“Well, ladies,” she says. “I have to get to work. Mandy, why don’t you take the morning off? You haven’t used any vacation time in a while.”
“Thanks, boss,” Mandy says, between mouthfuls of the pancakes she ordered, before Dr. Ramirez leaves us alone.
When we ask for our checks, the waiter informs us that both our tabs have been taken care of.
“Dr. Ramirez is generous like that,” says Mandy. “Sometimes too generous. People tend to want to walk over her.”
“Don’t take advantage. Noted.”
As we make our way outside, I ask Mandy something that crossed my mind during breakfast. “Hey, is it okay for us to socialize outside the hospital?”
“Not with Dr. R. Today was fine, but she won’t be hanging out with us on the regular. She needs to keep a line drawn between her personal life and her patients. But I’m cool.”
“You won’t get in trouble?”
“No. I don’t handle patient care or anything like that. The hospital won’t have a problem if we’re friends, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
We are on the sidewalk, and Mandy stands in front of me. “So, what would you like to do? Seems I’m free this morning.”
I shrug. “I was just planning on exploring the neighborhood a bit.”
“That’s great.” Mandy starts to rattle off suggestions on which direction we should take when I see the glint of red hair walking in our direction. The man in front of him walks into a shop, and I can clearly make out Rory—the guy who saved my Pop-Tart. He is looking at his phone and hasn’t seen us yet, and for some reason, I don’t want him to.
“Let’s go there,” I quip and grab her arm as I haul her across the street and into the used-book store. I look out the window as Rory passes by, swallowed in a crowd of people.
When we are safely inside the bookshop, Mandy flashes me a funny look. “Okay, weirdo. What was that?”
“Just this guy I met the other day—”
“Oooh, a guy? Which one is it?” She cranes her neck after the group of people crossing the street. “Is he cute?”
“Doesn’t matter. I can’t really date now, can I?”
“No, but enjoy your sex-drive while you can. Trust me. It’s going to take a bit of a vacation once you start treatment. Everyone handles it differently, but your body will change a lot. Sex will be the last thing on your mind.”
I’m so stunned at her directness, I change the subject. “Well, I have to get back. I have furniture deliveries today.”
“Oh, I’ll come with. I can help move things around.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I want to.” And just like that, Mandy invites herself over.
As we walk to my apartment, it dawns on me I don’t know her full name. “What’s your last name?”
“In case you have to give the cops a description?”
“What? No!” I laugh. “I just—I like to know my friend’s names.”
“Gomez. Amanda Gomez.”
When she walks into my apartment, Mandy whistles. “This is nice,” she bellows but stretches the word ‘nice’ into two syllables. “I knew you were rich, but this is . . . I think only surgeons live in this building.”
I stiffen. She already knows the trial requires patient insurance or upfront out-of-pocket deposits for treatment and hospital stays. This shouldn’t be a surprise to her.
“I’m sorry,” she hastens to apologize. “I’m working on my filter. It’s not very good yet.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-eight? You don’t look it.” It’s hard to believe she is older than me. I laugh nervously. “And no worries about the filter, but no, I’m not rich. My sister is. She’s bankrolling my treatment.” Without her knowledge, I think, but don’t offer Mandy that information.
“Oh yeah? What does she do?” Mandy walks around the apartment on a self-led tour as we talk. She grins when she sees the kitchen with its marble island and brand new appliances. The white subway tile backsplash particularly catches her eye. Then she walks from room to room, making sounds of appreciation at each one.
“Nothing. That sounds bad. I don’t mean ‘nothing.’ She’s a homemaker.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Mandy says with a wide, toothy smile that is growing on me. She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and talks through the chewing. “My mom is too. She’s amazing. So your sister, she married money or something?”
“Sort of. I mean, she did. Her husband owns a company in Mexico, but she has her own money.”
“From what?” Mandy asks.
Geesh. She wasn’t kidding about the filter. Is it common for Americans to talk about money like this? “From her dowry,” I say like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but I know it isn’t.
“Her dowry?” Mandy’s jaw drops, flashing me the pink bubblegum in her mouth. “Like Jane Austen and shit?”
I laugh. “Yeah, Mexico had colonizers too. They brought their dowry ideas with them.”
“No shit?” she says and plops herself on the floor as she leans on the wall for a back-rest.
“No shit,” I say.
“Will you get one too?” she asks.
“What?”
“A dowry.”
My nose crinkles, and I shake my head. “Nope. Don’t think so. There’s a clause Dad has to approve of my husband-to-be, and to Dad, it means he gets to pick him out.”
“So your Dad has money?”
I side-eye her. “Yeah. He does,” I say with resignation.
“So I was right before. You’re a rich girl.”
“I’m really not. I was starting to get sponsors and handle my own money that I earned before I got sick.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m honestly just curious. I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”
“You say ‘shit’ a lot.”
“Yeah. I like to cuss when I’m not at work or at home because it’s the only time I can.”
“Why can’t you cuss at home?” I ask.
“I have a thirteen-year-old baby brother.”
