by R.S. Grey
Still, he doesn’t let me pass; I’m starting to sweat and I think he knows it. He knows the ball is back in my court, but he still wants to play.
“Make way, Dr. Thatcher.”
His face dips down and his lips nearly brush my cheek. “Have fun at book club, Dr. Bell.”
I shiver and shove past him.
On my way home, I pass a group of kids playing soccer behind an old church. I feel strange pulling up in a car and offering them free treats, but it’s worth it to watch them greedily devour the muffins meant for Lucas. After all, it’s not every day you beat Lucas Thatcher and nourish local youth. I brush my hands together in a job-well-done motion, sending stray poppy seeds cascading to the floorboards.
Chapter Fourteen
Madeleine invites me to her house later that night to make up for the shitty singles night she dragged me to. I accept her offer because even though I would like to stay angry with her, I already know from decades of experience that I will cave in a few days. I don’t possess the willpower for long-term grudges. Besides, it isn’t like my social calendar is exactly bursting at the seams.
I am instructed to dress up a bit because there might be other guests in attendance; I guess she’s scared I’ll wear a matching pajama set and embarrass her in front of her new friends. Who they are, I have no idea. Madeleine and I have been each other’s only real friends for upwards of twenty years. We’re like antisocial butterflies that never made it out of the cocoon.
Except when I arrive at her house on Friday, I am shocked to find not only a few extra guests at “movie night”, but a slew of cars lining her street and blocking her driveway. I park one block over and hoof it back to her house, trying to pinpoint where the heavy bass is coming from. My first instinct is to assume Madeleine’s house has been broken into. The perps, upon arrival, decided to stay and get cozy, make themselves at home, and throw a party. It’s much more likely than Madeleine Thatcher throwing a full-on frat house rager.
I’m halfway up the path with 9-1-1 pre-dialed on my phone when the door opens and my best friend appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a tight blue dress that compliments her slender frame and light brown hair. She is stunning and giggly—I’d even go so far as to say drunk.
“DAISY! You’re here!” She then proceeds to shout over her shoulder, “HEY EVERYONE DAISY IS HERE!”
“Everyone” cheers as if they know who I am, and when I walk through the door, I’m shocked, because they actually do. This is a high school reunion if I’ve ever seen one.
I wave, trying my best smile on for size, and then turn and yank Madeleine into the kitchen.
“You could have warned me!” I hiss.
“What? Why?! You look cute!”
I’m wearing my favorite jeans and a cream sweater. Obviously I look cute; that’s not what I meant.
“You told me this was a movie night.”
She laughs and reaches around me for an open bottle of Fireball. “Movie night schmovie night. This is your real welcome home party! Now here. Toss back a shot with me and loosen that scowl. You’ll get wrinkles.”
I don’t want to accept the whisky from Madeleine because she’s forcing it on me, but I sling back one shot, and then another. If I’m going to go back into that living room and converse with people I haven’t seen since high school, I need to be under the influence. Like an adult.
My buzz sets in quickly since I haven’t had a real dinner yet; I was planning on stuffing my face with popcorn while we watched movies. Clearly, that is no longer an option.
Madeleine parades me around the room making fake trumpet noises, ensuring that every single person in attendance knows I’ve arrived. I try to catalogue the changes in my mind: who looks different than they did in high school, whose ring fingers are now bling fingers. Most everyone looks about the same as I remember.
The party has extended into the backyard where some guys have set up makeshift beer pong tables, and I even find myself intrigued by a stranger with his back turned to me. We’ll call him NiceAss. Mr. Tall NiceAss. Madeleine hands me my third and final shot, I down it, and I point to him like I’m calling dibs. That one. The sting from the whisky still lingers as I saunter toward Mr. TN (for short). I’m prepared to lay on the charm when suddenly he turns and I catch sight of something other than his derriere. His profile stops me dead in my tracks. I’m sickened by the surprise.
Lucas?!
Madeleine is tittering behind me, more than pleased with herself.
