I blinked. I would have laughed at the muted look of alarm Nick aimed her way if my intestines hadn’t crawled up my throat.
“Mr. Rossi, this is Dr. Zora Leffersbee.” She gestured to me with a grandiose wave of her hand. I wondered if it was just my chronic sleep deprivation that made her smile and widened, wheeling eyes seem vaguely frightening. “Zora is faculty here. Her research involves improving communication between patients and their physicians. She’s done a lot of really interesting studies with our patients, and she’s done great work training our docs. I just know she’ll be able to help.”
What? Help?
Nellie turned back to me. Outside of Nick’s line of sight now, she further widened her eyes at me as if imparting something significant. Here it came. Most development officers I knew were a little slick, but Nellie’s delivery reminded me of a used car salesman.
“Zora, this is Nick Rossi. His company is at the forefront of really exciting, cutting-edge health care technology. You know how you can take your EKG at home, or on your watch? His company pioneered that technology. He’s been telling us about his newest venture into telemedicine as a way of further providing better accessibility to health care. We here at the School of Medicine and our partners at Knoxville Community Hospital are interested in adopting his program. We’ve been talking about having him partner with our surgical departments to pilot the app, but we’re still working out some of the details about communication protocols. So, we thought you might be able to help us think through some of that.” She threw him another sidelong glance, followed by another nudge that startled him and broke the connection of our gazes. Nick turned his attention to her, lips thinned.
“And, if that wasn’t enough,” Nellie continued, “he’s indicated an interest in making a gift to our medical school. Isn’t that exciting?”
I only registered half of what she said. My gaze moved over him. “Rossi?” He’d changed his last name?
“That’s right. Nick Rossi.” Nellie nodded.
My pulse came to life in my ears, thrumming loudly. Slow down, Zora. Proceed with caution.
Nick’s chest visibly lifted with a sigh as he leaned against the doorway. The sight of him shoving his hand through his hair ignited a memory. Impressions streaked across my brain like quicksilver. Nick as a kid, looking away, scowling, mouth pinched when he was scolded. Nick as a teenager, raking his hand through the thick waves of his hair as we both sat silent, hip to hip, sobered by the realization that life had become more complicated than we ever could have imagined. Nick as a young man, his lanky arms pinning my back against his chest, the hollow reverberation of his sigh filling my ears.
I’d known him long enough, intimately enough, to detect the regret in his current downcast expression. But it was done. He had done this, somehow maneuvered us into this situation.
But why?
Under different circumstances, I would find many things funny about this moment. All those years ago when I’d still been hoping for his return, I’d conjured this scene in my imagination with accompanying romantic music. The reel in my mind’s eye always played at half-speed, the better to display the bliss blanketing both our faces as we ran toward one another through a field of wildflowers, or in an airport, or someplace dramatic. We’d be delirious with joy, relieved to be together again.
Somehow, some way, he’d explain it had all been a mistake. Or he’d had amnesia. Or he’d been taken hostage by flat-earthers.
It was hard to imagine a scene that contrasted more sharply than this present moment. The reunion I’d yearned for with Nick featured instead a burned-out, shrewish, confused, funky version of me wearing the sharp tang of eau de sweat.
Nick and I stared at each other. As strangers. All under the prying eyes of folks who had no idea of what we’d once been to each other, who had no idea we’d once promised our futures and hearts. They had no way of knowing that, mere months before he vanished like smoke, Nick Armstrong slipped a ring on my finger and asked me to marry him. The uncomfortable silence and blank stares from my colleagues grew to the point they became unbearable. My ears filled with the sound of my own breathing. Acid seared the walls of my belly.
There had to be a script. This had to be a sick prank. Somewhere, there had to be rules and expectations for hideous moments like this. I was expected to say something, to behave in accordance with social rules, when that was already one of my greatest weaknesses. They expected me to slap on a polite mask and perform while blood drained from the ripped-open fissures in my heart. I couldn’t help the brief, desperate glance I sent around the room and over their heads. Was this the part when a benevolent puppet master would show up, take over and animate me through the niceties?
