by JD Hawkins
It’s such a surprising turn that I don’t know how to react. I look at her curiously, and she must detect it because she quickly carries on to explain herself.
“I ended up reading a lot of your work. And then I looked up your reviews online—you know, all the great things patients say about you… And I dunno… I guess in a way I felt like…you were the kind of doctor I wanted to be. And I just…” She breaks down into an exasperated sigh, losing her train of thought. I wait a little more, and eventually she says, “The point is, I don’t want to talk to a counselor—I wanted to talk to you.”
“Listen,” I say softly, pushing my desk chair closer to her and sitting, “I might be a decent doctor, but I’m not pregnant. I’ve never been pregnant. I can’t tell you what to do, what’s best for you—and I wouldn’t want to. It’s your choice.”
She raises her eyes from her fidgeting hands. “I just wanted to know,” she says, shrugging gently, “is it worth it?”
The question takes the wind out of me. I know too well what she means.
She goes on, “You must have sacrificed a lot, right? You’ve had tons of citations, even when you were a junior doctor. Or… I dunno. Maybe you’re just smarter than me…”
“That’s not it,” I say quickly. “I did give up a lot. Being a doctor—a good doctor—takes a lot of sacrifices, a lot of work. You stress, you study endlessly, you give up sleep and socializing and… Honestly, I didn’t party when I was in school. At all. Didn’t have many friends, didn’t get to see my family as much as I wanted… Didn’t take vacations—”
“And guys?” It’s an innocent question, though it cuts close. “Like, meeting someone and settling down or having kids…that has to be hard, right? You’re never home, and when you are it’s like you’re still at work. At least, that’s how it is with my dad.”
I open my mouth to speak, but I can think of five different things to say and none of them seem quite right. The fact is, I’m out of my depth. I’ve never had a partner stick around long enough to even find out if it’s possible to achieve true work-life balance in the medical profession. And throwing kids into the mix would be even more challenging.
“It can be a struggle to have a family, I know that…” I say, standing up and pacing, probably looking more flustered than she does now. “What about the father?”
She shrugs. “I haven’t told him yet. I’m only about five or six weeks along.”
“Maybe you should. See what he thinks. It’s still your decision ultimately, but it’s a big one to try to work out all alone.”
She bites her lip, looking off into the distance. “I honestly don’t know what would be worse—if he takes it well or if he doesn’t. I don’t even know what I want.”
“Look, Rosa, I get it. This could be the most important choice of your life. That’s why I don’t want to tell you what to do. I can tell you that I knew a woman in medical school who had kids, and she got through it okay. But your best bet is probably to chat with somebody more experienced with these things. Why don’t you come back tomorrow? I’ll give you a checkup and get you an appointment with someone you can talk to.”
“No. I can’t,” Rosa says, shaking her head so vigorously her black hair tosses around her shoulders. “I know some of the juniors here—some of the doctors, even. If they found out I was…well. I don’t want anyone to know. Not yet.”
I smile at her as I go to the door and open it.
“We’ll call it a general wellness checkup, then. I won’t put anything on any record where somebody can see it. And I’ll give you a few referrals for counselors off-site.”
Rosa forces a smile again and gets up. Before she makes her way through the door, she picks something up from her chair. A book she must have been thumbing through while waiting.
“Is that David Copperfield?” I ask.
She smiles again—genuinely this time—and raises the book to show me. “Yeah. I’ve been going through Dickens for a while now.”
My own smile is genuine too. “I have the same edition.”
She looks at me with eyes no longer frightened or awestruck, and it’s such a strong, sudden moment of connection that all she does is nod before walking out. I close the door.
The rest of my shift is not quite as remarkable as my meeting with Rosa. Though I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing, because it only leaves more time for me to speculate and twist myself up into knots over nothing more than Colin’s locker-room look and our few brief conversations.
When the time finally comes for me to clock out, it feels like even more of a relief than usual. Tonight I’m meeting up with the one person who has more experience dealing with men than anyone else I know: Maeve.
For our weekly Thursday meetup, Maeve picks a newly established restaurant, of course. It’s a hip place, with sparse, super-clean décor, and a menu that reads more like some arcane spell book than a list of foods—but if Maeve chose it, you can bet that within a month it will be filled with celebrities and the international jet set.
Nothing is too much for Maeve. No nightclub too exclusive, no dress too sensational, no man out of her league. She could dine with the queen of England and make Her Majesty feel privileged. I’ve long since given up on complaining about her highfalutin choice of meeting spots. Partly because Maeve is just as willing to indulge me when I suggest my favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese and Indian spots. Partly because it’s the only opportunity I have anymore to wear anything nicer than jeans and a tank top.
Tonight I’m going to wear a little red dress that Maeve herself practically forced me to buy on a shopping trip. It’ll be the first time. The thing frightens me as much as the kind of woman who would wear it. I had pretty much relegated it to “dressing up for myself at home” days, but that’s the other thing about Maeve: she’s a knockout, and I could pretty much wear a clown outfit next to her and still feel ignored.
