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Twenty-Seven
Eric
Two weeks later, I’mon cloud nine. My life is going swimmingly well. The letter from my parole officer was emailed to me last week, and with Christa’s help with wording and grammar, I sent off another official request for my Colorado doctorate license to be reinstated, including the letter from the PO. All I can do now is wait for a verdict on that, and pray for the best.
I’d been struggling with trying to learn the equipment used for PT, and finally something in my brain clicked one day, and now I’ve mastered it. I was so proud of myself, and my boss, Dr. Turner was, too.
“You’re doing really well, Serina,” I tell the patient who’d had a hip replacement. At forty-two she seems much too young to need one, but I learned she had been born with hip dysplasia and her hip sockets never formed correctly. She has since developed osteoarthritis at such a young age. Now, she’s the proud owner of a hip made of plastic and titanium.
“Thanks, doc. You’re the best,” she replies, a bit of flirtation in her smile. I’m used to it, so I smile back. My heart only has room for one woman, but there’s no harm in making a girl feel good about herself.
“Keep up those exercises at home, and ditch the walker. You definitely don’t need it anymore. You need to keep the hip flexor stretched, or else it’ll be stiff and one day you’ll be wondering why you’re grunting while trying to put on socks,” I tell her while beaming my best megawatt smile.
“Well, I don’t want that,” she comments, grabbing her walker and heading toward the front of the “gym” we have set up for PT.
While it seems like all I’ve been doing are knee replacements, his replacements, and shoulder surgery PT, I have gotten to do a few sports injuries, which is my passion. I won’t lie and say the reason I was extra nice to Serina isn’t because she’s one of the marketing execs for the Denver Broncos and that’s my dream to work with a professional sports league, doing their physical therapy.
I gotta get in some points whenever I can.
I watch her leave and then groan when I see Mariana enter the gym in her pink scrubs, her hair and makeup done up like she’s ready for a photoshoot.
I avoid making eye contact and turn to head back to the office, but it’s too late. “Hey, Eric,” she calls.
Ugh.
I turn and put on a fake smile. “Hey, Mariana. What brings youallthe way up here from the ICU?” We’re on the sixth floor, while the ICU is on floor two. She has zero excuse to be up here. Call me passive-aggressive, I don’t care.
“Oh, just wanted to see if you had time to grab lunch together.” She beams a smile at me, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I don’t, I’m sorry. I have plans for lunch, but thank you.” I turn my back on her. I’m not lying, Christa’s bringing me Thai today, and I’m so hungry I can’t wait to eat and of course see my woman. I also make a mental note to delete her texts from my phone before Christa accidentally sees them, even though I never responded.
I head into the office where Christa and I can eat in private instead of the breakroom where the other employees hang out.
“Oh? Whatcha havin’? I brought my lunch.” She holds up a small purple insulated lunchbox and sits in one of the chairs. Then she has the gall to reach over the desk and grab my hand.
“What the hell is this?”
Mariana snatches her hand away quickly and we both turn to see Christa in the doorway in her work clothes. Tight black pencil skirt, red heels, and a lacy white button-up top. She looks absolutely breathtaking—and also furious.
I stand immediately and say, “Mariana, this is my girlfriend, Christa.”
“Mariana?” Christa’s eyes dart from me to her, and she looks hurt. She drops the food into one of the chairs, turns around, and storms out.
I look at Mariana. “You stay here.”
“Of course, baby,” she purrs and I throw her a filthy look.