Lord knows, I had absolutely no idea of how to proceed, of how to survive this moment.
I’d heard of silence being described as “thick.” This was definitely it. This was molasses. The other two people in the room shifted from foot to foot as Nick and I continued to eye each other.
“Thank you for allowing us to drop by unexpectedly,” the dean of the medical school interjected through our tense standoff. Peter Gould, or Ghoul, as many called him, attempted a smile. The expression was unnerving on his perpetually pinched features. Erin Soller, my department’s chair, looked on with widened eyes from the relative safety of the hallway. We exchanged a quick glance, a nonverbal “What the hell?” Erin’s shoulders lifted quizzically.
Dr. Gould inched closer to the doorway, and Nellie moved aside to make room. “Dr. Leffersbee,” he started sternly, his tone dripping with meaning, “Mr. Rossi mentioned wanting to meet you at some point during his visit. Of course, we knew you’d be happy to oblige.”
Oh? Is that so?
“We thought he’d gotten lost when he went to the men’s room.” Nellie’s sunny smile countered her chiding tone, as did her chuckle.
“Seems he’s good at disappearing,” I quipped, unable to dial back the sarcasm.
The muscle at Nick’s jaw flexed. I ignored his half-lidded glare, instead glancing away, studying my overstuffed bookshelf.
I wondered how Nick had eluded her, even briefly. Nellie was a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out donations. The greater the potential, the deeper her commitment to the trail. Donors never escaped her clutches. God bless her.
Nellie cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. Anyway. We plan to get our surgical residents on board as part of the team, and we’re approaching some of our primary care physicians.”
My mind was working on a delay, mere moments from shutting down in light of this crisis. “Team? Surgical residents?”
Nellie frowned at me—like I confused her—as her head tilted to one side. Clearly, I’d missed something. But when I looked to Nick, he’d wiped his face of all expression. I continued to stare at him, distracted, searching for some sign, some flicker of who was inside. I wondered if there was any trace of my Nick—the one I would have died for—in this devastatingly handsome creature with empty eyes.
The silence acquired weight, settled further.
Nellie divided her attention between the two of us. “Uh, Mr. Rossi, I don’t want to delay the rest of our tour. I know you’re hoping to complete your business and fly out tomorrow evening.” She turned toward me. “Zora, we’re counting on you to spare a couple of hours tomorrow morning to host our guest. Introduce him to the work you’ve done so he understands what we require from his team.” She gave me a pointed look. “We can make arrangements if you happen to have class.”
She knew I didn’t have class. I was a research professor; I didn’t teach. Whatever the plot, Nellie must be convinced the university stood to benefit from the so-called Mr. Rossi.
It wasn’t an unusual request for a donor to speak with faculty members, though not one I’d personally fielded often. Folks with the real money didn’t find working with cancer patients sexy enough to merit a visit with yours truly. That honor went to the magicians over in Engineering who built electric cars, or the bio
medical wizards who coaxed miracles from their beakers.
Thank God.
I read the tension in the line of Nick’s jaw; the fists balled at his side, the artificial stillness in his stance, while he waited for my answer.
“I’ll have to check my calendar, but I doubt I’ll have time.”
Nellie wore an expression resembling the one my mother had often worn when I’d been in trouble as a kid for not toeing the line. “Zora Elaine Leffersbee. You are out of order.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Dr. Gould said a little too quickly. “We’ve already imposed on you and now we’re making assumptions about your time. I know you’re incredibly busy, and you clearly have a lot going on. But I’d be grateful if we could work something out, Zora. Mr. Rossi is leaving tomorrow night. Perhaps you could check your calendar for us, now?”
The barest of smiles hovered over Nick’s lips before it disappeared. I knew that self-satisfied smirk.
Somehow, they’d already checked. They already knew I was free, and now I was cornered, with no option but to comply. For now.
