by Hayes, Liv
“I know,” I said. Because I did. “But the wonderful thing about my Porsche is that the windows are tinted. It’s the perfect getaway car.”
I gave her a smile, and she smiled back, but neither of us felt good about the joke, and I knew it. Still, what was there to do? Nothing.
So I took her hand as we made our way towards the elevator, kissed her slowly as we descended into the parking garage, and we spent our last twenty minutes or so sitting in the parking lot of a small cafe, drinking coffee and sharing the small sliver of gifted time.
“There’s something I should tell you,” she said. She picked at her cranberry scone like a bird. The physician in me wanted to prompt her to eat, but I resisted. “I applied to the University of Cambridge awhile back, for grad school. In the UK.”
I was more distraught over the news than I deserved to be. Mia was young, youthful, full of life and with many years ahead of her. I was over a decade beyond her in time and experience, and experience told me, like a sharp dagger to the back, that she needed to go out and live. Cambridge, grad school, exploring a new world – that would a glorious thing.
But of course, the fondness that had already pressed itself like ink-prints into my brain had made a stain, and there was no scrubbing it clean.
So I felt sad. I made no note of it, of course – but I felt it.
“That’s fantastic,” I told her. “Cambridge is an excellent school. You’d be a fool not to take the opportunity if you get in.”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “But if I don’t, that’s the thing. I have no idea what I’ll do. Like, right now I’m still living on campus, and I managed a summer job at the UCF library which should at least keep a roof over my head until summer ends. But if all fails, I’ll probably end up moving back into my Mom’s house.”
I could have helped her. I could have made an offer right then, or written her a check as I had been writing Cait checks. Doctors might not be playboy billionaires, but we aren’t hungry. I knew, at least then, that she wouldn’t have accepted it. So I just asked, plainly:
“Where does she live?”
“Arizona,” Mia answered bleakly. “Desert and dry air. The Grand Canyon State.”
Arizona. That was about as bad as Cambridge felt. No matter the distance, it was a plane-ride away, and a plane-ride was equivalent to a lifetime.
“But I’m super optimistic,” she added, though her optimism wasn’t hinted at in her tone. “Anyway. Yeah. That’s my life.”
“Have faith, little fox. The world is broad and wide.”
I think we both felt the words catch like snagged fabric against an unexpected hook. It tore into us like the fabric would rip, and we had no choice but to hide the damage.
“What about you?” she asked. “What do you do when you’re not busy saving lives?”
Like clockwork, my phone went off. It was on vibrate, but I knew Mia could hear it. What she didn’t know was that I had designated ring-tones dependent on who was calling – and this wasn’t a medical emergency.
I looked down, imagining myself saying the words:
Actually, I’m about three months away from becoming a dad. I’ll have a bouncing baby boy or girl on my hands. I’m sure you’ll want to see me, then.
Instead, like a coward, I shrugged.
“Not much,” I confessed. Which while not totally a lie, was not the complete truth. “Usually sleep. But I make time for the important things, honey.”
I caressed her cheek with the back of my hand. Glancing at the clock, I was already late, but I didn’t want to leave her.
In the apartment parking lot, Mia appeared concerned.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Not exactly. My friend’s here. The one you met already.”
“The girl with the blonde hair and apparent obsession with her phone?” I asked.
“Yeah. I should go…” she said quietly. “You should go, too.”
She turned to me once more, leaned in, and kissed me gently. The hardest part was watching her tuck the tiny stuffed fox away in her bag, concealing it so that her friend, who knew nothing about me aside from our brief meeting in the sterile confines of a hospital environment, wouldn’t be prompted to ask questions. And it needed to stay that way.
“Bye, Dr. Greene,” she said softly.
My phone went off again. The tension was becoming unbearable.
“Alex,” I said. “You can call me Alex.”
It almost felt as if I were telling her that I loved her. I felt suddenly, distinctively vulnerable. I had sprinted across all appropriate bounds, and here I was, still running. Still holding out until that last, gasping breath.
Her eyes fell, fluttered, then rose to meet mine again.
“Bye for now, Alex.”
When the door slammed shut, I glanced at my phone. One missed call from Cait. Two missed texts.
Pulling away, I sped off and towards the hospital, managing to hit every red light. And when I finally arrived, Grace was the first to point out the obvious look of death on my haggard, unshaven face.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured her. “That last patient, if you remember, who dealt with that episode of cardiac arrest – well, I’m still dealing with the paperwork.”
She laughed, understanding. A lie that worked for the time being. And when she walked away, and I was able to catch a secluded moment to myself, I asked, aloud:
“What am I doing?” I clenched my fists. “What the fuck am I doing?”
But, alone, no one was there to shake me to my senses.
Chapter 13
MIA
Aimee was sipping a strawberry wine cooler and watching some random television show when I closed the door behind me.
“What’s up?” I asked. “You okay?”
“Just checking in,” she said mildly. She turned the TV off, sat up, and stretched. “What have you been up to?”
