Anything You Can Do

by R.S. Grey

  “If you’d like, I could make the pasta sauce,” I suggest, standing with my wine.

  “Wonderful.”

  While I pull ingredients out of his refrigerator and pantry, Lucas turns on music. It’s cool jazz. Neither of us are actual aficionados, but in this fantasy, we are.

  Lucas surprises me by sliding up behind me, offering to help with the sauce. It’s not long before he wraps his arms around my middle and spins me around.

  “Let’s pause on dinner for a second.”

  “Oh dear, the sauce will burn with talk like that!” I say in an overdone 1950s housewife impression.

  He laughs under his breath and tilts my head back to gain access to my neck. He kisses the sensitive little area just beneath my chin.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” he swears.

  I bat at his chest and pretend to put up a fight, but it’s clear that our performance art piece is quickly becoming a porno.

  I hop up, wrapping my legs around his midsection. He steps toward our previous spot on the kitchen island, and I reprimand him.

  “Lucas, for God’s sake, the couch this time. I have bruises from the granite.”

  I want to lie back and feel his weight on top of me. He carries me there and we tumble down. In seconds, his medical journals are tossed to the ground, crumpled in a heap. His foot collides with his phone and it crashes to the floor. The sound of soft jazz is cut off.

  After our fast and dirty pre-dinner romp, we drop the phony act. Instead of swirling wine and discussing international trade deals, we eat soggy pasta with runny sauce while we flip through TV channels, never quite agreeing on what to watch.

  “So what do you watch up here when you’re all alone?” I ask.

  “Mostly the news, or ESPN.”

  “Wooooow, talk about a shocker. Put it on HGTV—I think Fixer Upper is on.”

  “How many times can you watch Joanna Gaines say ‘French doors here’ and ‘Put a beam on it’ before it gets old?”

  Before I can answer Lucas with How dare you insult Jo, my phone rings.

  I stand to answer and eye him with disdain.

  “H. G. T. V. Just do it.”

  By the time I reach my room, the call clicks over to voicemail, and I hit play once my door is closed.

  “Daisy! It’s Damian. How’s it going? It’s been forever. I’m not surprised to get your voicemail now that you’re a big important doctor, but whenever you get the chance, give me a call back. I have an interesting proposition, something I really think you’re going to want to hear.”

  Damian is my oldest friend from college; we met during orientation at Duke. Yes, there was a brief romance, but it was far more friendly than amorous. According to Damian, he has that fleeting relationship to thank for discovering he wasn’t bi after all, just regular ol’ gay. At the time, I didn’t know whether to be offended or amused, so I just congratulated him on his self-discovery and we’ve gone on as friends ever since.

  I put on my jacket and head toward the door, too curious to wait until later to call him back.

  “I’m going on a walk,” I say to Lucas, who is too engrossed in a rerun of Law and Order: SVU to offer any more than the real-life equivalent of kthxbye.

  As I hop down the stairs and tap his name on my phone, I remember that Damian went to work in marketing for a big urgent care conglomerate a few years ago. I wonder if he’s enjoying it.

  “Damian? It’s Daisy.” I smile when the call clicks on. “Long time no talk.”

  “Daisy!” he bellows. “You’re going to be happy you called back so quickly.”

  “Why is that? Are you into girls again?”

  “Not even, Daisy. That ship has sailed. It’s about something else.”

  We go through the customary catch-ups and then he jumps right into explaining that since we last spoke, he has worked his way up at a company called MediQuik, a corporation behind some of those shiny clinics that seem to be popping up on every corner these days. Now he’s in charge of business development for the entire eastern half of Texas.

  “So the point is, I’m overseeing the creation of 75 new locations, one of which will be in Hamilton, Texas. You’d mentioned going back and working there the last time we talked.”

  “Oh, well I’m flattered that you thought of me,” I say politely, guessing where the conversation is headed. “But I already have a job, Damian.”

  “I figured, but just hear me out. I want you in charge of the Hamilton clinic.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect. I’m silent because I’m blindsided.

  “It would be your practice. We handle appointments, billing, marketing, you name it, all for just a small cut. Patients love it, not to mention doctors—my phone is ringing off the hook with guys looking to get in on this.”

  “I don’t know, it sounds really great, but I never really saw myself in one of those doc-in-the-box type places,” I say indifferently. “Again, I’m flattered that you thought of me.”

