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She waves me off, clearly annoyed as this conversation is one we’ve had many, many times over. “All this self-love talk coming from my best friend who abandoned me for a vow of celibacy.”
“It’s not a vow of celibacy, you little whore, I’m sick of meeting the same, boring dudes over and over.”
When I moved back to Chicago for good, Meg and I went on a wild string of self-indulgence that included meeting various high-profile men and spending fun-filled weekends on their yachts. Letting them wine and dine us until we got bored and moved onto the next one. We had our fun, but the charade eventually left me disappointed. I wasn’t myself in front of those men, instead I became a version I thought they’d prefer. Someone who favored a fresh Brazilian blowout over wild curls, giggled and agreed with whatever they said even if it wasn’t funny, and never called them out on their materialistic bullshit.
“Jenna, you’re twenty-six and act like you’re fifty, spending your weekends looking for bargains on laundry soap at CVS instead of going out.”
“Oh! Actually, I found this YouTube channel that teaches you to cook, so I’m done with the couponing thing for now. If I’m looking for a house with a giant kitchen, I might as well learn to cook in it, right?” My Saturday nights have gone from endless cocktails at the club to the grocery store aisles, debating on the importance of purchasing fresh garlic versus jars of pre-minced cloves.
“That sounds like a literal nightmare.” She waves me off. “I still say don’t bother buying a house in the suburbs. Do what I did, buy a condo. There is a maintenance man on site and a pool to use but you don’t have to maintain any of it. I ignore most of my neighbors, but the few I talk to are cool and don’t try to invite you over for Pictionary or some boring couples’ game night where they ramble on about their latest home remodeling project.”
I cackle into my lunch. “Meg, mark my words, someday you are going to meet a dude and be so head over heels in love you’re going to be crying,begging,for him to spend a Saturday running errands with you. A family trip to Home Depot to look at new bathroom faucets will become your foreplay.”
Meg crumples her napkin and tosses it at me with conviction. “Don’t you ever wish that type of shit on me. Nothing is more horrifying than the thought of love and commitment and marriage. Get married, buy a fixer-upper in the suburbs, and have two-point-five kids. Your idea of fun consists of Thursday night dinner at a local supper club once a month. If you’re feeling crazy, end the night with some missionary-style sex that most likely doesn’t result in an orgasm. How fucking awful.”
She’s silent for a moment, her focus on dragging a carrot through a trail of mustard before dropping it back in the container.
“Marissa is back with her piece of shit ex-boyfriend.”
Shit. Meg’s sister Marissa is a mini version of her, all gorgeous with fiery red hair and talent to match. But, while Meg is more like a praying mantis, biting the heads off men once she’s had her fix, her sister is more like a giant panda. All adorable and sweet and vulnerable.
“Maybe he’s learned his lesson this time.” The lie barely rolls off my tongue before Meg squints up at me.
“You know my rule: If they don’t love you right the first time around, they don’t love you at all. I’ve been with some shit men in my past, but never more than once. I’m half tempted to run him over with my car to get him out of our lives for good.”
She tosses her container of carrots on the counter and a few bounce out, falling to the floor, so she kicks them away. “That was horribly unsatisfying.” She looks at my lunch, eyes the remaining half of the giant sandwich I couldn’t finish.
I pick up my dish and hold it up for her. “Italian sub from Kathy De’s . . . salami, capicola, hot giardiniera piled high, more cheese than is necessary.” I wave it in front of her face, hoping to entice her to eat something more substantial for a twelve-hour shift. “Most importantly, not a single fucking carrot on it.”
She stares at the container in my hand, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. I can see the hunger in her sparkling green eyes, and I play on it.
“The dress,” she whispers. “What about the dress?”
“Fuck the dress,” I whisper back, taking the sub out of my container and putting it in her hand. “Eat the sandwich.”
She reluctantly takes the sandwich, curling her fingers around the toasted bun and pulling it to her chest. She raises it to her mouth, lips parting for a bite and she pauses once more.
I cock my hip, throw a hand on it for good measure and give her my best ‘you-aren’t-starving-yourself-for-a-man-for-as-long-as-I-live’ stare. She rolls her eyes, finally raising the sandwich to take a huge bite. Once its contents meet her taste buds, her eyes roll back.
“Holy shit,” she mumbles through a full mouth. “You’re right.” She takes another giant bite. “No man’s dick is worth passing up a sandwich like this.”
I release my power stance, moving instead to sit on the small counter beside us. I swipe her can of Diet Coke and take a drink as I nod along. Amen to that.
“Ladies, language, please. This is a hospital, not a brothel,” scolds Margaret. She has such quiet steps, I didn’t realize she had entered the alcove. Leave it to the most unfriendly, arrogant nurse on the unit to scold us about our language.
As soon as her back is turned, Meg and I look at each other with a simultaneous eye roll.
“Do you remember what it was like to work with full staff?” Meg asks, taking another giant bite of the sub. The shadows under her eyes catch the reflection of the fluorescent lights overhead, exhaustion written all over her porcelain skin.
We’re going on month three of being short-staffed, and while three months isn’t a lifetime, working back-to-back twelve-hour shifts without a string of real days off in between really kicks your ass. Mandated overtime isn’t for the faint of heart.
“It’s not that we’re short-staffed,” Margaret chimes in as she puts her lunch away, “it’s that they are hiring new graduates with no experience, and we might as well not count them as nurses.”
I internally roll my eyes again. Margaret has been a nurse longer than I’ve been alive, and still twists her graying hair up into a beehive hairdo so tight it gives her an instant face-lift and probably a headache to match. She keeps her reading glasses on a beaded chain around her neck and carries the age-old passage that nurses eat their young.
I’m not a huge fan of mentoring new nurses. I’ll help and answer questions, but I’m too antsy to stand and watch someone open pill packs with shaking fingers. I’ve never been one to slow down, to take life at someone else’s pace—honestly, I’ve never had to.
But I’ve decided to make roots in Chicago, and at this hospital in particular. I’ve been here for over a year, which is the longest I’ve been in one city since I became a nurse. So, if I want to see this place succeed and not stab my eyeballs out from fatigue, I probably need to step up and take the reins from Margaret when it comes to training new staff.
