Neanderthal Seeks Extra Yarns (Knitting in the City Book 8)

by Penny Reid

  Otherwise we were opposites in just about every regard.

  “What is it?” The words erupted frostier than I’d intended but her continued judginess was harshing my prank-high.

  She sighed then clicked her tongue. “You are behaving very strangely.”

  “No I’m not. I’ve done pranks before.”

  “No–it’s not this. You’ve been snapping at people, losing your temper, that’s not like you. What is going on with you?”

  I faced her, frowned, mirrored her stare. “Are you going to pretend to care about me now?”

  Her expression didn’t change. She was always so well assembled; whereas I was always so… messy.

  Where she was polished and stylish, I was messy. Where she was meticulous with every ebony tendril and plucked eyebrow, I was haphazard and messy. Where she embraced and wielded her inner femme fetal with practiced proficiency–batting eyelashes and casting about come hither mojo–I just threw it all out there, wore a tight dress, and was messy.

  “No, it’s definitely not that; but, what you just said, that kind of stuff isn’t like you at all. It’s like me, but it’s not you. And your being distracted recently doesn’t really work for me, Elizabeth. You haven’t been able to cover any of my shifts–”

  “Well I haven’t asked you to cover for me either–”

  “–you haven’t been able to cover any of my shifts because you are killing yourself with all the extra ones you’re picking up.” She looked almost concerned, an expression I wasn’t used to seeing on her face.

  Churlish? Yes.

  Catty? Frequently.

  Conceited? Usually.

  But never concerned.

  Admittedly, I could have been mistaking constipation for concern.

  Yes. Constipation is more likely.

  Meg and I had formed a bond, but not necessarily a friendship. The bond with Meg was my preferred type of relationship. We covered shifts, helped each other with charting, shared research findings, provided ad-hoc consults, and just generally kept each other in the loop. It was symbiotic and mutually beneficial. It suited me quite well.

  Very few individuals ever made it past the electric fence that surrounded my fortress of personal investment. Obviously, some exceptions existed, but Meg was not one of them.

  “Can you just drop it?”

  “No, no…” The wide stare morphed into a narrowed stare. “Wait a minute, this is about your weird friend, right? The tall one? With the red hair–”

  I pressed the box closed once more, hoped to distract Meg from the Spanish Inquisition hour. “Fine. I’ll cover a shift for you next week.”

  My pager buzzed just as I tossed the now sealed and no one the wiser box of latex gloves back on the counter. I couldn’t even take satisfaction that the box appeared brand new and unmolested.

  It annoyed me that Megalomaniac-Meg, who seemed satisfied now that I offered to cover her shift, could read me so easily. I thought I’d been masking the dull achy despondency that haunted me ever since Janie–the aforementioned weird, tall, redheaded friend–had become engaged. Actually, she was my best friend since college and now she’d all but disappeared with her hottie of a fiancé.

  Disgruntled, I pulled the vibrating Motorola two-way pager from my waist and glanced at the message: CRU rm210 asap; peds icf admin for cg4605 cf iv

  Roughly translated, the message meant: Please come to the Clinical Research Unit, room number 210 as soon as possible. There is a pediatric patient and an informed consent that needs to be administered for a research clinical trial, protocol number 4605, infusion study.

  Meg pocketed the lotion. “It’s so annoying that the hospital won’t just reimburse our cell phone bill instead of making us carry these pagers.”

  She was in a complaining mood so I nodded inattentively at her nonsensical statement. “I have to go– I have research rounds and a potential patient to consent to that new cystic fibrosis infusion study.”

  “Oh! Oh my God–” she grabbed my pager, her large black eyes abruptly greedy, and pressed the retrieve button repeatedly. “Is it the celebrity?”

  “The celebrity?” Without much effort I plucked the pager from her grip. “What are you talking about?”