  There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the line.

  “Well that’s the thing—I’m not just calling out of professional courtesy, nor am I trying to flatter you. I’m trying to do you a personal favor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive, but…it’s just that mom-and-pop practices tend not to fare too well going up against MediQuiks. I can send you the market data from last year, but the gist is that local offices rarely last more than a year going up against us head to head.”

  I see. This call isn’t so much a business proposition, it’s a tsunami warning. The wave is coming; grab a surfboard or be washed away.

  “Right, and you’re sure my little Hamilton is being considered for this?”

  “We’re breaking ground next month. Hamilton isn’t so little anymore. Our research indicates it’s projected to be one of the top prospects for the next fiscal year, and I want you at the helm.”

  I take a moment to try to consider his offer objectively. On the surface, it gives me everything I originally set out to get.

  My own practice.

  An opportunity to live and work in Hamilton.

  A chance to be rid of Lucas.

  In my imagination, I entertain the scenario in which I hand Dr. McCormick my resignation and walk down the road to my new clinic. He would be hurt, but he would have to understand. Lucas would presumably take over the practice, although if what Damian says is true, it wouldn’t be for long.

  “This is a lot to process. Do you mind if I give you a call back?”

  “Of course, take some time. I talked you up to my boss, and he agreed to give you the right of first refusal. We always prefer to recruit bright young doctors from the area rather than moving in a transplant.”

  Oh god. I realize I’m not the only one in town that fits that description. What if I turn it down and they ask Lucas instead?

  “Okay, thanks again Damian.”

  “No problem. I’ll email you the contract—it’s only an option, nothing binding. Call me if you have any questions.”

  As I head back upstairs, my head spins. Damian’s proposal came out of left field. My own practice? My own patients? I’ve been so consumed by the idea of taking over for Dr. McCormick that I never considered the possibility of another practice moving into Hamilton.

  I had phases and they were working…well, kind of. For all the nail polish and lattes I’ve been delivering, the staff doesn’t seem to love me any more than Lucas, and Dr. McCormick definitely doesn’t favor me as much as I assumed he would. And, well, Phase III: Force Lucas Out has now sort of morphed into Do Lucas in His Kitchen. Maybe Damian’s phone call came at the exact right time. Maybe it’s the push I need.

  For so long, it was my dream to run my own practice. I thought that’s what I would be doing when I first moved back to Hamilton, before Lucas blindsided me. I adjusted my dreams, got used to sharing my workload with him, but maybe now I don’t have to. Maybe it’s not too late to have
everything I always wanted.

  “Super secret phone call, eh?” Lucas asks when the door clicks back into its frame.

  I glance up and he’s right where I left him on the couch, but now there’s an open bottle of red wine on the coffee table and two glasses waiting to be filled. I look away.

  “Just my mom. She wanted to make sure I had a jacket for the cold front that’s supposed to be coming in.”

  He appraises my answer, as if he somehow knows something is amiss. It would have been more in character for me to tell him to mind his own damn business, and when he nods, I cringe. Lucas believes me, and he shouldn’t.

  I regret calling Damian back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I’m sitting in my office at work. It’s 3:15 PM. We don’t have another patient for 30 minutes and I’ve secured the door with a small stool tucked beneath the handle. I feel like a criminal. Maybe I am one.

  There’s an email sitting at the top of my inbox from Damian. He wasted no time sending over the detailed proposal, complete with an e-signature box at the bottom of a short offer sheet. I glance over the figures, which confirm everything he said on the phone last night.

  In towns with similar populations, the average MediQuik clinic doubles its revenue every quarter, while existing practices lose 40-60% of their patient base to attrition. Focus data reports that even the most loyal patients often forgo the familiarity of “hometown” practices in favor of modern perks: same-day visits. No appointment hassles. Keurig machines pouring out hazelnut and French vanilla coffee with the press of a button.

  Dr. McCormick hasn’t shared more than the basic financials for his practice, but I know enough to guess it wouldn’t survive long after a blow like that, especially not with two doctors trying to pay the bills and make a living.

  I’ve spent all day going over the offer sheet. I’ve already signed it. It’s nearly too good to be true. A few weeks ago, I would have sent it back without hesitation. This was always the goal. 11 years of medical training led up to it. Every time I pulled an all-nighter to study, every time I had to skip out on having a social life because I was working double shifts or putting in extra hours in the hospital, every time a patient yelled at me or threw up on me or assumed I was a nurse, I told myself it would all be worth it when I could realize my dream and run my own practice.

