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So far today, I’ve snapped at a customer, messed up the freezer inventory, and connected the wrong syrup container to the wrong line of the soda fountain. And it’s barely noon. My head is such a mess that I can’t think straight. I’m all distracted and dizzy. My shoulder’s killing me, and I can’t stop thinking about Lincoln’s proposal. I’d slept on it and annoyingly, I hadn’t woken up this morning with all the answers. In fact, I hadn’t even slept well. Didn’t help I kept waking myself up by rolling onto my shoulder since I’m a side sleeper.
But more than his proposal, I keep replaying all the awkward moments from yesterday in my head. Even though they were awkward, they were also somehow endearing and gave me butterflies to think about. When I put my hand on his, he looked very uncomfortable. I can recall in the past when I’d touched his arm or shoulder, or stood a little too close, how he’d had the same look. I’d been raised to be a touchy-feely kind of person, but I should have known that Lincoln was not. He’s always very reserved and seems like he greatly values his personal space, so it would serve me well to remember that in the future. If I could retrain my brain, that is. Smaller bites when eating. No touching Lincoln. I’ll repeat those mantras in my head today.
My cell buzzes from my back pocket. On the screen is an unknown local number. “Hello?” I answer.
“May I speak to Quinn Walker?” a female voice asks.
“Speakin’,” I reply.
“This is Mae from Vanguard Imaging. Do you have a minute to discuss your MRI results?”
I head toward my office. “Oh, yeah, definitely. Go right on ahead.”
“Okay. First off, you have no breaks or fractures so that’s good news,” she says. “The bad news is you have a rotator cuff tear. Now, it’s not severe, but will require treatment. With this degree of tear, you must be in significant discomfort.”
I feel like crying because I’m so exhausted and tired from being in pain. “Yes, ma’am. I can’t sleep and I have to do my job one-handed pretty much. I’m like a useless one-armed gorilla over here.”
She chuckles a little. “Well, Doctor Ito would like to see you as soon as possible to discuss treatment options. But in the meantime, the doc asks that you go get yourself a sling from the drugstore and wear that until the appointment. It’ll help with the discomfort and remind you to keep your shoulder still.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. But do I need surgery?” I ask.
“That’s certainly something you can ask the doctor. I’m an imaging technician and cannot give out medical advice or treatments. I hope you understand.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, darlin’. I’ll make a list of questions for the doc.”
“Great. Let me transfer you over to Stephanie at Dr. Ito’s office. She’ll make your appointment.”
“Thanks, Mae.”
“Sure.”
Hold music plays, and the receptionist picks up and informs me the doctor had a cancellation for the day after tomorrow, at ten a.m., so I’ll have to get someone to cover for me. I confirm they take my insurance, since I will not let Lincoln pay for anything else, and hang up.
I realize I need to call him to let him know what the doctor said, but I also haven’t made a decision on taking the job. Also, lunch rush is starting, so I pocket the phone and head out to the dining area.
I smile when familiar faces greet me at the front door. I immediately welcome them.
“Hello, sir. Table for three”—I glance at his wife’s swollen belly—“And a half?” Then I laugh at my own joke.
“Yes, that would be great, Quinn,” he replies, following behind me.
His wife and little boy sit, and I plunk a kids’ menu and crayons down in front of him. “There you go, buckaroo.”
“That’s new,” comments Roman’s wife, whose name I don’t know.
“Yes, Roman here got us kids’ menus. It’s been great. Kids are so easy.”
“Right?” his wife says. “I’m Kiara, by the way. Not sure if we met the last time I was in here.”
I shake her hand. “Quinn. Nice to meet you.” I look at the boy. “And what’s your name, buddy?”
“Rhett Elijah Silverstone, and I’m this many.” He puts up his hand and splays his fingers wide.
I make a mock surprised face. “Oh wow, you are older than dirt!”
His eyes go wide. “Really? How old is dirt?”
I chuckle. “As old as the earth, I guess,” I answer.