  She looked ready to burst. Her cheeks became faintly blue and puffy when she was excited. It reminded me of the child Violet who transformed into a giant blueberry from the fantastical 1971 film, Charlie and the Chocolate factory. Second best Gene Wilder movie ever. The first was, of course, Young Frankenstein. The third was Blazing Saddles. The fourth was–

  “The VIP! I don’t know who it is but I heard staff talking about it at the ED pediatric nurses’ station. Some kid was admitted and the dad–well, I think it was the dad–is some sort of hot shot somebody.”

  I could not halt my disbelieving eyebrow lift. “Meg, you are ridiculous. I am just a lowly second year Emergency Department resident. Why would I be paged for–”

  “Becaaauuuse, the nurse said they were taking the family to the Clinical Research Unit. Ah!” She began to wiggle like she had to pee, and then clasped her hands under her chin. “This is exciting! Text me as soon as you get up there. I start research rounds next week. Maybe you could bring me up for training or a consult or something.”

  I tried not to snort at her suggestion. I fully admitted, when I scoffed I snorted. I felt strongly that scoffing should be accompanied by a sound that was scoff-worthy and, for me, snorting was that sound. No way in hell or heck was I going to call Meg for a consult if the kid’s father were famous. She would probably ask for an autograph or request a picture or suggest a three-way.

  With the pager clipped securely back on the waist of my scrubs, I gave the box of gloves one more wistful gaze before leaving. I wouldn’t be there to witness the genius of my April Fool’s Day prank but, with any luck, I’d get to hear about its outcome at some point later. Maybe even directly from my intended victim, Dr. Ken Miles.

  Meg semi-shouted at my retreating back, “If it’s the celebrity you have to call me!” I mashed my lips together in a vague response which I hope she interpreted as Sure, but which I really meant as Oh hell no.

  I cringed as Meg’s last squeal of excitement followed me down the hall. She was really obsessed with famous people. She talked about them using their first names, as though she knew them. It kind of weirded me out.

  I entered the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor and reflected on my foul mood and the apparent transparency of it.

  Although I was happy for Janie, happy for her happiness, I missed my best friend. I missed her a lot. She broke through the electric fence and invaded my fortress of personal investment before I was aware it had been penetrated. Only one other person had successfully stole through my defenses without me knowing.

  He’d left me too.

  I exited the elevator and followed the painted blue line on the wall to the CRU. I knew the way by heart after five weeks of research rounds, and strolled blithely towards room 210 while on autopilot.

  As I rounded the corner to the CRU, I paused by the nurses’ station to retrieve copies of the informed consent forms and research study brochure. Instead of sitting behind the counter, Terrance, a young and bald male research nurse, and Ursula, a Swedish female research nurse in her sixties, were standing outside of 210.

  They were hovering. Whispering. Behaving, basically, suspiciously.

  I slowed my steps to a shuffling saunter. “Hey . . . colleagues. What’s going on?”

  Terrance glanced up at my approach and quick-stepped to my elbow. “Elizabeth– I mean, Dr. Finney–” I smirked at the unnecessary correction but noticed the expression that darkened Ursula’s face at the mention of my first name. She was really a softie, but for some reason I couldn’t comprehend, insisted on calling me Dr. Finney. Since Terrance reported to her, she insisted that he also call me Dr. Finney.

  The irony was, other than that formality, all bets were off. Over the past five weeks of my mandatory six-we
ek stint doing research rounds, Ursula felt more than comfortable making jokes at my expense, prying into my desert of a love life, and trying to set me up with every unmarried male on the fourth floor. Unfortunately, all the labs were on the fourth floor which meant the prospects were pathologists and microbiologists.

  There was nothing sexy about protozoa and fleshy tumor pillow talk.

  Terrance shifted on his feet, abounding with restless energy, and dipped his chin to his chest; his dark eyes glinted with excitement. “Dr. Finney, you’ll never believe who is in the room.”