My skin prickled. I couldn’t tell what was going through her head. She tilted back the wine cooler, took a sip, then set the bottle down on the coffee table.
“I was at the library,” I said, tossing my purse on the floor. “I wanted to see what my hours were going to look like next week.”
The worst part about paranoia is that you believe incessantly that those around you are completely aware of all your secrets; you walk around with them inked on your skin, like a tattoo.
But as I grabbed a spritzer from the fridge and turned to her again, she seemed relaxed. She believed me.
Still, there was something distinctly incredulous lingering in her eyes.
“Fun,” she said. “Well, no worries. I just got here.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Graduation is Friday,” she said. “And I need a new dress.”
“Anthropologie?” I asked from my room, peeling off my sundress and sifting through the mess of clothes on my floor (I really needed to start folding things) in search of something to wear. “Is your new beau going to be there? What’s his name, anyway?”
“Eric,” Aimee said. Standing in the doorway, she arched her back as if striking a pose, her blonde hair falling to the small of her back in soft waves. She looked vaguely on edge. “You’re wearing yesterday’s clothes.”
My stomach dropped. I had no choice but to whip up some kind of BS answer. I was getting good at that lately; to the point I didn’t even want to begin dwelling on it.
“Laziness,” I quipped. “Besides, the dress is new. Is it weird to wear something twice in a row?”
She knelt down, picked up the dress, and her eyebrows fell slant.
“It smells like a bar,” she mumbled.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I pretended not to hear her as I tied my hair up into a ponytail, threw on some eyeliner, and wondered if that flushed look on my face was linked to my literally having been fucked or due to the impending feeling that I was about to be, figuratively.
Scraping together what little I had, I bought mys
elf a simple, lilac-colored dress that cut off right above the knee; the sleeves were lace, and it was appropriately conservative. Aimee, after trying on a dozen dresses, settled on a navy-blue slingback that danced against her hips as she walked. She had such an effortless sway to her step – I sort of envied it.
We had lunch outside, even though it was overcast, and I was pretty certain that impending rain was hanging in the clouds. Humidity made everything more miserable.
I pecked at my plate of garlic and rosemary chicken, twirling the pasta round my fork and forcing myself to take a bite. Aimee sipped her Strawberry Margarita quietly.
“So what happened with Evan the other night?” she finally asked. “I’m just going to say it: I was kind of upset that you just left. I know you needed to call your mom, and I hope she’s alright and everything, but you just disappeared. It’s like whenever we do anything together, suddenly – poof! - you’re gone, out of nowhere.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I really was. “I know I’ve been distant lately. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“I get it,” she said, though the words seemed skewered in the opposite direction – she didn’t get it. Not at all. “But what happened with Evan, Mia?”
“He’s with a new girl,” I told her. “Why would I want to waste my time trying to fix something when he’s already involved with someone else? Why risk it?”
She nodded, and I cold practically hear the subtle click. I had chosen the right words.
“Why did you leave?” Aimee pressed. “And where did you go?”
“I went home,” I told her. “I picked up a ride with some Uber driver.”
Lies. All of them.
Aimee blinked, took another sip of her drink, then pressed her lips together. She wore this dark lipstick that left a stain on the clear straw.
“Okay,” she said, then added: “How long have we been friends?”
“Five years now.”
“Five years,” she agreed. “You know if there was something going on, you could talk to me, right?”
“I know that,” I told her. Only I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to her. Could I? “Of course I know that, Aimee. I love you.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I was simply building the situation between Dr. Greene and I up into something that maybe it wasn’t. The last thing I wanted to be, of course, was one of those friends. The kind of friend that hid things for the sake of hiding them. The kind of friend that buried parts of her life like an old pet without talking to those she loved most about the fact that the grief was gnawing at her. So did it matter?
Maybe not to me, no. I was the patient. I would always be protected. It was Dr. Greene’s life - Alex’s life - that would be irrevocably overthrown. I pictured the scene Gladiator-style: Roman Colosseum, with spectators cheering for his death.
And even if she swore silence, it was still akin to dropping a deliberate clue. And I couldn’t rationalize risking it.
In the car, silencing the ignition, Aimee asked:
“Who do you know that drives a Porsche?”
My blood went cold. I looked at her, trying my best to remain composed while figuring out whether this was the time to let the ball drop or keep it rolling.
Think. Think of something. Think of anything.
“It was the only kind of cab they had immediately available,” I sputtered. “I know. I need to get a car before I throw all of my non-existent funds into Uber carting me around.”
It worked. Aimee drew back, smiled, then appeared completely pleased. As if all of the things she had compiled, the neat little bits of information, like breadcrumbs, all boiled down the simplest, easiest answer. I’d come home in the dress because I had chosen to wear it a second time around. I had gone to the library. The Porsche? A fancy Uber cab.
Occam’s Razor, they call it.
Keep it going, Mia. Keep it up. Keep stacking the bricks until you can’t see what’s actually around you anymore.
“Well,” she said. “I have to go meet Eric. Call you later?”
“Alright,” I said.
I stepped out of the car, and she pulled away. I don’t think I had ever been so relieved to watch her go.
