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I’ve come full circle. Not thinking about Erik is impossible. I’ve already proven that I don’t have the willpower to avoid his memory. Each time I think of him, I maim myself, spill something, or cause myself more work. I’m inclined to believe that the universe is telling me not to think about Erik at all, except these accidents are causing me to think about him more. Something isn’t working.
I could text him, I think, as I switch paint colors to fill up the rest of the bottles.
Something simple to open the door for ongoing communication, I think, as I set the paint and mini canvases out on the tables.
We had fun together, I tell myself as my first class creates chaotic swirls of paint that drip off the end of their canvases into small trays below.
I liked him, I remember, as I help slide wet art onto the metal drying racks and promise the class they can see their finished projects during their next art block.
I wish we’d gone to dinner, I admit, as the kids wash their hands, pile their smocks, and line up to go back to their classrooms.
“Screw it,” I say and reach into my pocket for my phone. My principal has okayed my request to keep it on my person—on vibrate—just in case something happens with Dad. His doctor’s office prefers direct access to me in case of an emergency. Technically, this is pushing my agreement with my boss, but there are no students in the room, and I’m going to be distracted until I get this over with.
I swipe my phone open and my stomach pitches again when I notice no new messages. This is even more reason to do this. I’m used to my stomach pitching with nerves and fear when I have missed calls. Calls that could have come from the hospital or the oncologist. I’m not used to disappointment that stems from no one texting me. Usually no one does text me. My friends are all at school too or working. When would they have time to text?
I open my messages and navigate to Erik’s number.
What if he didn’t want me to contact him? What if that’s why he’s quiet? What if I’d just been a diversion while he was away, and when I rejected his offers to see me again, he had pushed me completely from his mind? What if I’m about to make an idiot of myself?
But what if I’m wrong? What if he hadn’t texted me because I’d told him not to? What if he’d felt even a fraction of the connection I did? What if he’s thinking about me, too? What if we could still be friends even if we never have anything physical?
My fingers tap at the keys from muscle memory and I hit “send” before I can talk myself out of it. Either he’ll be receptive to hearing from me and I’ll get a response, or he won’t and I won’t. I slide the phone back into the pocket of my black pants and turn back to the prep for my next class. I will not think about Erik anymore. Not even a little. Not even at all.
I’m the worst liar.
If I had put money on the idea that being back at work would help distract me from thoughts of my week away, I’d be a sore loser. Nothing can erase the memory of Quinn. Which is ridiculous. It was one weekend with one woman. A high-stress weekend at that. My inability to think about anyone or anything else must be based on surging levels of cortisol. The same reason so many people fall in love during times of crisis.
Yesterday I did rounds at Lurie Children’s, talking with a handful of my patients who had been admitted and needed a little extra support. Today I’m back at the office, stationed behind my massive wooden desk, and wishing I was sitting in a cramped plastic seat at a hockey rink. Definitely not something I thought I’d feel. Not again.
It has been one hundred and twelve hours since I met Quinn Cooper, one hundred and eight since I made her cum. Ninety-four since I last saw her, and twenty-four hours since my phone vibrated with a message from her. A message that contained two simple words that rocked me on my axis.
Quinn Cooper:
I’m sorry.
I had a response typed up before my heart started beating again. Then I deleted it and retyped it, deleted it and retyped it, deleted it and retyped it until I could imagine even my brother rolling his eyes and threatening to send it for me. So right there, in a hospital lounge—which seems fitting given where she’d halted things—I sent my reply.
Erik Varg:
It’s okay.
And then… nothing. Should I text her again? I feel like a fucking teenager worrying about the girl I like. I should be able to just type a message and send it. I’m a goddamn adult. But she’d been cagey when I asked before. I can’t push her on this. Not if I want any part of her.
I’m pretty sure this message is an olive branch to reopen our lines of communication, but the no response… I know from some of my teenage patients that double texting reeks of desperation. I don’t want to misinterpret her choice to reach out. Maybe she was being friendly. Maybe she was tying up loose ends. Feeling guilty—although she had no need to—over how we’d left things between us.
I’d have much rather spent the weekend wrapped up in her, face buried in the cushion of her cleavage, but I don’t blame her for taking a step back. And in the end, it worked out. I had dinner with my brother and our mom, and now she’s texted me. Once. I’ll take it.
I shuffle some papers on my desk and check my email for the tenth time in the last five minutes. I spin my chair in a circle, something I only do when I’m feeling stressed. I like the head rush I get as the world blurs around me, air whipping at my face. For just a moment, I’m ten years old again and spinning on the metal death trap of a merry-go-round at the local playground. Clinging on for dear life, hoping I won’t be the one catapulted into the damp wood chips. At least not before my twin.
“Hey Erik,” Kenzie leans around my door frame, and I use my foot to bring the chair to a slow stop.
She’s one of the newer therapists in the practice, and as a senior member it’s my job to make her feel welcome, but all I can think right now is that her hair is the wrong shade of red. Darker than Quinn’s, more of a dark cherry color that gleams under the overhead lights.
“It’s nice to have you back.” Her smile shows straight white teeth, the product of the right dentist and orthodontic appointments combined with good genetics, and I smile at her because it’s the polite thing to do.
“It’s good to be back.”
It isn’t a lie. Loki enjoys having his human servant back, and it’s nice to be sleeping in my bed instead of at a hotel. The weather even cooperated for my flight. Cold and clear, but several degrees above frigid.