  “Don’t tell her!” Ursula stepped forward, “I want to see her to have a big surprise.”

  I wrinkled my nose at them. “Is this the celebrity that everyone is talking about?” I groaned a little. I disliked VEPs: Very Entitled Patients. I felt strongly that each person deserved the same level of health care regardless of who they knew or how much cash they’d amassed.

  Ursula’s smile was immediate and predatory. “Yes! And he is sexy like cake! I want to eat him up!!”

  My eyebrows jumped and I firmed my lips to keep from laughing. “Ok, now I’m really interested. Anyone Ursula wants to eat like cake is deserving of my respect.”

  Terrance’s eyebrows wagged. “Oh no, he’s not respectable.” His grin was very crooked and it was followed by a wicked chuckle. “But I’m definitely a fan.”

  “You’re a fan of sexycake?” Terrance was a player and firmly batting for team heterosexual. If Terrance was a fan it meant that the unrespectable celebrity was likely a famous athlete. I experienced a twinge of excitement.

  Terrance’s crooked grin widened. “Not of him, per say,” he rubbed his hands together and licked his lips, “but I am a fan of his show.”

  A show.

  Not an athlete.

  The spark of excitement fizzled and I felt a little disappointed.

  I leveled him with a narrowed glare and crossed my arms over my chest, the paper forms dangling from my left hand. “Who is it?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, and Dr. Miles will have a reason to be jealous.” Ursula issued me a knowing look and cocked a single blonde eyebrow into a perfect arch.

  “Dr. Miles and I are not together, Ursula.”

  Dr. Ken Miles, my intended April Fool’s Day victim, and I had been flirting for two years. He was very bad at it. His attempts usually ended with me flinching. He also had the habit of picking his nose when he was fairly certain no one was watching. He also drank coffee with a lot of creamer and sugar or combined with ice-cream.

  None of these were deal breakers because I didn’t want to date the guy. I wanted to hit that. Actually, I just wanted to hit something and soon. My sex life was very similar to the circle of life: I would start out just wanting to try a salad, eventually go for the meat, and end up swearing off sausage for the rest of existence.

  But I’d recently made up my mind and committed an unrepentant HIPAA violation when I scanned his last physical. He was disease free and had healthy cardiac and pulmonary systems. We would have a symbiotic and mutually beneficial relationship.

  It would suit me quite well.

  “No, you two aren’t together, not yet. But I see that he has it for you, Dr. Finney.” Her voice was saccharine sweet and breathy at the same time.

  I glanced at the serviceable clock above their heads on the wall. I was already late for the VEP. “Well, whoever this famous person is, I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

  Ursula’s predator smile widened, grew a bit feral looking. “When you come out, see if they have any questions for me. I will be happy to–”

  “Yeah, I bet you will.” Terrance snorted. I was impressed that he also employed the scoff-snort. I liked Terrance. He was smart, funny, easy to talk to, which was why I’d decided not to pursue him.

  I quietly chuckled and stepped around them. Whoever this person was, they were the only thing keeping me from ending my shift and going home to a solid six hours of sleep.

  Delicious, delicious sleep.

  I was still somewhat distracted by the idea of sleep when I entered the room, halted, and stared at the inhabitants–really, just the one inhabitant–with a surge of anguished incredulity.

  The last person I expected to see upon entering the room was Nico Manganello.

  Freaking Nico!

  Deleted Scene: Nico wasn’t supposed to be a Mr. Nice Guy

  Author’s Note: Originally, I’d thought Nico was going to be more aggressive/outwardly angry with Elizabeth earlier on. This is an alternate version of the scene under the bleachers (at the high school reunion), but instead it would have taken place at the entrance to their old high school. A small section of this dialogue was kept for their confrontation in the elevator (chapter 20 in the final book). This scene has never been published or shared.

  HE THREADED HIS hands through his hair and glanced at me, up and down. “You look good.”

  I fiddled with the button of his jacket. “Thank you.”

