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I have a master’s in physiotherapy with a specialization in sports rehab, and I graduated at the top of my class. That, along with the glowing recommendation from my professors and my clinic placement, as well as my interview skills, got me the job. And I didn’t need my brother to do it.
So here I am, day one at my new job, praying I don’t run into Joey and end up in tears. The good thing about starting two months after him is that he won’t be part of my orientation. Also, the clinic is massive: there are more than a hundred people on staff, including physiotherapists, massage therapists, acupuncturists, chiropractors, and even a doctor, as well as a team of personal trainers—that’s what Joey was hired for. I’m hopeful the size of the clinic means I won’t run into him often—better yet, not at all—since I’m with the physiotherapy team.
I’m about twenty-five minutes early, so I sign in, pick up an orientation package of paperwork, and take a seat at one of the many empty desks in the seminar room. It’s strange being in a university as something other than a student.
The seats around me fill with nervous bodies as I complete the forms. I’m not necessarily an introvert, but new situations where I don’t know anyone apart from my cheater ex make me nervous.
Two women who look roughly my age take the empty seats next to me. One of the girls is tall and willowy with a pixie cut, and the other one is short with an athletic build, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. We exchange hellos and names as they settle in. The willowy one is Jules, and the athletic one is Pattie. Apparently they’re cousins.
My phone vibrates on my desk with new messages, but I ignore it. RJ sent me one this morning wishing me luck, as did my mom and my brother Kyle. I slide the device into my bag so it’s not a distraction, but before I do, I catch the new name I’ve given to Joey’s contact: Douche-Hole. His most recent message, sent seconds ago, reads look up.
The last thing I need or want this morning is to see his asshole face. I don’t look up. Instead I flip distractedly through the orientation booklet.
“Hey! Stevie!” Joey whisper-shouts from the end of the row.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
“Do you know that guy?” Pattie asks on a whisper.
“Unfortunately, yes.” I keep my head down, determined not to give him any kind of sign that will make him think he has half a chance of getting back on my good side. Ever.
“Psst, Stevie.” His voice is closer now, like right beside my ear.
I glance at Pattie and mouth, Is he behind me?
She nods.
The tiny woman made of 100 percent muscle standing at the front of the room looks beyond me, her mouth twisting into a frown. “Mr. Smuck, did you need a refresher? Is that why you’re gracing us with your presence?”
Yes, Joey’s last name is Smuck. The irony is hard to ignore.
Every single person in the room is now looking at him, and I’m a sitting duck for whatever his response is going to be. I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
His hand, the one that was slapping the bare ass of someone other than me, lands on my shoulder. “Just saying hi to my—”
Embarrassment collides with incredulity and rage. I drop my arm, stabbing him in the shin with my pen. To his credit, he only half chokes on a groan, finishing with a cough and “Friend.”
The room is pin-drop silent. I want to melt into the floor and disappear.
“Save your social calls for off-work hours, Mr. Smuck.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He lowers his voice and whispers, “You can’t avoid me forever.” Then he shuffles down the row and saunters out of the room with a slight limp.
Once he’s gone, our orientation leader gets down to business as if the interruption never happened. And by business, I mean icebreakers. It’s like being back in high school with the games she pulls out. I almost feel bad about everyone’s complete lack of enthusiasm with how excited she is.
She has one of the new recruits in the first row pull a card from a top hat. We’re supposed to shout out the first thing that comes to mind after it’s been read aloud. Whoever gets similar responses will end up working in groups together for the rest of the day.
“What food is an absolute no-no on a first date?” the poor guy who pulled the question asks the room.
Several people shout out “Garlic!” or “Onions!”
I yell, much louder than necessary, “Bratwurst!”
At the same time, Pattie beside me shouts, “Hot dog!”
Jules follows it with, “Penis! I mean banana!”
Suddenly I’m not the most embarrassed person in the room anymore, and I think I’ve found my girl squad.
