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Eric
The conversation with Carter helped me. He was right. I was being immature and ridiculous. I’m going to tell Christa it was me last Saturday night in the Mile High Rooms and if she hates me, well, then that’s that. But at least I’ll have been honest.
With a resolved attitude and smile, I exit the bedroom where I’d been talking to Carter and scan the main room for Christa. But she’s nowhere.
I approach my sister, who’s talking to Declan. “Hey, where’s Christa?”
She peers around the room. “Uh, I don’t know. We were just chatting on the couch, but she’s obviously not there.”
“Why?” Declan asks. “Do you like Christa?”
I bite back a smile. “Yes, dude, I like Christa. I need to find her.”
“I think she left,” she says.
“What?”
Taryn walks out of the kitchen toward the entryway hall and comes back. “Her purse is gone.”
Fuck.
Now what do I do?
Disappointed and unsure how to handle it, I stay until the party is almost over, and then congratulate my sister and best friend on their upcoming son before leaving.
I drive home upset. I again wonder if I should head to her house and get this all out in the open.
Of course, I don’t. A part of me wonders if I should basically let this go. Our exchange was awkward and honestly painful today, but at the same time, I felt like us talking was unavoidable. I tried my hardest not to make everyone else uncomfortable, but I’m sure I failed. Our chemistry is electric and I knew not being that close to her was absolutely impossible.
My phone chimes with a text. At the red light, I pick it up to see it’s from the secret app for the Mile High Rooms. Curiously, I click on it. It’s barely been a week since the last one, and the texts don’t normally come until about a week before the next monthly event.
MHR: Good news! On an experimental basis, the Mile High Rooms have been expanded to weekly for the month of love—February! Your password and QR code will be sent in a separate text. Enjoy!
Well, that’s weird.
Guess I know what I’m doing Saturday night. I’m going back there to find her and tell the truth.
***
I smile down at the text.
Dr. Smith: Good news, we’re fairly sure Kwame is in remission or will be soon. The kid’s a tough fighter.
Me: That’s great. I really appreciate the updates.
Dr. Smith: You’re welcome. Also, his aunt and uncle have been coming in from the city, so we’re fairly sure he’s going to have a home when he’s done.
Me: That’s awesome. So glad to hear it.
I slip the phone into my pocket and go back to work. I’ve been keeping so busy I haven’t had much time to fret over what Saturday will bring. Is she going to show up, hoping to hook up with a “random stranger”? What if I get there and she’s already hooking up with someone else?
I don’t have time to dwell on it though, because my days are busy from the time I get to work until I leave—sometimes hours after I was supposed to. But I don’t complain. I like being busy and it helps pass the time. Plus, I’m still learning. I haven’t forgotten what I learned before, but there was a lot of knowledge I hadn’t yet been taught before I left for Africa.
I miss that place, crazy enough. Life is simple there, with no relationship or “first world problem” complications. Just treating the sick and injured and trying to make a difference, as little as it was.
I sit and dictate notes in an office all the PTAs share, when I hear a knock at the door. I look up and see Mariana, a nurse from the ICU, standing there with a smile.
“Hi, come in,” I tell her.
She helps herself to one of the chairs in front of the desk and I look at her, waiting for her to say something.
The woman’s a relentless flirt, and while I appreciate the attention, she always lays it on thick and comes off as borderline slutty. Which is fine, but not my type. At all.
“So, what are you doing?” she asks, pointing to my tape recorder.
“SOAP notes,” I reply, refraining from sounding sarcastic or rolling my eyes since she knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Oh, I hate those.”
I didn’t know nurses did them, but I keep that to myself. “So, what can I do for you, Mariana?”
“Well, I just got off work, and was wondering if you wanted to join a bunch of us for drinks down at The 303?”
I force a smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t drink.”
“Oh, they have food there, too.”
“I know,” I reply. “But you guys have fun.”
“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be there.” She gets up and winks at me, then walks out.
I rub the back of my neck. She’s a pretty girl—blonde, big tits, nice ass—but way too forward. Someone should tell her she doesn’t have to try so hard. I have no doubt she gets hit on often, probably trying to land herself a doctor. And I bet she will. Maybe I’ll subtly remind her next time that I’m not one.
After my notes are all imputed into my electronic tablet, I submit the reports and grab my jacket, heading for the door.
As I drive home, the temptation to join my coworkers at the bar looms, because I feel like all I do is work, go to the gym, and hang out at home alone. But I don’t want the enticement to drink, nor do I think Mariana was being very truthful about a group of them going out. She probably wanted to pretend there was to get me alone.
Once home, I change into my workout clothes, mix up a pre-workout drink, and sip on that on the way to the gym. Once there, I frown at how crowded it is. I usually like going later at night, but it’s Friday and it’ll be crowded then too, I’m sure of it.
I have to wait for a few machines, but I eventually do my weight routine, and then luck out when a treadmill opens right when I’m done.
As I work out, I again get inside my head, since I can’t seem to stay out of it. There’s a lot going on and I feel like I have to concentrate on one thing at a time. Right now, the new job takes priority, followed by my physical well-being. My bulk is starting to return and I’m happy about that. My sister and Carter are having a baby and I’m really glad for them. I can’t wait to be an uncle, but that’s one thing that has to take a backseat in my mind.
It sucks that I can’t put Christa on the back burner as well, but I absolutely cannot. She consumes my thoughts. The memory of our tryst in the Mile High Rooms drifts into my mind as I pound the treadmill, but the memories of us before I left—before we broke up—are the strongest, seared into my brain and stamped onto my heart like a tattoo that will never go away.
Because Christa will always have my heart, and that’s not going to change.
I hope tomorrow night, if she’s there, that I’ll have the balls to tell her I see her and that she’s coming home with me.