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Conversation stalled as I tried to think of something to say to her over the sound of Quinn emptying his stomach. I wanted to ask her out, desperate to stick around and spend more time with her, but there wasn’t a line in the world that would work in this situation.
“I should get him home.” Rubbing my hand over the back of my neck, I decided then that I was going to make tomorrow a living hell for Quinn.
“Thanks again.” Avery pulled open the bar door and slipped inside to join her friend.
“Come on.” I helped Quinn stand upright, tossing his shirt over my shoulder and guiding him down the darkened street to my apartment.
It was going to be a long night.
“So let me get this straight,” Deb said, standing by her locker in just a scrub top and striped, neon-colored socks. “He pulls you out of a burning car—”
“It wasn’t burning,” I deadpanned.
“—and calls his ambulance buddies to bring you to safety, probably cradling your head in his beautiful, buff arm while sniffing your granny panties.”
I shook my head, revolted. “At what point in this story did my panties come off?”
She stared at me with a blank expression. “This is Paramedic McPanties we’re talking about, right? He probably took them off to fashion a tourniquet like a sexy MacGyver.”
I exhaled. “McPanties is an awful, horrible nickname.”
“You laughed the first time I said it. Now you’re defensive. This is bad.” She dropped her shit-soaked sneaker into a plastic bag and tied the top, tossing it into her locker with a thud.
“You’re going to just throw that away, right?” I asked, rubbing the beginning of a headache from my left temple.
“Throw my shoes away?” she asked, appalled at my suggestion.
She spun around, stepping into the tiny bathroom across from the lockers, and scrubbed her hands until they looked raw. After ripping a paper towel from the dispenser, Deb turned off the faucet and then took a few towels to dry her hands before throwing away the wet paper. She reached back to tie her dark hair into a tiny ponytail at the nape of her neck. “You must have hit your head harder than I thought.”
I smiled, watching Deb step into a fresh pair of scrubs and then slide into her Crocs. “At least keep it in the bag until you know if your patient tests positive for—”
“Bleach kills everything,” she said. “Anyway, if I get C. diff, I might lose that last fifty pounds I’ve been trying to get off since the eighties.”
“You were born in the eighties.”
“My mother had gestational diabetes. I was husky.” She closed her locker, snapping the combination lock and twisting the dial.
“Better twist it again,” I said. “Don’t want anyone taking your shit shoe.”
“I don’t want those skinny bitches from radiology stealing my pudding.”
Andrea from X-ray glanced over her shoulder at us.
“That’s right,” Deb said with wide eyes. She pointed at her. “I see you staring at my chocolate vanilla Super Snack Pack.”
Andrea pushed through the door, suddenly in a hurry.
“Jesus, Deb. You’re going to get written up again.”
“My shit shoe could end up under your pillow tonight. I have a key to your apartment. Hey,” she said, pointing at my head. “You’ve been doing that a lot today. What’s up with that?”
I dropped my fingers from my temple. “Just getting a headache. It’s nothing. I’ll take something when I get home. C’mon, we’re clocked out. I already feel bad that you came in on your night off. Let’s get the hell out of here before a code comes in.”
She followed me out of the women’s locker room and into the hall. I waved to the night shift, pausing when Dr. Rosenberg gestured for me to wait.
“A … he’s going to ask you to marry him,” Deb whispered as he approached.
“Shut up,” I said through my teeth.
“B … he’s going to say that he likes your tits in that scrub top all romantic-like and shit.”
“I will punch you in the vagina,” I hissed just as the doctor came closer.
“On your way out, ladies?” Dr. Rosenberg asked.
“C …” Deb began.
“See?” Dr. Rosenberg repeated, blinking his fantastically long eyelashes. His eyebrows pulled in, forming twin lines between them.
“C. diff,” I blurted out. “She was wondering if that last patient has tested positive for C. diff.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t need the results to know it’s negative. It has that unique smell and—”
“Weird pillow talk,” Deb muttered.
“Pardon?” Dr. Rosenberg asked.
I said the first thing I could think of. “She said we’re going to walk. To her car. She’s giving me a ride home. Did you need something before we leave, Doctor?”
“Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a vehicle. I hope you have insurance.”
Deb opened her mouth again, but I elbowed her hard in the ribs.
She yelped and rubbed her side, frowning at me.
Dr. Rosenberg watched our exchange with curiosity, but he continued, “My commute took twice as long because of the construction on I-95 North. If you’re going that way, you might want to find an alternate route.”
Deb chuckled. “You live in Alapocas, right, Doc?”
He smiled warmly. “I do, Hamata.” He looked down, embarrassed. “I didn’t realize that was common knowledge.”