Was I a terrible friend? Probably. And maybe that’s one of the more terrible things about beginning to fall for someone you shouldn’t. When the cards are down and the stakes are raised, the losses you suffer end up making you see all the rose-tinted things for exactly what they are.
And I’d said it myself: nothing is pretty up close.
While in the bath, trying out this vanilla-lavender scented bath bomb that I had purchased at the local Lush (one of my few indulgences – but this had been a birthday gift), Dr. Greene called. I didn’t wait to pick up.
“Hi,” I said, maybe a little too breathy. I was better than that – letting myself get sucker-punched by a guy before he had even said a word. “It’s late.”
“I needed to hear your voice,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
“Well, maybe you should unwind. Have a drink.”
He paused. I sank into the water.
“It would be easier to unwind if you were here with me.”
Maybe it was from the bath, hot enough that I could see the steam rise from above the purple-tinted water, but the heat suddenly became unmistakable.
“I’m in the bath,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking of you in the bath,” he leered, then said, without a hitch: “I wish I was there with you. If I didn’t have a mountain of files to look over, I’d be over there five minutes ago.”
I laughed. I could almost picture his smile: broad, luscious.
“Mia,” he murmured. God, I could listen to him say my name over and over again. My own, personal, one-word track. “Touch yourself for me.”
I dipped my hand beneath the water, pressed a finger to the petal-like spot. My breath grew heavier.
“I need you…” I started. “I don’t know how I can come without you here.”
“Think about me there, honey.” Oh, honey. I loved that just about as much as little fox. “You know what I would do to you if I was there right now?”
“What?” I said, barely a wisp of a word. I moved my fingers, pressing down a bit harder, and began to squirm. I didn’t want to be teased. I wanted him here, inside me, right now. “What would you do?”
“I would rub my fingers against your clit,” his voice, rough and soft, was almost like a touch itself. I could feel it radiate, skimming over me as he had done with his own rough hands. “I’d pull your hair gently, then kiss the back of your neck, all the way down your back…”
I shivered. Evan had never even spoken to me this way before. It was all so new, like the first glance into Pandora’s Box, and the switch had already been flipped. There was no halt button.
“You know what I love? I love that I left those marks on your neck,” he added. And he had. They were faint, and low enough on the nape of my neck, further towards the back, that I could conceal them – but I knew that they were there. And I knew he had done it all on purpose. “Oh, Mia…”
I could hear his breath go shallow. My new favorite sound. The sound of his losing control – the reserved doctor, the man who lived a life micro-managing every second of every day. Everything compiled into notes and files and paperwork. Yet the thought of touching me was enough to make him collapse like a mannequin, straight into my arms.
He spoke my name again, softly.
“If I was there, I’d come inside you,” his voice raised an octave, frenzied. “I’m stroking myself just imagining it. Three times isn’t enough.”
“Please,” I needed release at this point. The water was scorching. I didn’t care how many times I had begged him up until now, each and every time he fucked me. “Please let me come.”
I heard him moan. There’s something so ferociously sexy about hearing a man gradually falling away from his senses.
“Come for me, Mia,” he whispered.
“Imagine me there, dragging you out of that bath, sliding my jeans down and fucking your right there on the bathroom floor. I’d be loud, too. I’d let everyone hear how badly I need you right now.”
That was it. I came in waves, and with a ragged gasp of breath, he followed after.
“Shit,” he said. “I’ve made a mess.”
Then he laughed, like a boy would. I laughed, too. It was the perfect segue.
I swept back a bit of wet hair, sitting myself up. I splashed a bit of sweet-scented water against my face to wake me up, but I was still drifting in post-orgasm euphoria.
“Would you ever fuck me in the bath?” I asked.
“Hm?” Dr. Greene chuckled. “That’s quite a gamble. Terrible risk for UTIs, you know.”
“Wow,” I muttered. Leave it to a doctor to give such a blunt answer. “You sure know how to set the mood, Dr. Greene.”
He laughed, louder this time. It was really nice, making him laugh. It was nice to know I could get other reactions out of him – not just primal, but Real Guy ones, too. The things that other people would see, in broad daylight, when he wasn’t hiding. When he wasn’t hiding with me.
“Well, I’m sorry if I put a damper on one of your personal fantasies, Mia,” he said, and I could hear the smirk. “But I’ll more than make it up to you. You have my promise.”
“You going to write me a special prescription?”
“God,” he started laughing again, and it was infectious. “You really are something else.”
Outside, the sound of rain began quietly tapping against the windows. The heavy clouds, as I knew they would, would soon open up and bring forth the floods. I didn’t take it as a sign, though. Not right then. Just a typical Florida summer, with the inescapable heat and Biblical downpours.
I kept Dr. Greene on the phone as I toweled off, slipped into my PJs, and got into bed. When I was properly snuggled up, I joked:
“Want to know what I’m wearing?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“A giant T-shirt and plaid pajama pants,” I smirked. “I bet you thought it was going to be something sexy, didn’t you?”