Turning, I shifted through the mounds of files stacked on my desk, searching for my mouse with frustrated movements, my neck flaring hot. When I slapped a pile of scattered papers, the mouse emerged and crashed to the floor in an apparent suicide attempt. The tiny battery door shot across the room like a projectile while the AAA battery rolled underneath my desk. I dropped to my knees and clawed for the two items in the darkness. Above me, my computer decided to come alive with audio from an educational module my research partner and I had developed for doctors and gynecological patients. Every muscle in my body locked in horror as my recorded voice broadcasted to the occupants in the room and hallway beyond, “When I have sex with a partner, I never orgasm.”
Jesus. Kill me. Kill me now.
Now I remembered. I’d been reviewing an early draft of an educational video before I’d gotten absorbed in another task, one of several hundred that were still undone. The mouse had simply picked up the replay where I left off.
Adesola Rojas, my research partner and real-life gynecologist, resumed her scripted lines. “Your sexual health is important. Learning your body and identifying the things that bring you sexual satisfaction are a priority.”
The damning dialogue continued as I groped in the dark under my desk, my speakers spewing an embarrassing recital of information. Adesola’s voice was perfectly calibrated between urgency and encouragement. “It should be just as much a priority as your partner’s satisfaction. Many, if not most women, are unable to orgasm from penetration alone. Try prioritizing clitoral stimulation during your physical intimacy. Relax. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Either you or your partner can—”
“Dr. Leffersbee?”
I froze, startled to hear that deep voice so close. Casting a glance to the side, I seized at the sight of the creased seams of trousers over highly-shined dark shoes. “Yes.” I hissed the word.
“—find different positions which lend themselves to stimulation. For example, if your partner—”
“Spacebar,” Nick said. “Hitting the spacebar will pause the video with this program.” A definitive click sounded from above.
The video came to a stop, just as Adesola started to extol the virtues of mutual play during sex.
I shook my head, my cheeks on fire. “Thank you,” I said tightly.
Dear God. I hardly experienced disasters of this magnitude anymore. Not since Nick and I . . .
I’d regressed. Lost control. This moment? It ranked high on the list of my most embarrassing moments, and that was saying something. Get it together, Zora. After having safely backed out from under the desk without banging my head and adding to the list of embarrassments, I became aware of Nick offering his hand. He appeared to be biting his lip, magenta staining his upper cheeks.
For just one moment, I regarded the hand I’d once known as well as my own. That hand had held mine, resided on my thigh when we were alone. That same scar still stretched across the length of his index finger, from that camping trip when the fishhook caught under his skin. The scar was old, faded white, a remnant of forgotten pain. Had it been so easy to forget me? To forget what we’d had? Had he moved on from that pain so easily?
I turned away, planted my hand on the height of my desk and hauled myself up without assistance.
Now upright, I took in the expressions of the peanut gallery in my doorway. Dean Gould looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. Nellie clutched her throat. Erin was red-faced and stifling her laughter.
I cupped my forehead in one hand. “Young adult cancer patients typically don’t get enough counseling about reproductive health and fertility, or their sexual health. It’s a training video. One of my projects uses videos to train clinicians on how to discuss some of the stickier subjects in these areas. It also helps other patients know they’re not alone with the questions or concerns they may be too afraid to ask their own doctors. We took a poll to see what other topics our patients wanted featured with the remaining funds we have on hand. And . . . this was a popular suggestion among our female patients. This is the rough cut. We’re going to have it shot professionally with actors next month.”
Nellie stepped forward, her face frozen. “How interesting. We’ll discuss this later. Erin, why don’t Dr. Gould and I continue on with Mr. Rossi?” She rearranged her features before turning back to Nick. “I’ll let you know if Dr. Leffersbee is able to find some free time tomorrow.” She flicked a brief, venomous glance my way as she steered Nick and Dr. Gould out through the doorway and into the hall.
