Until I Fall

by Claudia Burgoa

  She must be talking about our earlier discussion. During breakfast, the three of us agreed to finally take vacations outside of Seattle. “Vacation in Maui?”

  “No, the one back when we were working on our residency.” I shake my head in response. “When working in the ER becomes a burden and isn’t as rewarding?” She angles her head, crossing her arms.

  Our mentor said it several times, “It’s fast-paced and rewarding but also overwhelming and draining. You’ll know when it’s time to retire from the ER and into a less hectic medical environment.”

  Brooklyn and I promised that when one of us felt that way, we’d open our own pediatric practice.

  My shoulders slump because maybe she’s right. “Is it time to start our own practice?”

  What am I supposed to do now? I’m good at what I do. Understanding that sometimes I’m going to lose my patients is getting harder. Lately, the diplomas hanging on the wall of my room don’t have the same feel I believed they would when I got accepted to Baylor all those years ago. Brynn is onto something. What’s next? Lease an office, hire nurses, tend to children from nine to five?

  But what’s going to happen after five o’clock? “No, a practice won’t keep me occupied for as long as I need it.”

  “Keep doing this and you’ll make a mistake while working due to exhaustion,” she huffs. “Worse, you might have a car accident on your way home and kill someone.”

  The slam of the truth leaves me breathless. Driving sleep deprived is almost as dangerous as drunk driving. The voice of reason, aka Brynn, knows how to get through my thick head. “I’ll think about it.” I finish changing my clothes as we head to the car. Tomorrow is our last day off, and I plan to spend it wrapped in a blanket in front of the television without moving.

  I don’t love my life. I don’t hate it.

  If I have to compare it to something, it’d have to be with that piece of stealth pizza we found under my bed the day we were moving out of the dorm during freshman year. By then it didn’t smell bad, it only looked sad, hard and wasteful. The discovery explained the foul odor we endured for a couple months. Pathetic and gross? No, just pathetic. The foul smell compares to the pain and anxiety. I know they’re there, but I try my damn best to ignore them. I’m settled into a pattern that worked for me for years. I’m a goldfish swimming around a small tank, hiding behind the sad little green plant that decorates my house. It’s less gross, but still pathetic.

  Sighing, I lean my head against the headrest of the wicker couch that lays on the porch. Closing my eyes, I try to see my future. Something different from what I’ve done in the past years. Have I become dull? Scarlett said so earlier when she insisted we go out to party, hit a couple of bars, search for a karaoke place or a pub to score.

  “I have a boyfriend,” I reminded her. She frowned, rolling her eyes.

  “You need to live a little more. You’re thirty-three, not sixty.”

  I have no energy to join my besties for another late night. Scarlett is right. I’m frozen in one place working hard for . . . for what? Dad’s favorite saying was, “work hard for the life you want to have.” What do I want? My obsession to save every single person who walks through the ER is diminishing. Is that because I’m losing my passion? My entire adult life has been spent inside a bubble. The biggest question is, do I want to come out? Or should I find my comfort zone within the life I have created?

  “You have no sense of personal safety, do you, Aspen?” I jolt as the deep voice from yesterday calls out my name. “Another sleepless night?”

  Anderson pins me with his fierce gaze. Something about those eyes captivates me and distracts me from everything. The irony in his words drags out a giggle. My entire life is based on keeping myself safe and away from change.

  “You have no regard to other’s people’s privacy, do you, Anderson?” I feign a husky tone, coughing after I string his name longer than I should have to. Sitting up straight, I sip some water leaving the wine for later. “Another tattoo emergency?”

  Anderson grabs a bag of M&Ms from the grocery bag, handing it to me.

  “No? You have a secret mission—a terrorist organization you’re infiltrating.”

  His eyes scan me, his jaw rigid and those vivid green eyes, staring as if weighing my words or his response. Did I say something wrong? My body stills at the sound of his laugh. “Are you sure you’re a doctor?” His signature smirk draws a smile on my lips. “You have quite an imagination.”

