Lavish Display of Ignorance
Welp. I supposed our mothers were now involved.
While I knew this arrangement with Rob was what I wanted, the amount of delight my mom displayed at seeing Rob and me together dizzied me. It pressurized the whole situation. She’d hummed and buzzed as she put out the food for our Saturday lunch.
“You and Robbie,” she kept saying like it was her new mantra.
“Mom, we’re going on a date. A date. As in ‘one.’ As in ‘don’t get your hopes up’—or Mrs. Casey’s, for that matter.”
No doubt my mom would scurry right over to her best friend with this salacious gossip as soon as my car left the driveway. My mom would get over the potential disappointment of me not marrying Rob, but Mrs. Casey didn’t need that kind of stress on her already taxed system.
“You and Robbie.” Her unfocused eyes gazed out at the backyard, and I knew she was picturing a bridal shower with all her relatives and church friends.
“We barely know each other,” I said. “Stop planning our wedding.” Though that was where all this was headed, wasn’t it? Rob and me spending time together was just a formality before we made it official? My mind raced. Two days ago, I’d been alone and sad and drunk. Today, I had a guy—a very nice, attractive, professional, and age-appropriate guy—who wanted to marry me.
My mom pinched my cheek. “This is how it happens, though.” She took her seat at the table and placed her napkin on her lap.
I passed her the container of macaroni salad from Tony’s Deli in an attempt to end this ridiculous conversation. If we crammed food into our mouths, at the very least it’d slow down the dialogue a bit.
My mom waved me off. “None of that for me. I’m on a diet now.”
“What?” I said, wrinkling my nose. “You love Tony’s macaroni salad, and, besides, you don’t need to lose any weight, Mom.”
“I sure do, if I’m going to look good in wedding photos.” She hacked off a sliver of submarine sandwich about the width of my thumb. “This doesn’t have any oil on it, does it?” She appraised the sandwich critically.
“Oh good lord, Mother. You need to stop this nonsense.” I shoved a quarter of my sandwich into my mouth and stared out the window. I had to eat my lunch and get out of there. This was why I never discussed my private life with my mom. There was no such thing as “just a date” or a “casual relationship.” Every man I met was potential marriage material; every innocent interaction represented an opportunity for lasting love. And this time she wouldn’t be alone in her gossiping and theorizing. This time she’d have her BFF on board, equally invested in seeing me and Rob coupled up.
This would be a disaster.
…
On Friday afternoon, Gayle Gale came in masked up and wearing disposable gloves. She’d even wrapped a cashmere scarf around her neck, despite the eighty-degree summer weather. “My throat feels scratchy, Annie.”
“Let’s see.” I mimed removing the scarf, and Gayle did so. I felt her neck. “I’m not feeling anything on the outside. Your lymph nodes aren’t swollen, so that’s a good thing.” I grabbed my tongue depressor and flashlight. “Let’s check out the inside.” She pulled down her mask, and I flashed my light around. I pulled away and made a note on my chart.
She replaced her mask and her scarf. “What do you think? My husband and I just had dinner with my brother, who got back from a trip overseas last week. I heard there’s a new flu...”
“I’m not concerned,” I told her. “Your throat looks irritated, but that could be from overuse or allergies.”
“I’ve never had allergies.”
I wrote her a note on my pad for some over-the-counter remedies. “People can develop new sensitivities later in life, and with the changing climate, I’m seeing more and more of it. Plus, I think that these days, we’re all just a little more hyperaware of how we’re feeling.” Smiling reassuringly, I handed her the paper. “Try this and see if you feel better. Drink some hot water with honey and lemon to soothe the throat. With no other symptoms, I think it’s most likely a combination of the weather and your job.” I smiled at her. “You do have to talk a lot, professionally.”
“That’s true. Thanks, Annie.” She glanced at the paper and tucked it into her purse. “I’m sorry to bother you with this.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I led her toward the door. “I’m glad you called. Allergies are frustrating and present symptoms that can be scary, especially when you’re already on the lookout for things like coughs and sore throats. Try the over-the-counter stuff, a little vocal rest, and we’ll go from there. If anything changes, do not hesitate to call me.”
“Never do.”
“And keep taking your blood pressure medication.”
She saluted me.
I opened the door and found Darius standing in the middle of the common area, leaning against the desk, checking his phone. My stomach lurched. He, too, had been on the text, though he hadn’t responded. I guessed a guy like him received goofy messages every day from desperate women trying to get his attention. What was one more?