I gave their backs a thumbs-up. “Thanks for stopping by,” I said, injecting my voice with the syrupy sweetness my mother used with guests who had worn out their welcome. My knees shook, but I stayed standing until the office door closed with a resounding thud. Only then did I allow myself to plop into my office chair with a pained groan.
God. What a disaster.
If life was kind, if fate was fair, this haunting should have resembled a Dickensian specter: weighted with the chains of disappointment, groaning with the misery of past heartbreak, moldering with the stink of indifference.
Not something straight out of my private fantasies. And yet, Nick Armstrong was back, had only improved with time, and was now one of the hottest men I’d ever seen. Given what he’d done to me, it was patently unfair.
But life is not fair. And fate, I’d long since learned, is a calculating bitch. That bitchy bitch-faced bitch.
Erin slipped back into my office with a grimace. “Well. That was exciting. The most excitement I’ve had in some time.”
I huffed. “I’m glad you got a charge from it.”
“Zora.” Erin said the single word with great solemnity, then dissolved into unrestrained laughter. “What the hell just happened?”
I lowered my face into the cradle of my hands, noting the faint tremor in them. Now that the immediate danger had passed, my heart settled into a jitterbug rhythm that tripped up my breathing.
What the hell had just happened? I shrugged. “Maybe you can tell me.”
“Never mind.” She waved her hand in the air. “Tell me what’s going on with you and Mr. Rossi. You two are acquainted, clearly.” Erin stated the fact as she perched on the edge of the couch. “I knew he was full of shit. He tried to appear off-handed when he asked about you, but he didn’t quite pull it off. Something about the way he looked and the specificity of his questions. I’d planned on asking you about him,” she said, lifting her hands as if in supplication, “but he managed to find his way to you sooner than I thought he would. Are you going to meet with him tomorrow?”
I was surprised by how hard it was to answer that question. I bit my lip, attempting to calm my riotous thoughts. Did I want to see Nick? Spend time with him, even under the guise of supporting a vendor or entertaining a potential donor?
No.
Did I want answers?
Yes. I wish I didn’t care at all, but I wanted answ
ers. But only on my terms.
“We had a relationship years ago.” I tried to sound dismissive, annoyed rather than flustered and shades of heartbroken. “One day he walked away. But I don’t care if we meet.” That wasn’t precisely a lie.
“You don’t care?”
I didn’t meet her gaze. “I don’t care, but I am irritated that he pulled strings behind the scenes, forcing the issue. It should’ve been for me to decide when or whether we meet.”
She nodded. Dying sunlight lit the glinting gray strands of her bob. “I agree, but there are some things none of us can run from. And your Mr. Rossi seems hell-bent on a reckoning.”
“Yeah. He does.” I curled my fingers into a fist. “That doesn’t mean he’s going to get what he wants. I’m almost inclined to just say no and let him continue on his merry way.”
“I don’t know, Zora.” Erin ran an agitated hand over her brow. “You might want to take time to talk to him. See what he has to say. I hate to sound mercenary, but the man is richer than God and suggesting he’ll invest some of that wealth in the university. Development is salivating over the potential of a strategic relationship like this. He doesn’t need us, not really. For him, the advantage is getting to pilot his app. If he pumps a sizable donation into this place in the process . . .” She shrugged. “God knows we need it.” She rubbed the worry lines on her brow, her gaze moving to mine. “Have you heard anything about the NIH grant?”
I sighed and aimed my thumb at the computer. “Yep. Just before you all stampeded into my office. The answer is a big fat no.”
Erin shook her head, looking distraught. “Your research staff won’t have jobs anymore if something doesn’t hit soon.”
“I know. You don’t need to remind me. Trust me, it’s getting to be all I think about. I had to tell my community health coordinator that I didn’t have many more new leads on funding. It’s a terrible feeling, being responsible for someone’s livelihood and coming up empty. I hate feeling helpless.”
Been There Done That Page 2
