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I smiled, clicking on the message to type a quick reply before traffic moved up.
June: Thanks, mom! I got the flip flops you sent. GLITTRY!
Mom: Lol. I knew you would like them. But they shed so keep them outside. Luv u
Traffic crawled forward, and I let my phone clatter to the middle console before moving up again. I sipped the coffee, willing it to wash away my headache and clear my gunky lungs. Salt Lake City had horrible air, especially in the summer, and like everyone else, it bothered my airways if I sucked in the smog too deeply. That morning, my seasonal allergies and the pollution had conspired to wrap their phlegmy tentacles around my lungs, and I struggled to breathe worse than usual as I made my way through traffic slowly.
My phone dinged again, this time with a “happy little trees” Bob Ross ringtone. That would be Instagram. I checked it at another stoplight and realized it was a private message to my art account.
Archer Holmeyer: Hey! I saw your stuff—great work. I’m looking for an artist to paint a mural in my daughter’s room. What do you charge?
Elation trilled through me.Okay, maybe this day isn’t so bad after all.I would have to wait for a quiet moment in the office to reply with my rates, but an art gig? Those didn’t come along often for me.
I had graduated from the Ellis Art Institute three years before, and I loved my art, but I didn’t fit into the fine art space. Teaching wasn’t exactly my thing either, so I hadn’t decided what to do with my talents yet. I painted solely for myself and posted the paintings on Instagram hoping to catch the interest of clients. Occasionally, I got commissions or interest in my watercolors and oil paintings, but a mural would be a first for me.
Feeling lighter, I finished the drive and turned into the parking lot of a long, modern, orthopedic surgical center situated at the heart of the medical district. Traffic hadn’t been so bad that morning, so miracle of miracles, I ended up only five minutes late.
I liked my job a lot; it had great hours, decent pay, and had been easy to learn. I had a desk with a squishy chair, and the office smelled like vanilla and antiseptic. Too good to be true? It was. They had a really hard time keeping scheduling operators longer than six months.
Because my boss was a dick.
I drew in a steadying breath, pulling on all my patience reserves and reminding myself that the salary was worth it. They bought me takeout every Friday. The benefits were choice. And hey, Dr. Brady was only human… ish. He might actually have been part gorgon; it was hard to be sure. But the worst he could do was fire me, and then I’d get to find a new job with a boss who didn’t act like he lived in a lair and drank virgin blood for breakfast.Silver linings, June. You got this.
Plus, it was my birthday. What could go wrong on my birthday?
I breezed into the office with my favorite white purse on my shoulder and a determination to be perfectly cordial and non-combative with Dr. Brady. As a birthday gift to him. Because I was a goddess of love and generosity, and no six-foot-brooding-tall, dark, and handsome neurosurgeon was going to steal that from me. It wasn’t his fault he had the bedside manners of a petulant chimpanzee. He had to have been born that way. Or maybe he had been scarred by a tragic lover in his past. I would work extra hard to be charitable and understanding of his unfortunate demeanor.
I slid my purse to the floor beside my desk, which curved along the wall of the posh waiting room furnished with masculine touches. My two co-workers and fellow receptionists already had their computers up and running. Katherine had a murky-looking smoothie of questionable contents at her elbow, and Maxine sat primly in her chair, clicking away at her schedule in her crisp, three-piece white suit and bright aqua pumps. I looked down at my outfit and cringed.
I had thrown on whatever Liz had put together without looking, and I had some regrets. For starters, my pants were a size too small and borderline yoga pants. But they had pockets, so they were work pants, right? But then my top. Oh, God, why hadn’t I looked at my top before now? I had thrown on a white lace shirt, which was normally fine, but I’d worn my hot pink bra underneath, and the lace had a keyhole opening in the back that exposed the pink bra strap.
I snatched up the navy blue cardigan I kept on the back of my chair and prayed I didn’t sweat to death trying to cover my unprofessional stripper bra. Why did I even own that thing?
Before my butt could hit the chair, a message on our inter-office communication software dinged on my desktop. With a sigh, I clicked the mouse, typed in my password, and pulled up the feed.
Dr. Brady: My 9 on 6.13 is supposed to be Andrews’ patient, not mine.
I massaged my temples, plunking myself in my chair and pulling up the multi-colored schedule. In our orthopedic surgical center, there were nine MDs and several PAs along with an army of nurses and two anesthesiologists. Each of our doctors had privileges at the three surrounding hospitals, and managing their schedules between their own surgical center, the hospitals, and the clinic, could sometimes be a logistical nightmare.
However, I scheduled patients for Brady, Andrews, and Collins, and only one of those three doctors made me want to walk in front of a semi.
I pulled up the green tab for Dr. Brady, checked the patient notes and file from behind my desk, and then sent him a brisk—but patient!—message.
June: The referral from his GP named you, Dr. Brady, for localized neck pain.
I frowned at the patient’s notes, trying to understand why we had such a large file for him.
Dr. Brady: Andrews and I know this patient—he has a new GP but it’s a shoulder problem.
How the hell would I know that?I thought with a flash of annoyance.No, June. Patience. Now you know. Just fix it and move on.
Dr. Brady: I emailed you his detailed records and history this morning.
I just got here, asshole! I scheduled it according to his referral. Jesus.
June: Okay, I will fix that. My mistake.
I pulled up Mr. Larsey’s file, found his phone number, and dialed it. It rang twice, and then an elderly man answered. “Hello?” he asked.
