolled out from under a trailer.”

  “I’m not mad,” he persisted. “Now where do you live?”

  I gave him the instructions, and he seemed to know without me even needing to navigate. When we pulled up to the apartment, I expected him to just drop me off – no parting remarks, no parting kiss. Why would he have wanted to kiss me then, anyway?

  But no. He got out, took my arm, led me inside. In the apartment, he removed my coat, then his, then led me into the bathroom and sat me on the edge of the bath. He washed my face with a warm cloth, tied my hair back with an elastic that he (admittedly looking pretty befuddled) rummaged for in my mess of makeup baskets. He instructed me to drink water until I could keep it down, a warm hand against my forehead, then my cheek, then my shoulder. Calm, reassuring. We were doctor and patient once more.

  I will be upfront in confessing that this was not something sweet, or romantic, or sexy. I didn’t sober up in time for us to have another lusty rendezvous in my apartment, where I stealthily slipped out of my pajamas and he tore off his tie and dress shirt. We simply sat on my couch, and he watched a few episodes of Hemlock Grove with me, and when the credits rolled I asked him, meekly.

  “What did you say to get out of on-call duty?”

  “I told them that I had a personal emergency,” he answered. “You were lucky I had wrapped up my work for the night. To be honest, I was simply waiting around.”

  “You work too much.”

  “I’m a doctor,” he said gently. “That’s my life.”

  He smiled. I was hoping that he would reach out, pull me into his arms, and hold me, but none of that happened. I was too scared to make the jump myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really very embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  The next episode began to auto-play, and I muted the TV.

  “You never answered me,” I told him. “I know I shouldn’t get so self-absorbed, and automatically assume that I did something wrong, or said something wrong, but…” I stopped myself, the first twinge of a very-deserved hangover headache setting in. “I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. I was waiting for you.”

  “I know.”

  “I still think about what happened,” I said. But I wasn’t looking at him. My head was buried in a throw pillow, my legs yanked up against my chest. Like an island, he sat at the edge of the couch, as far away from me as possible – and I could feel the distance, palpable and cool. “At your office.”

  “I do, too.”

  I was feeling put-together enough that I could have sat up and rested my head against his shoulder. I would have loved a kiss, even just a peck on the cheek. But as I rolled over, catching a full look at Dr. Greene, he looked so sad and torn and – dare I say it, like the care-taking adult he currently was – that I didn’t dare. It felt out of place. It felt improper. It felt, in the same way it should have felt when he was fucking me in his office: inappropriate.

  For maybe the first time, I really felt the wedge that was our age difference. Our status. Our place in life, and the pedestals that held us dangling like two perpendicular lines; close, but never able to touch.

  Only we had. We had touched.

  He looked at me, and it was then I realized thi
s was the first time he had actually looked at me all night. The first time our eyes locked since he picked up in his expensive car, in his expensive clothes, unintentionally taunting me with the extravagances of the life he lived. Which, in the chaotic aftermath of the girlish mess he had found himself stepping into, was a lifetime away from what his life must have looked like.

  “You regret it now, don’t you?” I asked him. “I can feel it, you know. I can feel you regretting me. And you should, you know. You should regret it. But here’s the thing: I don’t.”

  I wanted to stay awake, but not even a particularly gripping episode of HG or the presence of Dr. Greene was able to keep my eyes open. I fell asleep on the couch, with Dr. Greene still sitting near, but not near enough.

  And when I woke up, as I could have only expected, he was gone.

  One the table were three things: Advil, a glass of orange juice, and note:

  Take this, keep up with electrolytes, and rest.

  But nothing else. No deep professions of love, or lust, or even an explanation as to why he was so distant. Just a simple instruction.

  I called Aimee to let her know I was home safe, and less hungover than I thought I would be. And while lazing around the apartment, shooting an email out to the UCF library in hopes that I could find a job and, hopefully, stay in this apartment for a little bit longer, my mother called.

  I picked up on the first ring.

  “Mom,” I said. “Please tell me that Arizona needs some of our summer rain.”

  “Oh, God, honey, it’s terrible. But it’s a dry heat. Nothing central air can’t fix.”

  I loved my mother so much. She was wonderful, loving, and I could only imagine how she would react if she’d known what the last few weeks of my life had looked life. There was no way I could tell her.

  But she sensed it, as only she would.

  “What’s wrong, Mia?” she asked. “You seem a little glum.”

  “Oh,” I answered. “Everything’s okay, really. I’m just dealing with a few things that are way over my head.”

  Sitting in the exam room, with my eyes glued to that huge, fist-shaped heart that sat atop the computer desk, I tried to convince myself that what had happened the night before last – my getting absolutely wasted, and Dr. Greene picking up the pieces – was simply tied to my own habit of over-obsessing. And when he walked in, he’d smile warmly, call me honey, his little fox, and touch my hand. Maybe I’d catch that slight raise in his tone, like he was getting ready to say something funny, or feel the slight tremor in his hand when he reached out to check my pulse.

  Instead, when he walked in, his smile was tight. He walked rigidly, making whatever contact he had to make – shaking my hand, checking my pulse – quick and formal. It felt like the room’s temperature had suddenly shot down into the negatives, and I was completely exposed.

  “So,” he said. There was an attempted cheeriness in his voice, but I, of course, could see right through the bullshit. “All of your tests are normal, Mia. I think it’s just anxiety. If the symptoms persist, I suggest talking to a therapist.”

  “Fuck you,” I wanted to say. And yeah, I was partly angry right then. I wanted an explanation. In fact, I knew I deserved one. I deserved something.