Lucas turns to look over his shoulder, sees me. I half-wave with my casted hand. He frowns, clearly not pleased to see me, but I am pleased to see him—thanks to the whisky. It’s the only way I can explain away how I feel about his amply filled navy blue pants and white button-up. He wore the ensemble to work, but with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, he’s transitioned into play mode…and maybe I have too.
I consider berating Madeleine for inviting Lucas, but I know her response will involve cries of sibling guilt. She’s chock full of it. Me? I count myself lucky to be an only child. No nasty older brothers to drag me down.
“Having fun Lucas?” I ask, interrupting the game of beer pong he was playing with our old classmate, Jimmy Mathers.
Jimmy pauses mid-shot. “Oh hey, Daisy. Happy homecoming.”
Neither of them seem very happy to see me, but I don’t let that ruin my fun.
“How about I play winner?”
Jimmy laughs. “Well considering Lucas is about to beat me for the second time in a row, I’ll just concede. The game is yours.”
Lucas reaches for his beer and shakes his head. “Don’t think it’s a good idea. Why don’t you go back inside?”
I bawk like a chicken, earning me a few laughs from the party guests lingering outside.
Lucas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and there is an itty bitty smile there. I just know it.
“Fine. Grab a few beers, Jimmy. Daisy must be thirsty.”
For the record, I have never in my life played a game of beer pong. My college days were spent at the library, studying, but it wouldn’t be the first time competition with Lucas has forced me to be a quick learner. In the summer before junior year of high school, I condensed three years of Spanish into three months after finding out he took secret lessons to beef up his college applications. Lo siento, Lucasito.
Lucas sets up ten red Solo Cups in a triangle in front of me, and I nod with approval.
“Very good formation. My preferred arrangement.”
“Do you even know the rules?”
I laugh. “Pfft. Pah. Do I know the rules? Enough about the rules, sissy boy. Let’s get started.”
I feel lucky that my cast is on my non-dominant hand, but I am fooling no one. By my third turn, I haven’t even managed to sink a ball within a foot of the table. Lucas, meanwhile, has sunk almost every one of his shots, forcing me to drink the tepid beer in the cups.
“You can forfeit whenever you want,” he says, his eyes rife with mischief.
“I would rather jump off a million bridges.”
Those are the words my brain tells my mouth to say, but there is a distinct slur that accompanies them that even I notice. He probably hears something like I drather pump my britches.
“Let’s make this a half game,” Lucas says, eyeing my empty cups. “First person to five.”
He’s being a tricky-trickster but I see right through him.
“You don’t think I can actually beat you,” I say, taking aim for my next shot. I try a different tactic, closing one eye and trying to line up the trajectory of my ball using only the sound of the wind. I throw and the ball flies over Lucas’ head…and hits Jimmy Mathers right above his ear.
“HEY! Watch it!”
“Ha!” I clap. “I play by East Coast rules. If you hit the last loser in the head, you automatically win.”
“Nice try. You do realize the objective of the game is to get the ball inside the cups, right?”
He takes his turn and
then I down another few ounces of beer.
“Okay I think that’s pretty much game. Did you eat dinner tonight?”
“Yep. I had a sexy date. He bought me lots of fancy food. Let me eat it off his abs.”
Another one of my balls goes flying across the backyard. Note to self: Spanish is easier to learn than beer pong.
I start to regret challenging Lucas, but then a loud crash sounds from inside, bailing me out. The music stops and someone is shouting about calling 9-1-1, about needing a doctor.
“I’m a doctor!” I shout, dashing inside to save the day. I envision performing a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen or stitching up mortal wounds with craft string.
I’m disappointed to find that a guest was cutting limes for drinks when they nicked their finger. Another person saw the blood and passed out. I try to wrap my head around both things, but my vision is a bit fuzzy and I can’t remember what day it is.
“Okay. Can someone repeat that to me? Slower this time?”
Lucas sidles past me. “Hey Mary Anne, let’s get that finger cleaned up so I can see if you need stiches.”
