Can't Always Get What You Want

by Chelsey Krause

  Okay. Good to know. Will be right over. Have carbs on standby, por favor.

  After showering and changing at home, I drive to Nita and Ravi’s house. I pull onto their street and spot an immaculate white car parked in their driveway.

  Who drives that? Samira has been driving the same beat-up Neon for years. And her brothers don’t live at home anymore, so that leaves…

  And that’s when I see her.

  A flash of long, swishy chestnut hair catches my eye, shining through the living room window.

  Emmie.

  What is she doing here?

  Okay. Just ignore her. I’ll just say hi, and that’s it.

  “Hello, honey! I’m home!” I call out.

  “We’re in here!” Nita yells from the kitchen.

  Nita and Samira are seated at the kitchen table, holding steaming cups of chai.

  “Want one?” Nita asks, showing me her cup.

  “You know I do.” I smile.

  “So, what’s the deal with St. Puke?” Sam asks.

  I notice that Emmie hasn’t joined us yet. Just as well.

  I summon my best storyteller’s voice and fill them in on the day’s events. Samira interrupts me so often (explaining background stories about St. Puke to her mom) that it takes me about twenty minutes to get through it. I conveniently leave out the part where I almost dispensed pills that I’d spilled on the floor. Even though I didn’t go through with it, I hope no one ever finds out.

  It’s just too embarrassing.

  “Why do you think he was so interested in your vaccine knowledge?”

  “No idea. He just seemed really focused on it. He also asked if I knew much about tropical diseases.”

  Samira laughs. “Okaaaaay…”

  I laugh too. “Who knows with him? I’m just still feeling pumped about diagnosing her correctly.”

  I sip my chai. It’s creamy, and spicy, and divine.

  “I still can’t believe I called him an asshole,” I say.

  Sam pats me on the back. “You did good.”

  Nita rises from the table and takes our plates to the sink. “I’m just going to bring some food next door,” she says, filling Tupperware containers.

  “Our neighbor’s wife has been sick.”

  When she leaves, the conversation pauses for a moment, and I catch Samira looking at me.

  “Have you heard from Brett?”

  “No. Do you know what happened?”

  She nods. “I heard a little bit about it.”

  Tears spring into my eyes.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel worse, I just wanted to see if anything had changed.”

  I shake my head. “No. Nothing’s changed.” I lean my head on the table, relishing how the cold surface feels on my warm forehead.

  “Breaking up sucks,” I mutter.

  A small, annoyingly feminine gasp echoes across the kitchen.

  While keeping my head on the table, I turn to see where it came from.

  Oh, damn it. It’s Emmie.

  I’d forgotten she was here. She steps into the kitchen, excitedly twirling a bit of hair around her finger and chewing it.

  “You and that hot guy from the wedding broke up?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “It’s none of your business.”

  She smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes. His name is Brett, right?”

  I knew it! I knew she had her greedy little eyes on him.

  She leans casually against the wall, her perfect shiny hair curling around her waist.

  “So, you’re saying he’s on the market again?”

  Who does this? Doesn’t it go against some unwritten female code of ethics? Or commandment?

  Thou shalt not slobber over, fondle, fantasize about, or pursue someone else’s boyfriend, ex or otherwise (especially if it’s a recent breakup). Well, duh.

  “Emmie…” Samira warns.

  She completely ignores Samira, and directs a seductive, evil grin at me.

  “Can I have his phone number?”

  So. This is what it feels like to see red.

  My body catapults out of my chair and everything becomes a blur.

  “Ugh! Stop pulling my hair!” Emmie shrieks.

  “Stop it!” Samira yells. “You’re acting like the idiots on Jerry Springer!”

  I can’t help it, and for about the next thirty seconds or so, I unleash my inner MMA fighter. GSP, eat your heart out.

  Ravi enters the kitchen, no doubt upset that we’ve disturbed his quiet evening of TV and beer. He arrives just in time to see me smothering Emmie’s face with a handful of cooked rice.

  “Enough!” he bellows.

  I slowly release Emmie, and we stand side by side, alternating between looking sheepish and casting dirty looks at each other.

  I feel like we’re about eight years old again, and fighting over a toy. Ravi rubs his forehead thoughtfully.

  “Thank God we only had one girl,” he mutters. Nita walks in about two seconds later, mouth gaping at the mess we’ve made of her kitchen.

  “How long was I gone?”

  My cheeks flush as shame washes over me.

  “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for my behavior. I just…”

  I just miss Brett.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, as tears threaten.

  In a rush, I pick up my jacket and run through the back door. Wandering around the backyard takes about five seconds. It’s small, and not overly treed or decorated. Just a plain backyard that is currently covered in crunchy, brown grass.

  They have a bench at the back of their lot. I walk toward it and plop down heavily.

  Glancing at my hands, I see a few strands of shiny chestnut hair clinging to my nails. Nita sits down beside me.

  “Feeling better?” she asks.

  “Yes. No.” I run hands through my hair. “I don’t know.”

