Page 6 of Clinically Awkward

Instead, because I was apparently a glutton for punishment, I walked over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and sat down across from Vivian. Twisting the cap off, I said, “Hey. How’s your day going?”

Vivian glanced up from her phone, and in that instant, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Her gaze was sharp, almost warning me not to press further, but I ignored my instincts and moved forward anyway.

“Oh, you know,” she replied, her tone laced with sarcasm so thick it could strip paint. “Just living the dream. How’s yours?”

“Fishing lure,” I answered simply. “In a guy’s ear.”

“How?” she asked, clearly baffled.

“Didn’t ask,” I replied, not wanting to delve into the details.

“Smart,” Vivian said, taking a bite of her banana. Despite her attempt at casualness, I watched her expression rapidly shift from irritated to furious in the span of three seconds as she continued to glare at her phone.

I should have stopped there. This would have been the perfect moment to make up an excuse about checking on a patient, filing paperwork, or really anything to escape the conversation.

But I didn’t. Instead, I foolishly asked, “What’s wrong?”

The second those words left my mouth, regret washed over me.

Vivian looked up, and in that moment, I could see she was determined to tell me exactly what was bothering her, regardless of whether I wanted to hear it.

Vivian’s irritation was palpable as she spoke, her words laced with a bitterness that seemed reserved for the most egregious offenders. “Men,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut through steel. “Men are what’s wrong.”

Oh God.

Trying to ease the tension, I asked, “All men? Or specific men?”

Vivian’s frustration did not waver. “Specific men who think they can just—” She paused to collect herself, setting her phone down with a force that hinted at her rising anger. Then, with a half-eaten banana in hand, she demanded, “Do you know what it’s like to date someone who’s so obsessed with their image that they can’t go five minutes without checking their reflection?”

I did not, in fact, know what that was like. But her words made me curious about who she was referring to.

“Sounds exhausting,” I said, sipping my water.

Vivian agreed, waving her banana for emphasis. A piece broke off and sailed across the table, unnoticed. “It is exhausting,” she insisted. “And the worst part is, he’s so charming when he wants to be. Genuinely charming. Then he turns around and does something so monumentally stupid that I want to strangle him.”

My curiosity got the better of me. “What’d he do?” I asked, genuinely interested.

Vivian’s answer came with a dramatic gesture—her hands and the banana flew up. “He forgot we had plans. Again. And when I called him on it, he acted like I was being unreasonable for expecting him to remember that we were supposed to have dinner tonight.”

I chose my words carefully. “That’s pretty inconsiderate.”

Vivian leaned back, crossing her arms and brandishing her banana like a tiny sword. “And the thing is, I know he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just... scattered. Forgetful. Too focused on work or the gym or whatever else is happening in his life to remember that I exist.”

Although I wanted to ask Vivian who she was talking about, her tone made it clear she wasn’t ready to reveal names. Instead, I said, “That sounds like a him problem, not a you problem.”

Vivian gave a bitter laugh. “Tell that to my heart,” she replied. “It keeps thinking he’ll change.”

She took another angry bite of her banana, and I couldn’t help but worry about whether the fruit would survive her frustration intact.

“Maybe you should—” I hesitated mid-sentence.

Vivian pressed, “Should what?” She raised an eyebrow, speculating, “Break up with him? Trust me, I’ve thought about it. But then he does something sweet, and I think maybe I’m overreacting, and—” She groaned, burying her head in her hands. The banana finally gave up and landed on the table. “I hate dating. I hate it so much.”

“You know what? I’ve got a solution,” I said, trying to offer some hope.

She looked up at me, skepticism written across her face. “What kind of solution?”

“Don’t date,” I said, leaning back in my chair with the kind of confidence that suggested I had really thought this through. Which I had. Sort of. “Just... opt out entirely.”