Just like that, he takes control. Confident. Strong. Relatively sober. Mary Anne stares up at Lucas like he’s just proposed coitus. He guides her to the kitchen sink and runs water over her finger. She winces—it’s either pain or an orgasm.
“Thank god he’s here, right?”
I hear someone whisper those words behind me and I want to barf.
“Just another second,” Lucas promises, tilting her hand to get a better view of the damage. “It looks like more blood than it really is. You’ll be fine.”
“That’s close to the joint. You probably want stitches, Mary Anne.”
That is my advice. I’m a healthcare professional so she has to take it.
Lucas disagrees. “A Band-Aid and some antibiotic cream ought to do the trick.”
I throw up my hands. Mary Anne would probably take Lucas’ advice even if he suggested amputation at the elbow. Where is that other patient? The head case?
She’s lying on the couch, nursing her head with an ice pack. I pick up her feet and sit down.
“How ya feelin’?”
“Aren’t you a doctor?”
I grin. “Bingo.”
“Well I think I have a concussion or something.”
I’ve been trained for this scenario. Head traumas were routine during my rotation in emergency medicine—though if I’m being honest, I treated those cases with significantly less alcohol in my system. I tell that to my patient.
“Great,” she says, sarcastically. “You’re wasted. I want Lucas.”
I roll my eyes. “Nonsense. Now follow my finger.”
She does.
“How many do you see?” I ask.
“Just the one?” she offers skeptically.
I boop her on the nose with the same finger. “You got it!”
A shadow falls over me and my patient’s eyes widen. “Lucas! Finally. I was hoping to get a, uh…second opinion on my head. I fainted when I saw Mary Anne’s cut.”
He waves off her concern. “It’s probably just a little bump. Get somebody to drive you home. If you feel confused or have a headache that won’t go away, you might want to go see a doctor.”
She frowns, clearly disappointed that she won’t be getting her own mini exam courtesy of Lucas the Mucus.
I stand, annoyed that everyone considers him the medical authority. “No, go ahead, Lucas. She wants you to touch her. Feel her up.”
“I hit my head!” she insists. Oh, now she’s being coy.
“Daisy, can I speak with you for a second?”
Lucas tries to steer me out of the living room and away from the other party guests, but I’m not having it. At least, I try to jerk away from him, but he seems to have superhuman strength, and in the end, he very easily guides me where he wants—out onto the front porch.
“Are you okay?” he asks, hands on my shoulders, head dipped down so he can meet my eyes.
I grin. “Bien.”
“Daisy, drop the act. Nobody’s around. You need food and water, and time to sober up.”
I see right through his guise. “Am I the third patient now? You’ve seen the head case and the finger cut, now you need to check on poor drunk Daisy.”
He lets go of my shoulders and yanks his hands through his hair. “I can take you home if you want me to.”
I laugh like he’s just proposed a date. “No thank you.”
His eyes narrow and I’m reminded of Mr. Tall NiceAss. Suddenly I have the urge to lean forward and tell Lucas that even though he’s still in his work clothes and his hair is all mussed up thanks to his hands, he is shockingly handsome for a nemesis.
I really think I’ll tell him. My mouth is open and my casted hand is pressed to his chest so I can lean in and whisper the words, but the front door is yanked open and Madeleine is there. I pull back and wobble on my feet.
“I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere!” she says, oblivious. “Lucas, Mary Anne is asking about you, and Daisy! C’mon, I’m making a Chick-fil-A run.”
She drags me down the path to her car and I look back at Lucas, watching us leave. He looks strangely sad standing beneath the porch light all alone. I have half a mind to shout back at him and remind him about the fair in the morning, but then I remember that I didn’t want him there…didn’t, as in now I do, but that’s inaccurate. I don’t want him there. My hatred for him is alive and well.
It has to be.