  She nods. “Samira filled me in.”

  I nod. What do I say?

  Nita holds out a small, yellowed piece of paper. “I came to give you this,” she says. “I thought it might cheer you up.”

  My eyes scan over the neat handwriting.

  “Is this…?” I ask excitedly.

  “Yes. My secret butter chicken recipe.”

  She angles her body so she’s looking right at me.

  “You can keep this on only one condition.”

  I nod eagerly. I’ve been after this for years!

  “You don’t let Samira see it. Or talk to her about it. It might hurt her feelings that I gave this to you instead of her.”

  “Oh, wow. Nita…I don’t know what to say.”

  I continue reading. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Tomatoes. Chicken. Heavy cream. Coriander. Cumin. And then…

  I slap a hand across my mouth.

  “You use…ketchup?”

  She whips her head back in an exaggerated gesture. “I know! I know! It’s perfectly shameful. But it makes it taste so much better.”

  With her head still leaning back, she turns her face toward me and gives me a sheepish grin. “Don’t judge me.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Mission accomplished.” I grin, and wrap her in a bear hug. “You certainly did cheer me up.”

  I feel her smile into my hair.

  I wish I could repay her somehow. It feels like she really trusts me. Maybe I could show her that I trust her too.

  “Okay,” I say, as I sit up again. “Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you the secret ingredient to Grandma Lucy’s apple pie.”

  Her eyes light up greedily.

  “On the condition that the secret ingredient stays a secret.”

  Nita dramatically lays her right hand over her heart. “I will take it to the grave.”

  I wiggle my bun closer to her, and whisper into her ear.

  “The secret ingredient is…”

  I pause for a moment.

  “…cheddar cheese.”

  She sit ups sharply. “W
hat? That can’t be right.”

  I chuckle. “I’m telling you, that’s what it is.”

  “That sounds so made up.”

  “It’s not, I swear! People used to serve cheese with pie all the time in the old days. Google it, if you’re not convinced.”

  Her narrowed eyes soften somewhat. “How much cheese?”

  “I add about a quarter cup to the apple and cinnamon filling.”

  She stands and marches off toward the house. “I’ll be in my office. I’ve got to look this up, and see if you’re messing with me or not.”

  I follow her back to the house. Dumping my coat on a kitchen chair, I wander toward the living room and find Samira and Ravi sitting in the dark, watching some modern crime drama.

  I sit down beside Sam, and try to catch up with the plot.

  I hate CSI, murder mysteries, and anything like it. How many times can you watch forensic analysts look for semen on bedsheets, or go to bed with nightmares about serial killers, before you just say, “You know what? I’m good. I’ll be catching up on episodes of Mad Men and Say Yes to the Dress, if you need me.”

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” I say to Sam.

  “Shh!” Ravi hisses across the room.

  I look around the room. Emmie is conspicuously absent.

  “Where is she?”

  Samira takes a long swig from her beer. “Left a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh,” I mutter, lamely. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispers back. “Emmie was being nasty.”

  I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  “So, we’re good?”

  “Well,” she sighs, “I’m a little pissed that you left all that mess for me to clean up by myself. And I’m a bit worried that you’re emotionally unstable…”

  “If you were really worried,” I interject, “you wouldn’t say that, for fear that I’d knife you in your sleep or something.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine. You’re not emotionally unstable. I just know you’ve been through a lot lately, and I worry. Are you okay?”

  I sniff. “No, not really. I miss Brett, and I don’t know how to get him back.”

  “When the time is right, you’ll think of something.”

  “Shh!”

  Samira stands up and stretches. “Come on, let’s take this party elsewhere.”

  I grin at her, feeling thankful that she’s forgiven me already. I’m also feeling a bit smug. I always knew I was her favorite best friend.

  As Sam and I walk toward the stairs leading to the basement, I remember the recipe card, carefully hidden in an inner pocket of my jacket. I smile at my little secret, and wonder what other surprises the future holds.

  Chapter 29

  Dirty Work

  The door to the staff room opens behind me.

  “Ah. Sophie. It seems I’ve found you sitting down again.”

  Ugh…

  St. Luke rounds the table, and sits directly across from me.

  Why. Is. He. In. Here?

  They have a doctors’ lounge down the hall, where he doesn’t have to rub shoulders with us mere mortals.

  “I’m on my lunch break,” I reply.

  He bites into his sandwich and says through a mouthful of food, “Have you finished the discharge orders for the pneumonia in 401?”

  I look at him suspiciously.

  “Almost.”

  “Ah, well,” he says, “it’s really comforting to know that you’re almost doing your job.”

  “Are you in here for any particular reason, other than to annoy me?” I say.

  “I’d like to offer you a job.”

  I blink a couple of times.

  “A job?”

  “Yes. I’m starting a travel clinic. The focus is on vaccination, travel advice, and infectious disease,” he explains. “It’s a small clinic. There will be two other doctors in addition to myself. Each doc will have a nurse working directly with him.”

  He leans toward me. “I want you to work with me.”