  “Or I’m the first one to guess what you do for a living,” I counteract playfully, reaching for his arm, tracing each letter of his tattoo. Our eyes meet, his narrowing. He’s wondering if I’m playing or calling him out on a lie. “The artist gig is your alter-ego.”

  “Where’s my buddy, Hugo?” He reclaims his arm, opening the bag again and digging out a bone.

  “Around, Hugo is a free dog. He comes and goes as it pleases him.” I pour myself more wine. “Would you like some wine?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m a beer and scotch kind of guy.”

  “And short answers,” I offer, not hiding my snarky tone. I tear open the bag of candy, emptying it on my lap so I can separate them by colors. “Thank you, how did you know?”

  He shrugs, taking a seat on the chair and twisting open a beer. “Mom mentioned it while making the tater tots.”

  I rub my stomach, recalling my dinner, tater tots and carrot sticks. There’s nothing more satisfying than coming home to the rich aroma of fried potatoes. I can’t resist the delightful sensation of those crunchy golden nugget potatoes Sophia prepares for us.

  “You’re welcome for finding those packets of ketchup,” he says, staring oddly at the table where I set the M&Ms I won’t eat.

  Anderson glances upward, his mouth pursed but slightly open and loose, eyebrow raised, while he is running his thumb and index finger along his scrubby chin. Curiosity holds his attention for several seconds as I continue plucking out the red ones before I eat the rest. “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t like to eat red colored food,” I explain pushing them out of my reach.

  “What happened to all that ketchup I brought for the tots? You mean to say that you don’t eat apples, cherries—”

  “Those are fruits. I don’t eat artificially colored candy,” I correct him, placing the unworthy candy on a napkin where I can save them for Brynn or Scarlett. “Ketchup is a vegetable and highly necessary to coexist.”

  His stare is unmoving. Those green eyes pin me, asking for more information about my crazy habits. At least, that’s what I think. “When I was young my mother said something about red and yellow coloring being bad for your brain. My brother has ADD. It became a habit to avoid them. Now I just can’t eat them.”

  “Aspen, they use the red coloring to create the other colors. Ketchup has so much of that red dye . . .” he warns me, the damn cocky smirk plastered on those lips. I bite the inside of my cheek faking anger. He shrugs. “I just want you to be informed.”

  “Oh, I know, it’s all in my head.” I shrug, the inquisitiveness in his eyes grows. If I could read minds, I would understand what he’s thinking. I imagine different scenarios. Anderson is bored and has no one to talk to at nights. No. Maybe he’s curious about me, just like I am about him. “In fact, when I can, I go to the mall to buy purple, light blue, and light pink M&Ms. Those are my favorite colors.”

  He sits back drinking his beer while his eyes never leave me. “Now that we know each other better, can you tell me what’s the deal with Hawthorne C. Foster?”

  “What?”

  “He parked his Mercedes right outside Mom’s home, what was I supposed to do?” That smirk-shrug combo eases my shoulders. Why was I concerned about his question? My imagination running wild, thinking that my boring boyfriend could be some kind of spy or drug dealer. Nope, he just parked in front of the wrong house. “I had to run his plate.”

  I pop a handful of candy inside my mouth, enjoying them as I consider my answer.
“Hmm.” Tilting my head, I observe him.

  “Hmm.” I stop to think about his bizarre question. Who is this guy? A stranger parks his car outside his property and boom, he has the swat squad on speed dial. “Curiosity, huh?”

  He shrugs. “He waited in the car for thirty minutes, then he came over and sat right where you are sitting for another thirty. Mom lives right next to this house, I had to do something.”

  “So you like to snoop around and play secret agent.” A chortle burst from my lips. I’m finding this exchange amusing. He reminds me of Dad. The man used to scare boys. He asked too many questions when they picked me up for a date and threatened them with his riffle—Dad owned a riffle. For a quick moment, I imagine an older version of Anderson with a teenage daughter, him following her around and running backgrounds on any guy who dares to walk close by her. “There’s no deal with Heath. What’s the deal with you?”