Chapter Fifteen
The decision to wear cutoff denim shorts and a pair of red cowboy boots to the fair is purely strategic; I don’t want to stand out like a sore-thumb-city-slicker in my smart-casual khakis. My lime green cast cannot be helped, but my mom curled my hair and suddenly, I’m Jessica Simpson circa 2001. I know I’ve done well when I arrive at the fairgrounds and garner a few second glances from the FFA cowboys. Yes, boys, these boots are definitely made for walking.
I’m confident my booth will be a hit. Sure, I’m still slightly hungover from the night before, and sure, the fair organizers have stuck me in no man’s land between a deep-fried Twinkie stall and an elderly woman hawking bedazzled dream catchers, but I won’t let that hinder me. After I tell Dr. McCormick that hundreds, nay, thousands of people lined up to get their blood pressure checked by moi, he will shower me with praise before looking ruefully at Lucas. What has he done for me lately?
I brought props with me: a small poster outlining the importance of heart health I peeled off an exam room wall and some branded pens I found in the bottom of the storage closet. They are dusty and the ink has dried out in most of them, but they’re better than nothing.
The scent of freshly fried Twinkies wafts over and for a second I doubt myself. There are already a dozen people in line for them, and they have yet to give my booth even a cursory glance. There’s a slight chance I overestimated fairgoers’ enthusiasm for preventive medicine. A corner of my heart health poster comes loose and curls down.
And then I see him, just as I turn to fix the sign: Lucas Thatcher.
What the hell is he doing here so early?
The note I left for him specifically said: Booth 1933, 6:00 PM
But there is no booth 1933 and the fair ends at five o’clock.
“Good morning,” he says, pleased with himself for disarming my trap.
“Lucas.” I nod, assessing him. “Glad you could make it.”
His black baseball hat and matching t-shirt are both printed with the McCormick Family Practice logo. He looks like an A-list hollywood actor we paid to be the spokesperson for our practice. On his shoulders rest two heavy duffel bags. He drops them on the table and my pens get pushed to the side.
“Easy, jeez. Are those bodies?”
“No, but this booth does look like a morgue.”
He looks at the dozen scattered pens like they’re trash. Then, he zips open the first duffel bag and starts to load our booth up with real swag—the good
, expensive stuff. Adorable mugs that say “Keep Hamilton Healthy” in a scrolling designer font. Extra baseball hats. Fitted t-shirts.
“A few local businesses agreed to sponsor raffle prizes,” he says, pulling out a roll of raffle tickets. “To enter, fairgoers just have to get their blood pressure or BMI checked with us. They’re going to announce it on the loudspeaker.”
It’s a brilliant idea, but I don’t tell him so.
“Yeah, well you’re cluttering the booth with all this stuff, so if you could just—”
“Oh those mugs are so cute!” the elderly dreamcatching gypsy cuts in.
I want to tell her to mind her own booth, but Lucas is quicker. He takes one of the mugs and hands it over to her. “Thanks. If you have time later, we’re doing free blood pressure checks.”
She smiles at him with adoration and cradles the mug to her chest like she’ll cherish it forever. My breakfast threatens to make a second appearance.
In a matter of minutes, my booth has been taken over by Lucas. It’s now colorful and inviting. We’ve already had four people stop to enter the raffle and the fair hasn’t officially started.
“I brought an extra t-shirt for you,” Lucas says, holding it out. It looks to be my exact size.
I yank it out of his hand and after I’ve changed, we’re transformed into two matching, smiling doctors. We’re soon to be the most popular booth at the fair, but for reasons neither of us could have imagined.
“Lucas Thatcher and Daisy Bell?!” One of our classmates stops and stares between us. “Is this real? Are you two actually working together? Hey BARB! You aren’t going to believe this.”
Barb does not believe it, but when she sees it, she does tell Amanda who tells Sam who tells Ryan. Soon, word has spread throughout the Hamilton Founder’s Day Fair. Though I’d assumed Lucas’ raffle would attract the most people to our booth, in the end, people line up to gawk at the greatest side show of all time: Daisy Bell and Lucas Thatcher manning a booth together without coming to fisticuffs. To so many, it’s unimaginable.