“Hello, Darius.” Gayle swanned across the room and gave her coworker a friendly peck on the cheek. “What are you doing here?”
“Following up on my interview with Annie.” He winked at me behind dark-rimmed glasses that made him look like Clark Kent, barely concealing his Superman alter ego.
I glanced at my watch. Crap. I had told him to stop by. And, oh shit, he probably wanted to mention that text in his story about me. That had to be it.
Jen and the cameraman had set up in one of the exam rooms, where Tina, in an elaborate outfit—complete with a fascinator—perched on the table.
“Well, good luck, everyone.” Gayle waved and left the office.
My legs like lead, I ushered Darius into the exam room with the camera, where we found Tina musing about finding her best light while Jen and the cameraman ignored her.
“Hi, Annie,” Jen said brightly but authoritatively. “This shouldn’t take long. We only want to get a little video coverage of you interacting with your ‘patient.’” She put that word in air quotes.
“Great.” This I could do. I understood my motivation. I had to pretend to perform my duties on Tina—just run through my usual checklist of items. I tried to ignore Darius’s looming presence on the guest chair just inside the door or the potential reaction of my patients when they found out about the drunken and desperate text their doctor had sent to most of the men in her contact list.
At least I’d somehow had the good sense, even in my intoxicated stupor, not to solicit any of my patients. Thank the universe for small favors.
I stepped over to Tina and listened to her heart with my stethoscope.
“What do you think, Doctor? Will I make it?” Tina asked dramatically, her lip quivering.
“Nope,” I told her. “You have minutes to live. If you’re lucky.”
A tear formed in the corner of her eye.
“Maybe I was wrong about you,” I said. “Maybe you actually do have acting chops.”
“You doubted me?” Tina’s eyes went wide.
“Never.” I checked out her eyes, ears, and throat.
After I got through testing Tina’s reflexes and checking her lymph nodes, Jen called cut. “I think that’s plenty,” she said, peering into the camera as it played back the footage. “Thanks, Annie. That’s a wrap.”
“Great.” I removed my lab coat and felt a cold breeze under my arms. My pits had sweated through my button-down. Super. I pressed my arms tight against my sides as I stepped over to Darius. “Jen thinks she got enough.” My upper arm still stuck to my side, I stiffly offered him my hand, and he shook it, holding on for a few beats too long.
“She has, but I’m not quite finished with you,” he said, a sly grin spreading across his lips.
My stomach plummeted. Here it came.
“Can we talk for a second?” he asked. “In your office? I just have a few follow-up questions. No camera necessary.”
“Sure,” I croaked. My mouth had gone dry. I put my lab coat back on to hide my pit stains as I led Darius across the common area to my office.
I shut the door, and the two of us took the same seats we had the other day when he’d come in to interview me the first time.
“I’m happy to answer any of your questions,” I said brightly. “I’m sure you have many about the practice—”
“I’m not here to talk about that.” Darius, eyes down on the desk, pointedly pushed my stapler a centimeter closer to me. “I got your text message the other night.”
Crap, crappity, crap, crap.
“Please don’t say anything about that in your segment. It could ruin me. Please. I’m begging you.”
He took off his glasses and wiped them on a handkerchief. “I’m not going to include that in the piece.”
“You’re not?”
“Of course not. That’s not my style.” He placed the Clark Kent glasses back on his face.
“Okay…thanks.” I let out a sigh of relief until I remembered that this conversation wasn’t over. He’d brought me in here specifically to talk about the text. “Is there…anything else?”
“Yeah…” He shot me a more muted, slyer version of his high-wattage smile. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that text the past few days.”
My stomach sank into my feet as a wave of nervousness rolled through me. “You have?”
He touched my stapler again, this time moving it back to where it had been in the first place. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Yeah?” Ice flowed through my veins. I instinctively glanced at the door, looking for Jen or the cameraman. This had to be a prank. I was on Punk’d. Or Darius had been tricky when he said he wouldn’t use the text. Maybe he wouldn’t use it in the official piece about my practice, but he’d save it for some gotcha segment for the news program that would paint me, an accomplished doctor, as a pathetic, man-hungry old maid.
“Yeah.” His grin expanded this time, fully revealing that set of perfect teeth—gleamingly white and straight. “You put it right out there, no mincing words—‘I’m sick of playing games.’ I thought it was refreshing and brave.”
He was messing with me. This Grown Man—capital letters—in a suit with a pocket square was screwing with me right now.
“And I think,” he said, shrugging. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”