  “That’s it?” He smirked. “‘Thank you’?”

  I stared at him. I was waiting for the firing squad and didn’t feel much like making chitchat.

  He laughed, it sounded forced. “Never were a talker, were you?”

  “With some people I am.”

  “Just not with me?”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth and pretended to survey my feet.

  “No,” he said. “No. You never did want to talk with me.”

  I lifted my chin, couldn’t help the proud tilt. “Well, since we’re bringing up the past and who we were when we were teenagers, then let me refresh your memory: as I recall, you never did want to talk with anyone. You preferred listening to yourself talk.”

  He smiled but was too far away for me to see his eyes. “That’s true. I was always infinitely more interesting than anyone else.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “I’m so glad some things never change.”

  “I wasn’t so bad. I think you even liked me a little.”

  I didn’t know what to say so I bit the inside of my cheek and willed my heart to slow.

  He must’ve sensed that I wasn’t going to reply. He sighed and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Here it comes.

  I tried to swallow. I found it too difficult. I abandoned the endeavor.

  “I wanted to see how you’ve been.” He held perfectly still, watching me through slightly narrowed eyes, shoulders wide, head turned somewhat as though bracing himself.

  I waited for him to continue but when he just stood silently, his question hanging between us like a weird cloud of dialogue, I couldn’t ignore it.

  “I’m- I’m doing well.”

  “How is work- do you like what you do?”

  “Uh- yeah.” I fought against the confused and suspicious frown wrinkling my forehead. “I like it.”

  “That’s good. Why did you decide to become a doctor?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck lifted and warning bells sounded between my ears. This wasn’t the Nico I was expecting, the boy from my childhood who would have no problem flinging insults in my general direction. This wasn’t The Face either.

  This was the eighteen-year-old Nico who dried my tears and held my hand and took my virginity with gentle confidence.

  I wasn’t so sure I was ready to have a conversation with him again. Ever.

  “What—” I crossed my arms over my chest and huffed. “What are you doing?”

  He watched me for a long moment; shadows moved over his chest as it rose and fell. “I’m asking you questions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m interested.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since a long time ago.”

  I clenched my jaw, feeling frustrated. I was ready for his anger. I was not ready for him to be interested.

  “Why did you bring me out here? Is there anything specific? Because, if not, I’ve left a friend inside and I don’t want
to be rude.”

  “No.” The smirk was back. “You wouldn’t want to leave without saying anything. That would be rude.”

  Aaaaaand bull’s-eye.

  His words landed their intended blow and I felt a little better, a little more in control.

  “So let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about what happened. You obviously haven’t moved on—”

  “What? From you?”

  “No. From- from his death, from the funeral, from everything.”

  Nico gave me a small smile. “You know what I felt at his funeral? I felt relief.” He kept his tone light and conversational despite the weight of the words; “I felt relief—for Garrett—because he wasn’t in pain anymore. I saw it every day of that year—but he hid it from you. He thought it would make things easier.” Nico chewed on his bottom lip, studying me. “You were in denial the whole time. At his funeral you looked so shocked, like you couldn’t believe he was dead.”

  I held myself tighter, then dug my nails into the fabric of the long sleeves. “You’re right.”

  “About which part?”

  “I was shocked. I didn’t expect—” I took a deep breath. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

  Nico nodded twice and glanced at the glass case where trophies were kept. “I grieved for Garrett the year before he died.” In the shadow and half-light of the moon, face in profile, his features appeared as though carved from granite. He looked like a Roman statue, smooth and flawless.

  I allowed myself to look at him, see him. I wasn’t sure yet what was happening, what he wanted from this conversation, but I noted that he looked tired.

  In high school, when I knew him, he never looked tired. He’d been bursting with restless, directionless, infectious, charismatic energy.

  As a celebrity he continued to radiate a difficult to ignore magnetism. At times he almost felt radioactive.