  “Why not run an ad and let some poor, unsuspecting nurse request an interview?” I ask.

  He sneers. “Run an ad? Wow. How original.”

  “I’m the worst candidate for the job.”

  “I disagree. You proved yourself with that diphtheria patient. You’re perfect. Besides, I think we get along quite well.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “I don’t joke. This would be an incredible opportunity for you.”

  I cross my arms. “Who says I even want this ‘incredible opportunity’?”

  “I can tell you don’t like it here.”

  Meep. “You can?”

  “Tell me,” he says. “If you could change anything about your job, what would you change?”

  “Short staffing,” I reply immediately. “I’m only a few years out of school, and I already feel burnt out.”

  I think for a moment. “And the scrubs. It’s like there’s a conspiracy out there to make nurses look like eight-year-old boys in their SpongeBob pajamas. It’s just weird.”

  He nods. “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it, really. Other than the occasional difficult doctor,” I mutter, giving him a pointed look. His mouth lifts in a sardonic smile.

  “I enjoy some aspects of nursing. I feel like I’m doing some good in the world. But there’s something about working here that just isn’t a good fit.”

  “Then why are you here?” he asks.

  I rub my aching forehead. “It’s a long story. I doubt you’d want to hear it.”

  “Correct,” he says. “So. What do I need to do to get you to work for me?”

  I laugh darkly. “It had better be a damn good offer.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  My eyes dart back to him. “You’re serious?”

  He nods.

  “I get double my current wage.”

  Ha. He’s probably a stingy bugger. There’s no way he’ll go for that.

  “Done.”

  Ah. Well, that backfired.

  “And, I don’t have to wear scrubs.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “I get a say in how the clinic is run.” That ought to get him off my back. There’s no way Mr. Control Freak, crazy St. Puke is going to let me—

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I will receive benefits, paid education days, and travel opportunities.”

  “Whatever you want,” he repeats.

  Is this really happening? Is he handing me my dream job on a silver platter?

  Okay, time to up the ante.

  “And, I get to tell you when you’re acting like an asshole.”

  He smirks. “And I get to tell you when you’re acting like a whiny little princess.”

  He extends a hand to me, and raises his bushy brown eyebrows.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Can I really do this? This is St. Puke we’re talking about here.

  Although it does sound really good. Double my wage! And, I’ll finally get to travel, and be paid to do it. And buy new work clothes, and not have to worry about people hitting me or puking on me, and…

  And I’d have to work with him every day.

  And he’ll be my boss.

  “This is absurd!” I shout, surprising him. “I can’t work for you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re the most difficult person I know! I feel like pulling my hair out anytime we’re in the same room. If I take this job, I’ll be bald and have stress ulcers within six months.”

  I look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take your offer.”

  Looking unfazed, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and sweeps sandwich crumbs off of the table. He gets up to leave, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

  “Think it over. I expect you’ll make the right decision.”

  Chapter 30

  Under My Thumb

  I’m s
till puzzled over my latest encounter with St. Puke. He has to be the most confusing man in the world. Thankfully, I have a couple of days off to think it through.

  I flop onto my couch, surveying my kitchen and living room.

  What a mess.

  Chocolate is smudged on the arms of the couch (no doubt from my evenings of crying over pints of chocolate ice cream), and dishes are piled dangerously high on the counter.

  A housecleaning marathon should distract me for a good couple of hours.

  Maybe you should stop distracting yourself for one flipping second, and deal with something for a change.

  Oh shut up, inner logical voice.

  Honestly, she is such a bitch sometimes.

  Since I have nothing better to do today and am disgusted with myself, I find my iPod and select “Housecleaning Music.”

  It’s all songs that pump me up. Mostly classic rock. I throw on my favorite Rolling Stones concert tee and ratty sweatpants and tie my hair into a messy bun. Holding a broom in one hand and a bucket in the other, I look a bit like a homeless maid service.

  Hmm…What should my company be called?

  Hobo Maids? No, no. Sounds too close to “Homo Maids.” I imagine I’d get a few strange phone calls.

  After a good three hours of scrubbing and tidying, I slump onto my bed.

  Lying there for a few minutes, I feel an urge to look at old pictures again. Flipping through, I come across one of the few pictures I have of Aaron and me. I take it out of the album, and hold it inches away from my face.

  He’s so different from…

  I get up and head toward the kitchen, searching for the most recent pictures I’ve developed. I find them under a stack of mail, and take them back with me to the couch, all the while holding Aaron’s picture.

  I prop his picture up on the coffee table against one of the remotes and start sorting through the pile of photographs on my lap. Some of them are from the wedding—of Sam and Narayan, of the decorations.

  But most are of Brett.

  I flip faster through the photos and find a head shot of Brett and me. We had just been dancing at Samira and Narayan’s wedding, dressed in our Indian finery, cheeks flushed.

  I’m looking up at his face, and I seem outrageously happy.

  Mind you, I also look sweaty and have flat hair. But he looks absolutely perfect. Sparkling blue eyes, lightly tanned skin. And that smile!