AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Oh, okay, um.” I reach into my purse and pull out my long-suffering card, hoping there’s room on it for the hundred bucks and change that this is costing. I guess I’ll just have the landlord reimburse me.
After a nerve-wracking minute or so, the card goes through.
I take the bill and go inside, rushing upstairs and taking the hottest shower I can in the few minutes I have before my shift.
Afterwards, as I’m taking a photo of the bill to send to the landlord, my phone buzzes with a notification from the dating app:
BogeyLuvr: Hey, wuzzup.
I stare at it. There are all sorts of things wrong with it. First, I think a bogey might be something in golf, but I can’t help seeing boogie, as in booger, and that he loves them—which is gross. And wuzzup? Is that supposed to be short for what’s up or is he throwing back to that old Budweiser commercial from decades ago? In my humble opinion, it’s worth the extra effort to not sound like an idiot who has no grasp of the English language or at the very least, modern pop culture.
Nothing bodes well for this conversation.
Actually, nothing bodes well for the app as a whole.
So far it’s been nothing but guys like this … save for one … which I’ve already established was a huge, raging mistake.
As much as I’ve beat myself up over it all morning, I take a second to remind myself about that closure I was seeking.
Isn’t that what I wanted?
And isn’t that exactly what I got?
I thought it would feel different—like an exclamation point or a period and not three dots and a whole bunch of question marks.
Holding my finger on the app, I wait for the icon to start shaking, and then I press “delete.”
With that done, I let out a sigh of relief and go into the bathroom to finish getting ready for my shift.
That terrible pizza’s not going to make itself.
8
Alec
“I think you’re looking good. Nothing broken, which is a good sign. A little whiplash. Pain might be worse tomorrow, so take some Tylenol if you need to.”
I’m filling out the umpteenth discharge papers at the tail end of my twelve-hour shift, my eyes so tired I’m seeing double. At this point, I’m running on fumes.
Twenty-nine minutes, and I can blow this joint.
“You mean, you’re not going to admit me?” My patient frowns, crossing her arms. “The last time I had a car accident, I was admitted for twelve days.”
I nod and check her chart on the tablet. No previous files come up. “I see. When was that?”
“1973.”
“Ah, things are a little different now. Medicine has changed. There’s not much more we can do for you in here. Most people would be more comfortable in their own home, so—”
“I know what this is. It’s fraud. I know your type. You just want to collect my insurance money and send me on my way.” She wags an aged-spotted, waxy finger at me. “Are you even a real doctor? You look young.”
“I can assure you, ma’am, I’m a real doctor,” I say, not looking up from the paper, wondering if she’s going to ask me for a certified copy of my medical license next. Or perhaps a photo of me in my cap and gown, graduating from medical school.
“Well, I demand to see your superior. I want to be admitted.” She scoots back slowly, making herself comfortable on the cot. Unfortunately I know this type of patient all too well. If you don’t give them what they want, they’ll slap a slew of one-star reviews on every doctor website they can find on Google and then they’ll call every supervisor and administrator, working their way up the chain until they finally feel validated.
“Fine.” It’s not like she’s demanding controlled substances. “I’ll send my colleague in for a second opinion.”
I head out, telling one of the nurses, Valery, to have Dr. Burns stop in for a consult—not that he’ll tell her any different. The nurse, who is probably fifty, giggles like a schoolgirl and touches my arm flirtatiously.
“What’s that, Dr. Mansfield? You losing your charm already?” She winks, keeping a straight face as she sips from the straw of a pink Stanley tumbler.
Smirking, I say. “You tell me.”
I wink at her and stride down the hall, checking on patients. The females all straighten their gowns and mess with their hair as I enter their rooms. It’s something I’ve grown used to, though it never fails to amuse me.
It’s ironic—someone in their darkest hour can still muster up the strength to notice me, but Stassi’s never been able to give me two seconds of her attention (until last night). It might have taken twenty years, but it’s a win worth celebrating, all things considered.
In fact, I should thank her. I’m tired as hell from not sleeping last night, but the sheer thought of her and all the things we did has been keeping me going. I can’t stop thinking of getting home and seeing her again—even if she slams her door in my face. Even if I know she still probably hates everything about me. The thought alone of seeing her in passing gives me life.