  His eyes open wide, he touches his chest lightly with his left hand and mouths, Me?

  “Normal people don’t run plates just for the sake of it.” Finishing my glass of wine, I ponder how much he found out about Heath. “Wait, I get it’s next door to your Mom, but you’re trespassing. I don’t think I like you very much.”

  “Oh, but I like you, very, very much.” His voice is lower, his eyes playful.

  I squeeze my eyes briefly, hiding the fluster.

  “So, are you ready to tell me about your years in the army?” His face is unmoving. Then I toss my head back, raise my hands, shaking them, and controlling my laugh. And my curiosity. How much is that bitch getting for alimony? Not your place or your business, Aspen. “We’re among friends, your secret is safe.”

  “Secret?”

  “Yes, you used your connections with the Delta Force to find out about Heath, didn’t you?”

  “No. I have other resources.”

  He doesn’t deny the Delta Force suggestion, but damn him and his fucking five-word answers. “What’s the story?”

  “He’s my boyfriend,” the last word sounds like a whisper. Damn, Aspen, what is wrong with you? You are not the flustered, giddy kind of girl. “There’s not much to say. There is nothing magical about our relationship. We met a couple of years back at the hospital’s annual Christmas party . . .” I shrug thinking about the explanation. How did it happen? He arrived into my life when I felt the need to show the world that I was over Mike. That’s a pathetic explanation. “We make sense, you know? He doesn’t have expectations, and I have a peculiar schedule—”

  He raises his hand for pause. “You explain a lot more than necessary.”

  “I make up for all the words you save.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “You sure do.” He stands up, offering me his hand. “Let’s take a drive.”

  I squint. “A drive?” Our eyes catch, “This late at night?”

  “Yep.”

  I twist my lips, frustrated with his short answer, but wanting to go for the drive because his company brings me comfort. There’s something so compelling about him that makes me want to gravitate to him. I hate to call it attraction, the simple thought chokes me. The air turns dense and it makes it hard to breathe.

  Shaking my head I force the words, “I’ll pass, thank you.” Why would I want to go on a ride?

  “It helps with insomnia,” he states, answering my inside questions without a prompt. Gently, he runs his fingers along the dark circles under my eyes.

  Despite the heaviness in my back, my stomach flutters at the feeling of his skin touching mine.

  “Driving helps me clear my head.” He smooths the wrinkle lines on my forehead, his eyes hypnotizing me.

  “Okay,” I give in ignoring the loud voice in my head.

  “Next time, I’ll bring my bike to take you along the highway. The speed, the wind, the breathtaking sights would distract you.”

  For seconds, I’m lost in his eyes, engrossed by his husky voice. I want to spend time perched behind him while riding that bike he mentions. Bad idea, my voice of reason continues blabbing while I stand and begin picking up my stuff.

  Really bad idea. I can’t think of why it would be, but it feels right. Unless he’s like wine: incredible while drinking but a fucking pain if you finish more than three bottles in one night. Note to self, make sure to drink Anderson in small doses. Drink Anderson? No, wait. He’s a friend, kinda. Only a friend, Aspen. You have a boyfriend. A handsome, thoughtful . . .

  “Your chariot awaits, my lady.” Anderson opens the door of his car, bowing slightly. His voice has a fake English accent.

  ASPEN

  I SNATCH A glass of champagne, setting the empty one I down back on the silver tray. For the thousandth time, I pace around the ballroom. The night’s lagging and I’m unable to fast forward time. If I have to stay here any longer, I’m going to become an alcoholic. Heath is working the room, finding new investors, and helping the cause. What cause was it again? Oh right, a new wing for his children’s private school. Lifting my gaze, I discover another group of women whispering as they glare at me.

  What is the deal with all these women giving me the stink eye? Are we twelve? I should’ve stayed home or gone to the movies with Anderson. Anderson, four days, and I can’t decipher him. He’s like a riddle, a human three-dimensional puzzle. His attitude doesn’t make sense, at least not to me. That might be the reason I find myself thinking about him.

  Our earlier encounter keeps playing in my head as I continue my trek around the party.