She lives at home? At twenty-eight? That can’t be right, but I’m not comfortable asking such personal questions. “You know he’s probably cussing already.”
“Oh yeah, he says shit way worse than me. But my parents still think he’s a sweet little innocent angel.”
“Got it.”
“Where’d you go?” Mandy snaps her fingers in front of my face when I stay quiet too long.
I’m now sitting next to her on the floor, and I know I checked out of the conversation. “Sorry. Just thinking about what’s ahead.”
“Hey, don’t worry. Dr. Ramirez is amazing. You are going to be fine.”
“How do you know so much? I mean, you mentioned about the food and drinking calories and then the sex drive thing. Do research assistants usually know so much about the trials?”
“Yeah. I also keep the database of adverse events. If any trial participants experience side effects, they call me, and I add them to the database. Expected side effects are par for the course, but if they are unexpected, we have to monitor those closely.”
“I see.”
“Can I ask you something?”
I side-eye her. “I have a feeling you will even if I don’t say yes.”
Her toothy grin spreads, but then her face turns serious. “How come you didn’t tell any of your family or friends?”
I think about that for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want this to define me. I was a rising star in my field, as fresa as that sounds. Everyone in my life has a perception of me as the strong one. I can’t now be the sick one.”
The doorbell rings, ending our conversation, and I’m glad I don’t have to keep explaining something I’m in the process of trying to understand myself. I make my way to the intercom, and a man’s voice fills the living room. “I have a delivery for Valentina Almont
e.”
“That’s me.” I buzz them up.
Three muscular men trickle in and out of the apartment as they bring in all the furniture I could possibly need. I even ordered a second bed for the guest bedroom. When I’d shopped online, I’d opted to buy entire showcase rooms from the website because I’ve never been good at putting together home decor. Pilar would have loved to help, but the less she knew, the better. I didn’t want to slip up and have her get suspicious.
Feeling more in the way than helpful, Mandy and I press our backs against the living room window. A few of the pieces of furniture require assembly. One man goes into the bedroom to start on that while a second crouches in front of us, putting together the sectional.
“I’m so glad I came,” Mandy says. I look at her to find a twinkle in her eye. It’s amusing until her intentions become clear. “Go talk to him,” she says in a hushed tone.
“What? No!”
“Remember what I said about the sex drive? He is so hot. Do it.”
I panic because even though we are whispering and the living room is large, he is right there, and I’m sure he can probably hear us.
“Fine. You’re too slow. I’m calling dibs.”
“What? Mandy!” I warn, but she only puts her hand on her hip and tussles her hair over one shoulder.
“Hey,” she calls toward the man. “What’s your name?”
The tall, dark, and handsome man looks up at us with a bright smile. He had introduced himself to me when I opened the door for them, but Mandy was at the other end of the room. “Chris, ma’am,” he says.
Mandy walks toward him. “None of that ‘ma’am’ business. I’m Mandy.” Chris stands to stretch out his hand, and their hand-shake connection lingers for a beat too long.
Chris is much taller than Mandy, allowing me a view of the amusement in his eyes from her flirting. She finally lets go of his hand and starts rummaging through her purse. I see the corner of a piece of paper that she pulls out and hands to him. “I have a solo art show soon. You should check it out.” She gives him what I assume is a flyer. “Hold that,” she says and keeps rummaging through her purse.
Chris smooths out the flyer in front of him and looks at it. His mouth forms up into a smile. “An artist, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m a painter. Landscapes and portraits mostly. Here.” She stretches her hand out so he’ll give the flyer back, and she starts writing something on it. “My number,” she hands back the flyer to Chris. “You know, if you want a sneak peek before the show.” Mandy turns and starts walking back to me. She continues to ogle Chris as he works and brings more furniture in, both of them smiling like fools the entire time it takes the three men to get my apartment furnished.
“Ma’am,” the man who seems to be in charge calls after me, a clipboard in his hands. “Could you please sign here that you received everything you ordered?”
“Sure.” I sign, and the men leave. Mandy looks out onto the street as she watches them go.
“You are shameless,” I say to her jokingly.
She turns and winks at me. “I’m so tapping that ass,” she says, and I laugh.
There’s not much moving around I want to do, so Mandy and I try out the sectional.
“So, you’re an artist?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m an RA, and I work the information desk at the hospital so I can have health insurance, but one day I’ll make a living just from my painting,” she says as she stares dreamily into space.
“I’d love to go to your show too.”
“Well, duh, you are going,” she says and rolls her eyes. “I have to go. Still have half a shift I have to cover.”
“Thanks for everything, Mandy. It’s nice to know someone here.”
Mandy smiles at me. “I’ll see you soon, okay? And hey, think about what I said,” she says while turning the doorknob.
“About what?”
“Have a sexathon tonight, then let your body rest the last two days before treatment starts.”
I throw one of the sofa cushions at her, but it only hits the door after she is on the other side.