I take a cab to the restaurant, feeling in the mood for a few cocktails, and step out to face the neon sign above the darkened glass. Then I step inside to a vast sunken space that seems almost ethereal. Practically every surface is stainless steel: the tables, the counters, and even the backs of the chairs. The exposed brickwork of the walls is dotted with abstract artworks that look a little too aggressive for me, but which I’m sure the trend seekers of L.A. will love once they set upon the place. It would be almost stark but for the dim, warm, reddish-orange lighting that reflects and glows amid all the hard surfaces.
“Can I help you, miss?”
I turn to find the maître d’ smiling beside me. He’s a young guy, and at first I’m almost surprised he’s not looking at me like I’m as alien to the place as I feel.
I guess this dress doesn’t look too bad on me, after all.
“I’m looking for a friend: Maeve Livingstone. Is she here yet?”
“Ms. Livingstone? Of course, follow me please.”
“Thanks.”
I follow him down the few steps into the sunken area, past a few tables, then back up a few more steps onto a small plateau. I didn’t really need to be led—I could have easily found Maeve by following the idle gazes and glances of the other patrons. Per usual.
At a small table for two, beside an artwork that would be eye-catching but for the competition, Maeve sits. A shock of platinum-blonde hair in a perfect pixie cut. Bare legs crossed sideways to the table—so long she seems to defy biology. She’s dangling a wineglass in her hand and staring out over the restaurant casually. She looks like something you’d find in the pages of a magazine, but then again, there are few moments when Maeve isn’t impossibly photogenic.
The thing that really shocks me, though, is that she’s wearing a red dress too.
“Mia! You’re the only person I keep good time for,” she calls, “and the only person I’m willing to forgive being this late.”
I move to the side of the table and look down at her anxiously. “You’re wearing a red dress!”
“Excellent observa
tional skills, Doctor,” she says with a grin.
“But I’m wearing a red dress, too.”
“And you’re wearing the hell out of it.”
“But… We can’t wear the same thing,” I say, as I helplessly slump into the seat opposite her.
“Why not? We can twin,” she says, gesturing for a waiter to come over. “We’ll just tell people we work for the same escort agency.” She throws her head back and laughs that infectious laugh of hers, leaving me to duck my head.
“I dunno…” I mumble. “It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?”
“What you wear is only awkward if you feel awkward about it,” she tsks. “So feel fantastic, because you look it—and so do I.” The waiter arrives in a hurry beside her. “A couple of menus, please—and get us the cocktail list.”
Maeve and I shouldn’t be friends. For a start, she was—still is—my patient. That’s how we met. Somehow, the pelvic exam turned into an engrossing, hilarious conversation about drivers in L.A., which turned into us having coffee during my subsequent lunch break, which turned into a four-year friendship that has become a necessary outlet for the both of us.
She’s a fiery, chaotic, extremely sexual extrovert—and while those are the last things I would ever think to look for in a friend, in Maeve those things aren’t anywhere near as important as how loyal and supportive she is. Her compliments are always sincere, and her insults are always affectionate.
And I can say confidently that Maeve would say the same about me. I might not sass as much as her, or encourage as much as her (not that she ever needs much encouragement) but when she needed somebody to tell her with brutal honesty that a colleague on a side-business venture was doing her wrong, I was the only one who would—and the only one she would trust.
She turns to me, smiling with the simple joy of seeing a friend. Then, a second later, her expression changes into one of scrutiny, her blue eyes squinting as if noticing something.
“What?” I say, raising my hand to my face, worried I have something on it.
“You’ve met someone.”
“What?”
“You’ve met a man! It’s all over you! That’s the first time I’ve seen you wear earrings since we went on that double date.” She stops herself a second, then says, “Did Toby get you those? They’re very nice.”
Toby, my brother, is a jeweler. I shake my head. “No. I picked them out myself.”
“How is that old dog?” she asks, too casually.
I smile at her knowingly. “Do you want me to say hello?”
“God, no. The last thing I need is for him to remember I exist,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically, then looking back at me mischievously. “But go on…”
“Go on with what?” I ask.
She wags her finger at me almost accusingly.
“The red dress, the lipstick… Come on, Mia, I know what’s going on. You’re thinking of yourself as a sexual being. I can tell! You haven’t even noticed the incredibly hot guy behind me that I was plotting to set you up with.”
She nods behind her and I finally notice the guy in my eyeline. An admittedly hot pretty-boy type.
“What are you talking about, Maeve? How can you tell—think—I’ve met someone just based on the fact I decided to wear earrings? Maybe I just wanted to accessorize for once. Why does everything have to come down to men? I think that says more about you than it does me—not that it says anything about me in the first place. You’re projecting, that’s all, just projecting…”
I trail off meekly, realizing how defensive and unconvincing I sound. Throughout my proclamations Maeve just keeps a steady smile on me like she’s already checkmated.
“You going to tell me about him, then?” she asks sassily.
I sigh and laugh gently, knowing there’s no point in trying to deny Maeve’s unquestionable intuition when it comes to anything sexual. The last time I had sex she could tell just hearing me over the phone. I won’t be able to keep Colin a secret for long.