  “You clean up well,” Anderson complimented as he opened the door, his intense stare running up and down my body, taking in the black velvet-lace blouson dress I wore.

  “Nice height too.” He stared at my plum-colored lips for several beats. My heart thumped louder. “The heels are a good touch.”

  I angled my head slightly, lifting my foot to appreciate my sparkling Jimmy Choo pumps. My love for beautiful shoes was huge since my profession only required ugly clogs.

  The attention and appreciation in his eyes flattered me and made me nervous. “I should go and check on your Mom,” I stammered, heading toward the kitchen where we had the syringes, alcohol, and cotton.

  “What are you up to tonight?” Washing my hands, I pretend not to hear him. “I’m guessing you’re not accepting my invitation to go to the movies.”

  Shutting the water off and drying my hands, I turn to him. “Sorry, you were saying?”

  His firm ass leans against the granite counter, his arms crossed. “Are you going out with Heathrow?”

  “It’s Heath, Hawthorne. Not Heathrow.” I roll my eyes, walking to the cupboard where we keep Sophia’s medicines. He’s a man of few words, unless he’s asking questions. “Yes, I’m going out with him. He invited me to a gala. I always jump at the chance for a fancy party where I can wear beautiful clothing.”

  Anderson’s jaw tenses, his eyes filled with disappointment. “Have fun,” he pushed himself off the counter, and left me standing in the kitchen.

  I didn’t see him after that.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” Heath kisses my cheek, taking the empty glass away from my hand and setting it on a table. “You look beautiful tonight.”

  My clutch starts to vibrate, I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “Sorry, I have to take this, it might be the hospital.”

  He nods, winking at me.

  Snapping my purse open, I reach for my phone.

  Unknown: Are you enjoying yourself?

  Me: Who is this?

  Unknown: Mom wants me to learn how to knit.

  Me: You have the wrong number.

  Unknown: No this is the right number, Aspen.

  Unknown: We painted each other’s nails. Your friends are fun, not as fun as you, though. How did my night turn into a girl’s slumber party?

  Unknown: All this is your fault. I’m spending my evening with my mother and your best friends doing girly things.

  Mother, best friends. I lift my chin, searching for Heath and feeling self-
conscious about texting during the event. Heath is talking to yet another group of people a few feet away from me. He’s busy, I can try to decipher who’s texting me and why.

  Me: Anderson?

  Unknown: You owe me.

  Me: At least you don’t have a bunch of women giving you the evil eye and saying “she’s a slut, a gold digger going after his money.”

  Anderson doesn’t respond. Is he judging me? I recall his impassive face when I told him about the gala.

  Me: Just so you know, I don’t care about his money.

  Why am I defending myself?

  Me: I like him because he’s a gentleman, a good father, and a kind person.

  Me: We’re not serious about each other, it’s a relationship of convenience.

  He doesn’t respond, there’s something inside me that pushes me to give him more than I should.

  Me: Not financial convenience, if that’s what you think. Like me, he doesn’t care much about emotions. We just make sense.

  Unknown: You don’t believe or care for emotions, and you’re with him. It doesn’t make sense.

  Me: I feel less secluded when I spend time with him.

  Who am I kidding? It doesn’t work all the time. Like tonight.

  Me: Though, some days I want . . .

  He doesn’t need to know that some days, like today, I want to end this relationship. That Heath doesn’t serve his purpose. He’s a distraction when I have free time and want to push away the loneliness. He’s supposed to be filling my time, keeping me in the present. Instead, I find it so easy to be locked inside my head with memories of Michael. Thinking about the fundraisers for our children, their names, their births. We were supposed to grow old and die together. Fate snatched him away too early. My last therapist said I was holding onto his memory to avoid falling in love again. Of course, I fired her ass. They don’t know what I do. We had a unique love. No matter who I meet, no one will ever fill the emptiness Michael left behind.

  Unknown: You should do whatever you want, beautiful.

  Unknown: Let me help you fix what’s bothering you.

  Me: You can’t fix what’s broken.