After she leaves, I try to remember when was the last time I got some. I’ve been so numb and in shock since my diagnosis. Sex has been the last thing on my mind. I’m lucky not to have some of the more embarrassing symptoms many women in my situation have. Maybe a night of reckless abandon will help me feel alive again. I’m not dead yet, I remind myself. And the furthest thing from the act of dying is the act of lovemaking.
I’ve never had a serious long-term relationship. I mostly lived at the gym. Luckily, Chema’s gym is full of hot men to pick from, and I have a deep bench of booty-call friends I call on when I need to scratch the itch or just relax after hefty training.
I sigh because I have to admit it has been too long, and that bench is oh so very far away in Mexico City. Maybe I could offer to pay for one of them to come here?
No. Not only was that too desperate, but I would lose a day or two before they could get here, and treatment starts in three days. Not to mention a disrespectful use of my sister’s money when she thinks she is sponsoring a future UFC titleholder. Looks like the bar it is.
In the evening, I shower and throw on a pair of faux-leather leggings with a navy-blue silk camisole. My breasts are on the small side, so I feel comfortable skipping a bra and showing a bit of cleavage. I hate wearing high-heels and instead opt for black moto boots that I leave untied and slouchy.
The one girly thing I do enjoy is makeup. I don’t get to wear it often because I’m always training, but now seems like the perfect opportunity to wear it.
I opt for a smokey eye with charcoal-black eyeliner. For the lips, I wear a kissable nude shade just a few shades darker than my tanned natural color to give my face some life.
Standing in front of the mirror, I look at my full figure. Taking in those slim, toned muscles I worked so hard to perfect sends me into an emotional state I wasn’t expecting. I look great, and I know I won’t look this way again for a long time, or maybe even ever. I can’t even begin to imagine the many ways in which my body will change and am so grateful Mandy suggested this so I could enjoy my body—this version of it—one last time. I blink away the tears before they get the chance to ruin my makeup.
Not wanting to take a purse with me, I place my ID and credit card in my back pocket. I secure my apartment key into my boot laces, and I head outside.
I have several options to choose from as I walk down my street. For some inexplicable reason, I walk toward the hospital instead of away from it. I hadn’t noticed the bar precisely across from the emergency room entrance. Smart location, I think.
The door's sign is in a simple font with white LED lights that reads La Oficina. Looks like I found my bar.
Contusion Excerpt
Chapter Three
It’s early, and the bar isn’t even at quarter capacity. It’s easy to find a space at the bar, and I pull out my credit card to open up my tab.
A bartender so beautiful I find it hard to formulate words comes over to take my order. She has the body of a model, and I can’t tell what race she is. She has an other-worldly face, fair skin, and a perfect black bob hairstyle. Her beautiful full lips move again, and I replay what she just said in my head. What can I get you?
“Um—sorry. Whiskey sour, please.”
She takes my credit card and comes back with my drink a few minutes later.
“Here,” she says. “I like your accent.”
“Thanks.” My face grows hot, and it’s not the whiskey.
“¿Hablas español?”
My head snaps up to her in surprise. Her Spanish is impeccable. “Sí,” I say. We switch back to English after that. “Where are you from?” I ask.
“I’m Chicana. Mom’s Mexican, and dad’s Chinese. It throws people off. I know.” She laughs easily as she says this. “I haven’t seen you around here. You work at the hospital?”
“No. New in town,” I say.
�
�I’m Sofia,” the bartender says and stretches her hand out to me. “I own the place.”
I shake her hand and smile. “Valentina. Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to KC. Let me know when you want another one, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Sofia walks away to flirt with two customers a few seats down the bar. Poor suckers don’t know she is playing them so that they buy more drinks. I smile. I like this woman.
Sipping on my cocktail, I scan the room for a potential one-night-stand. Someone muscular and handsome who won’t need to ask for my phone number after. Someone alone, and more importantly, someone single. Nothing on the menu is appetizing yet, so I order a second drink and nurse it as I wait for the place to fill up.
A few guys come up to hit on me, but they aren’t my type. I don’t feel any attraction physically, and if Mandy is right and this is my last hurrah for a while, then I want something yummy. I mean, someone yummy. Fuck it. Men objectify women all the time, so I have exactly zero qualms about objectifying them just this once. They would be doing a humanitarian service, I decide. Would they go for it if I sold it as some sort of make-a-wish-for-adults service? No. That would probably kill the mood.
A third man walks over to hit on me, clearly inebriated. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Could he even get it up, as drunk as he seems to be? Probably not. I smile and do my best to be nice to him—though I hate that’s my impulse.
He sways a bit, but it’s enough for me to notice. His black hair is slicked back with gel, like this is the nineties or something. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.
I point to my glass, showing it’s half full. “Got one. Thanks, though.” I smile curtly and divert my eyes from him, hoping he takes the hint.
“Oh, I like your accent. Where are you from, señorita?” he asks.
I do roll my eyes this time and take a sip of my drink. “I’m from Mexico. Where are you from?” I ask pointedly, though I probably shouldn’t engage him any further.
Remission Page 24