Just then, the waiter arrives with the menus and we quickly order drinks and food. The second he leaves, Maeve looks at me with exactly the same playful anticipation.
“Okay, go. And don’t try to change the subject.”
“I haven’t exactly ‘met a man,’” I say. “There’s just a new guy at work and he’s…very attractive. That’s it.”
She smirks. “If he’s got you wearing earrings then my guess is ‘very attractive’ is an understatement.”
“Well, I’ll put it like this: the way every female doctor and nurse spends half their day drooling over him, our hospital will probably take a productivity hit this month.”
Maeve laughs as our drinks arrive and we take long sips. The hit of zesty, sweet alcohol makes me feel like saying more.
“I’m honestly not sure,” I begin, “but I sometimes feel like he might be flirting with me. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a guy I’m not sure I even know what flirting is anymore. But then again, he’s probably the kind of guy who flirts with everyone. He brought flowers for some of the nurses today, and he didn’t seem too bothered when a touchy-feely mother was all over him in front of her own child. I don’t even know if he’s single.”
She lifts a brow, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “What exactly did he say to you?”
I twist my lips as I think about it a second.
“He asked if I was going to be at the staff meeting tomorrow… But specifically me… I don’t know. It’s not really what he says, but the way he looks at me when he says it. He came in while I was getting changed in the locker room and he just had this ‘look’… Like this smoldering, caveman, ‘I might just grab you and make you mine’ sort of thing.”
Maeve waves her hand like a fan at her face, then says, “Tell me more, I’m getting as infatuated with him as you are.”
I shrug it off. “I’m not infatuated. Maybe it’s just in my head, and he wasn’t really looking at all.”
“What were you wearing?”
“Jeans… A camisole…”
“Bra?”
I feel my cheeks flush. “No.”
“He was looking,” Maeve says conclusively. “Seriously, you’ve got tits that would make a blind man turn his head.”
I take another long sip of my drink and then shake my head.
“Anyway, I should just forget about it. I can’t let myself get too caught up in this kind of thing at work. Maybe it’ll just take me a bit of time to get used to him.”
“Fuck him,” Maeve says.
“Exactly,” I say. “I should just ignore him. Focus on my own work, my own—”
“No. You didn’t understand me,” Maeve says, before leaning forward over the table to enunciate with her blood-red lips, slowly and aggressively. “Fuck. Him.”
Even with the dramatic delivery, it takes me a second to fully comprehend—no, believe—what Maeve just encouraged me to do.
“Maeve,” I say slowly, “do I have to reintroduce myself to you all over again? Who I am, my personality, my situation, the fact that I’m not the kind of person who solves every problem by having sex with it?”
Maeve chuckles but she doesn’t lose her sense of conviction.
“Oh, I know exactly what kind of person you are, honey, that’s why I said it. Look, when I had a guy fuck me so hard I thought I’d torn something, I came to you and took your advice, because you’re a gynecologist. Now that you’re having your own little ‘problem’ you should listen to me—because this is my area of expertise. My diagnosis is that you’re attracted to each other, and my prescription is that you should just screw him. Worst-case scenario, you get it out of your system and move on. Best-case? Well…”
“Well the possible side effects may include making a fool of myself, ruining a job I worked very hard to get, and possibly getting fired if anybody found out.”
“Pah,” Maeve snorts, waving everything I said away. “Those kinds of things only seem important when you’re not getting laid. Wha
t’s the alternative? Are you going to just keep watching him from afar, convincing yourself he doesn’t want to tear your clothes off, and that you don’t want to do the same to him? That doesn’t sound fun.”
I take a long sip, then raise my glass playfully at Maeve.
“It’s called being professional.”
“If you get any more professional, Mia, you’ll become a PowerPoint presentation. When was the last time you had a man? Two years ago? The guy you made a spreadsheet about and then dumped?”
“It was a year and a half ago, and it was not a spreadsheet! I just wrote down and considered all the pros and cons—and the cons ended up outweighing the pros. I was being rational.”
Maeve almost laughs through her straw but just about manages to keep from snorting tropical cocktail through her nose.
“And didn’t you cross-reference the list with ones for your previous boyfriends to come up with a statistical probability that it would work out?”
“No! Well…not like that… I mean the way you say it, it sounds…”
I trail off, once again realizing how unconvincing I sound, and because Maeve is laughing too hard to even listen. When she finally gets it out of her system, she looks at me warmly and affectionately, so it’s hard to take any of it as insulting.
“He’s just a guy,” Maeve says, slowly and sagely. “No matter how hot. Do I have to tell you again the great secret to men?”
I groan and say it at the same time she does:
“Guys are simple.”
“Guys are simple,” Maeve repeats. “That’s right. So when you’re dealing with one, you have to meet them at their level. That’s the only difference between you and me—apart from your superior breast situation. When it comes to men, I keep things simple, and you… Well, you make spreadsheets. There’s nothing wrong with having a good time.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol making me melancholy, or maybe it’s Maeve’s uncharacteristically soft tone, but I let her words get to me.
“I know. And I know I overthink things,” I reply. “I overanalyze and try to predict the future—”