  I tried to take that small, fleeting glimmer of something – fatigue, depression – that I caught in his eyes as a sign. I forced myself to recall how forlorn and torn he looked, sitting at the edge of my couch, and how gentle his hands were when he washed the raccoon-makeup from my eyes and tied my hair back.

  Of course he cared. He was just refusing to show it.

  “So this is it?” I asked.

  He leaned in, still managing to keep himself at a distance.

  “I can schedule you a follow-up appointment for next year, if you’d like,” he suggested. “We can further discuss or review anything you might be dealing with then.”

  “What if I have an emergency?” I prompted. “What then?”

  There it was: the tightening of his jaw, the slight clench of his hands. He wasn’t angry. He was just as upset as I was.

  “I’d be happy to refer you to another colleague of mine,” he faltered. “He’s very good. You’ll find him more than competent.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really thinking,” I demanded. “You said yourself that you weren’t afraid.”

  He nodded. He twisted his hands. He looked down towards the floor and parted his lips, as if wanting to answer me, to give me something, anything. But he said no words.

  “Please understand,” he begged gently. “Please know that I do care.”

  “But?”

  He covered his face. God, was he about to cry?

  “I can’t do this anymore, Mia,” he said sternly. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. You have every right to be upset. I hope you can forgive me.”

  I hope you can forgive me.

  As he stood, and we briefly clasped hands, and I watched him turn and leave and walk out of my life forever, I almost broke down. I almost threw the heavy, plastic heart at him – a metaphor.

  Save it, I told myself. Don’t crack. Be understanding. Be the adult you’ve been training yourself to become for the past four years.

  I’ll admit, when the nurse came to release me, I thought about telling her. I thought about throwing him under the freight-train, bound to the tracks, and watching the mess splatter. I thought about, for the sake of my own hurt feelings, telling her everything: the pet-names, the kiss, the discreet office sex.

  But when she smiled at me, and cocked her head to the side, asking:

  “Is everything alright, hun?”

  I just nodded, numbly.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.

  I wasn’t going to ruin his life. I couldn’t. It takes two, after all. He kissed me, but I kissed him back. I wrapped my legs around his waist, I drew him in deeper. And even if he was the adult, and should have known better, I still wanted it. It was the coldest, most bitter, undeniable truth.

  I waited until I got into the elevator, until the doors were closed, and then, granting myself the thirty-some seconds as the elevator lurched towards its gradual descent, I wept. I wiped my face, wiped my nose, shuddered heavily.

  God, the pain. It was like my bones, my marrow, were lit on fire.

  And then, as the doors opened, I collected myself. I forced myself back into reality, whether this was a place I wanted to be or not.

  He was a doctor. I was a patient.

  He was a man, and I was a girl.

  What more could I have expected?

  Chapter 10

  ALEX

  The following week was nothing short of hellish. At the hospital, one of my patients suffered a bout of cardiac arrest after an adverse reaction to an Interferon injection. I spent hours on the paperwork, talking to his family, reassuring his wife that her husband would live, and his daughters that their father would be fine. I tried my damnest to figure out a more adequate treatment plan while working alongside his Gastrointerologist, who was treating him for acute liver disease.

  And the kicker? The man refused to stop drinking.

  “There’s little we can do for this guy,” I’d said. His GI nodded in agreement. There was little we could do for him. But for the time being, for the sake of his family, being alive was enough.

  In the mix, Cait called me on the daily to inform me of all the little things she was picking up for the baby, and each time she said baby, I felt a jolt in my stomach, like having touched a bare wire. But I didn’t want to upset her, so I did my best to suppress the fact that I was still walking around feeling perpetually nauseated at the thought of my impending fatherhood, and how I wasn’t ready, and how – God – I didn’t want this with her.

  I did the only thing I could do: go into the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and move the fuck on. This was my situation, and I had to deal with it like a man.

  In the cafeteria, staring into my cup of coffee, Weisman hit me on t
he shoulder.

  “What the hell, Al?” he said. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks for that,” I smirked weakly. “I feel like shit.”

  “What’s eating you?” he asked. “Because you obviously aren’t eating. You look completely malnourished, you know.”

  I tore open a sugar packet, watched the grains fall into my coffee, and repeated the process until Dr. Weisman eventually looked alarmed.

  “Jesus,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “If I talk about it, it’s just going to become even more real than it presently is.”

  “That bad?” he asked. “You didn’t get slapped with a lawsuit, did you?”

  “A lawsuit would be almost preferable,” I said. “And no. Leagues worse, Nick. Leagues worse.”

  I paused, took a sip of my too-sweet coffee, and swallowed.

  “Cait is pregnant,” I said. “So, that’s what’s going on in my life right now.”

  Dr. Weisman whistled.

  “Damn, Alex,” he said. And there was actually a sort of almost-empathy to his tone. “And she’s sure it’s yours?”

  “That’s what she says,” I told him. “Anyway, I’ve made it obvious that there’s going to be a paternity test. Especially given the whole having been screwing some other dude before she even left me.”

  He shook his head, tapped a finger against his can of Sunkist, and sighed.

  “I’m just surprised you guys were even going at it,” he admitted. “Why? I mean, can I even ask?”

  I shrugged. “Because I had an itch I needed to scratch, and she was there. We were both just unbandaged wounds at that point, Nick. I don’t know what to say. Obviously I’m regretting it now.”

  Weisman gave a pained smile.

  “Kids are great,” he strained to say. “You might just find it’s what you’ve been missing. God knows you’ve looked like a ghost these past few weeks. Kids, Al, they liven things up.”

  Says the man who risked completely disemboweling his family for the sake of fucking a co-ed. I was a prick, but I wasn’t a married prick.