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Lucy: Anytime
Lucy
Friday, January 12, 2:34 p.m.
From GothamGuardian5 to PlainJane2:
Question: Would you rather spend the day wearing wet socks or with a popcorn kernel stuck in your teeth? I pick the kernel, in case you were wondering. Cold, soggy feet are the worst.
BTW, did you do something scary?
From PlainJane2 to GothamGuardian5:
Oh, gosh. I hate it when my socks are wet. But I absolutely hate it when I have something in my teeth. This is hard. I’ll wear the soggy socks.
I did. And it turns out it wasn’t all that scary after all.
I’VE BEEN SWIMMING AT THE rec center every morning since Wednesday. Granted, it’s only Friday, so I’ve only been back twice since the initial time with Graham, but a win is a win.
Also, Graham has gone with me both times. I wasn’t expecting him to join me after that first time, when I knew I’d be coming back for more. I figured I’d be on my own, and I was okay with it.
After we had breakfast and were walking to the parking lot, he’d asked me when I was going back to the pool again. I told him that it would most likely be the next day. I believe he called me “an addict,” to which I replied, “There could be worse things to be addicted to.”
To my surprise, when I got there at five thirty in the morning, he was already in the water, smiling up at me as he floated.
I told him I’d be there the next day, and he just told me he’d see me there. Three days does not a routine make, but as far as I know, he’s planning on meeting me tomorrow. Later, though, since tomorrow is Saturday and we both work the evening shift tonight and won’t be done until eleven.
I’m loving being back in the water. My body may ache from all the exercise, and my hair might be a tad frizzier from the chlorine, but swimming again ... it feels so good. I’m also trying hard not to chastise myself for waiting so long, but it’s difficult not to. Regret seems to be the theme of my life. Maybe I should ask Graham for his therapist’s number.
“Price,” Graham says as he walks by the nurses’ station. He’s in black scrubs again today. Not that I’m keeping track. It’s just research for the doctors’ calendar that I’ll never make. But if I did, I think he should wear the black scrubs when he models for it. Or the blue because they make his eyes pop. Also not keeping tabs on that either. It’s just a friendly observation.
He’s got a small notebook in his hand that he’s looking at as he walks. To everyone else, he looks like he’s being a very serious doctor (even though our ER is mostly paperless and most notes are taken digitally), but I know what he’s really doing.
Today’s challenge is to write a poem. That’s right, Graham and I get to be poets for the day. And from the looks of it, Graham is taking this way too seriously. Every time I’ve seen him, unless he’s with a patient, he’s been looking at that silly notebook.
“Busy working there, Dr. Shackwell?” I give him a knowing eyebrow raise when he looks my way.
“You know it,” he says right before tucking the notebook in his pocket, knocking on the door to room six, and then entering the room. His greeting to the older man who came in with chest pain about an hour ago is cut short by the door closing behind him.
He’s working too hard on this. Now I’m second-guessing the one I wrote. Maybe I need to up my game.
“Has he always called you by your last name?” Joelle asks from another computer station. She’s one of the newer nurses and hasn’t been out of nursing school all that long. Her hair is light blond, pulled back like mine, and she has the most perfect button nose.
“No,” I say, spinning my chair so I can see her. “It’s a newer thing.” Ever since we’ve started talking. It hasn’t even been two weeks, yet it feels like much longer. In a good way. Like, he’s just naturally become a part of my life.
“He’s flirting with you,” she says, giving me a half smile.
“What?” I say, through a laugh, waving her words away with my hand. “He’s not. We’re just friends. I’ve known him a long time.”
She gives me a look like she doesn’t believe me.
“I swear,” I say. “Calling someone by their last name is just a friendly thing, not flirting.”
She shakes her head. “That would be true if he did it to all of us. But you’re the only one I’ve heard him call by their last name.”
“That’s not flirting, I promise.”
She looks around the room, her eyes searching. I know that look. She’s looking for Evie. My suspicions are confirmed when she quits looking, as Evie’s nowhere in sight, and pulls her phone out of her pocket.
