I cross my arms. “My ER patients never complained I wasn’t likable.”
“Well, my patients aren’t unconscious or bleeding out, Julian. You have to be nicer to these ones.”
I scowl, aware that I’m sulking and unable to stop it. I should be kissing Dr. Srinivasan’s feet for the opportunity to serve my probation here. After what happened at Philly Gen, I had to beg Dr. Riveras not to fire me on the spot. If it were up to the Corringtons, Philly’s richest family, the hospital’s biggest donor, and coincidentally, the sponsor for my fellowship, I’d never practice medicine again. But Dr. Riveras relented after I agreed to take a six-month leave of absence towork on my nonexistent people skillsandlearn how to listen for fucking onceandget my head out of my own ass.The best way to do that, she decided, was by serving in theultimate patient service capacity—as a primary care physician in a family practice out of the public eye long enough that the Corringtons forget what I did.
Which turned out to be nearly impossible. Dr. Riveras didn’t report me to the state medical board for what happened, but word still traveled fast. I contacted every family practice within thirty miles of Philadelphia, but I was as employable as RFK, Jr. in a vaccine clinic. Nobody would have me because nobody wanted to cross the Corringtons.
Nobody except Dr. Srinivasan. Andonlybecause my mother called and asked him on my behalf. I cringe reflexively, gutted that my poor mom, who spent the last five years of my father’s life rescuing him, had to rescue me, too—something I vowed she’d never need to do. When my father passed away and abandoned us for good, twelve-year-old Julian sat silently at his service, listening to all his friends and family laugh and cry over what a good time Anthony D’Angelo was. The life of the party. He could take more shots than a boxer and keep standing, as if that was something to be proud of. Nobody talked aboutafterthe big accident—how it left him hobbled and unsure, how he retreated from the real world into our garage and let Mom bear all the burdens of our family. But that’s the Anthony D’Angelo thatIknew, and I swore the day we buried him I’d be nothing like him. That I’d be the best. The best son, the best student, the best doctor, and one day, the best husband. The best father. The people I love wouldalwaysknow how much, because I’d take the best care of them.
But I never realized how alienating becoming the best would be. How the long hours studying pushed away friends, the longer hours working made dating impossible, and how my determination to succeed seemed to be a never-ending source of complaints from my family. It doesn’t matter that I landed a competitive fellowship at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country—here, I’m Little Julie Try-Hard and Julian D’Asshole,somehow the biggest joke in an entire family of jokes. The D’Angelos are to Sparrow Nook like pigeons are to New York City:everywhere, and typically fighting over pizza. It’s impossible to go anywhere in town without running into one of my loser relatives, which is why yesterday I drove twenty minutes to the good grocery store. The last time I went to the local Acme, my Aunt Patty was the only cashier working. After tutting over each of my items, she informed the entire eighty-seven D’Angelos on the family text chain that I was buying orgasmic bananas. It was a typo, Ithink, but I’ve received unsolicited banana pics for a solid week. Is it any wonder that in Sparrow Nook, the D’Angelo name solicits an eyeroll and a pitying laugh? I’ve spent my whole life trying to set myself above and apart from the D’Angelos, to prove that I’m not likeanyof them. That, unlike them and my irresponsible, undependable heartbreak of a father, I am a force to be reckoned with and respected.
And yet, here I am, enduring the spectacle of my ridiculous family while I languish in this purgatory, forced to treat people who think diner cheesecake is a valid source of protein until December. There’s nothing for it—Ihaveto convince Dr. Riveras to reinstate me and get my career back on track to becoming the best, where I belong.
But to do that, I have to learn to be…likable?
How the hell am I going to do that?
CHAPTER THREE
NOMI
Welcome to Xscape Your Brain: An Herbaceous Experience, this is your cannabis counselor, Nomi. How can I help you?” I press the headset to my ear to hear the crackly drive-through order, making me feel like a Secret Service agent receiving covert tactical information, or Britney Spears. Except in my case, the voice that burbles through the headphones is a fourteen-year-old trying to get around the legal buying age.
“Ah, yes,” the child clears his throat, “I would like two pounds ofMom-Mom’s Hasherole, please.”
I glance at the drive-through camera screen and the pack of giggling ninth graders on Huffy bikes. “We don’t sell by the pound, Tom D’Angelo. Or to kids, for that matter.”
“I’m not—Tom,” Tom squeals, then remembers to pitch his voice lower. “I’m Tom’s older brother—Desmond.Are you… busy later?”
I sigh into the mouthpiece. “Vacate the drive-through now, or I’ll contact your Aunt Veronica.”
“RUN!” Tom screeches. Rubber tires squeal as the little doofuses scramble away. I shift on the drive-through window seat, uncomfortably aware of the pad I’m wearing in lieu of a bandage. Eve bought me thethickest maxi pads known to woman as penance for ruining my shore weekend. You can’t dip a healing wound in the Atlantic Ocean.
Not off the Jersey Shore, at least.
I hate drive-through duty. Damon knows it, too. Whenever I irritate him, boom—the next shift I’m on the headset passing out cannabis packed in little boxes with arched handles and psychedelic letters proclaiming:Happy Feels.
Normally I’d never side with a giant corporation over a small business owner, but I sincerely hope McDonald’s sues Damon’s ass. Besides, he’s notthatsmall of a business owner. He’s got three Xscape Your Brain: An Herbaceous Experience locations in the greater Jersey Shore area already, which equates to three crimes against humanity. With white lacquered surfaces and illuminated glass cases, XYB is sterile and echoey, made worse by the deafening electronic music Damon blares twenty-four seven. If you held a rave at a mall Clinique counter, this is what it would feel like. I hate it with every cell in my body.
But it’s the only dispensary within driving distance, and the employee discounts are decent, so.
“That’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars, please drive around.” I lean through the opening, pass off theHappy Feels, and sigh.
“Customer service, Nomi.” Damon dances toward me with a deeply serious expression he probably thinks is brooding and sexy.
It’s not.
“Could you be less…” He flings a hand at me, hips still moving. “—depressed?”
“Sure, Damon.” I plaster on a smile that makes him flinch out of beat. “Is this better?”
He rolls his eyes and tucks a lock of his limp, brown hair behind an ear. “You’re never going to be promoted to manager with that attitude.”
I’m already manager. Damon’s just the power-hungry forty-something owner who comes by to dance and screw up my meticulous schedules so he can put me on drive-through duty. I blow out a breath. “Right. Thanks for the feedback, boss.” That honorific usually mollifies him enough to return to the synth hell from whence he came, but for some reason, Damon’s still pulsing in front of me.
“Why did you order a shipment of Orangutan Titties this month?”
Ah. That’s why.