  Now, I sit frozen, staring at the signed offer, unable to send it back to Damian. At what point did I change? The doctor sitting in my office is not the same woman who was chief resident, top of her class, cutthroat go-getter. Business is business—isn’t that what they say? So why am I scared of hurting Lucas?

  Of course, I already know the answer, and it’s a four-letter sissy word.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  “Dr. Bell?”

  Mariah.

  I sheepishly shove the stool aside and open the door.

  She beams when she sees me. “We were going to do a coffee run. Want anything?”

  “Oh, no thanks. I’ve got enough caffeine in me to wake the dead. Thanks for asking though.”

  She nods and turns back down the hallway just as Lucas steps out of the kitchen with a glass of water.

  “What are you up to?” he asks nonchalantly. From his tone, I can’t tell if he’s asking a casual What’s up? or if it’s an interrogative, strap-me-to-a-chair-pour-water-on-my-face What are you up to? I’ve tried to play it cool all day, but I know I’m failing.

  “Charts,” I gulp.

  He rolls his eyes and turns, and now I know it wasn’t an innocent inquiry. I panic and blurt it out. I am vomiting words.

  “Lucas. I got offered another job last night. My own practice.”

  He turns back slowly, walks over to my office, brows raised with interest. “I knew you were hiding something. Where’s the gig?”

  “Hamilton.”

  He seems equal parts surprised and relieved, but it could be the fluorescent lighting playing with his frames.

  “With MediQuik,” I offer. “They’re building a clinic here.”

  He doesn’t need to look over the email figures to know what that means. His slow nod says it all.

  For a few seconds, we stand in silence. His gaze falls over my shoulder and I know what he sees. The offer sheet is still up on my computer. Zoomed in. Signed.

  “I guess it didn’t take very long to think about.”

  “No. I haven’t—”

  I know it looks bad. I signed it, but that doesn’t mean I’ve decided to send it. Those are two different things. Right?

  “Go ahead.” He laughs, sullen. “It’s almost too perfect, right? To get rid of me and have your own practice. So take it.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh yeah? Is that why I’ve been getting calls from hospitals all over the country? Apparently I’ve been sending out my CV. Thanks for that by the way. If you wanted me to leave Hamilton, you should have just asked.”

  “Lucas—”

  He’s already backing away. He’s made up his mind. “It’s better this way, Daisy. Really. At least I know where we stand. You’re looking out for yourself. Maybe it’s time I start doing the same.”

  “Oh Lucas!” Mariah says, peeping back around the corner. She’s likely heard our whole exchange, but she acts innocent enough. “Coffee run. Do you want anything?”

  He uses her interruption to escape back down the hallway. I don’t hear his reply to her, and the rest of the day he avoids me. I try to corner him between patients, but he’s adept at staying busy and out of my way. I think to stand outside his office door until he shows his face, but Dr. McCormick sees me and smiles.

  “Not waiting on Lucas are you? He left early, said he had some personal business to attend to.”

  What personal business? Lucas doesn’t have personal business.

  When I go back into my office there’s a key sitting on my desk with a note: Use it. I won’t be back until later.

  It makes me feel worse because even though Lucas hates me right now, he doesn’t want me to be left stranded with no place to go.

  I break and call my mom on the way to Lucas’ apartment.

  She sounds so chipper on the other end of the phone.

  “Is there any way we can go back to the house early?” I plead. “Say tonight?”

  “Sorry Daisy, not unless you want to huff all those neurotoxins for a few days. Is everything okay? Are you getting on well at Lucas’ apartment?”

  I’m not surprised she knows about my living arrangements. We’re in Hamilton, Texas, after all—word always gets around.

  “No, not exactly. I want to go home.”

  “Not this time, Daisy.”

  “What?”

  “I said not this time. You’re too old to be running up to your room to hide from your problems, waiting for them to go away. If something is wrong, you have to work it out with him.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  My mom has clearly shacked up with some kind of hippy in the last few days, because she’s spouting self-help mumbo jumbo that makes absolutely no sense. I tell her so and she laughs. Then I hang up before she can continue our therapy session.

  Even though I have no clue what I will say, I hope to myself that Lucas is home as I unlock the door to his apartment. He wasn’t wrong earlier. For 28 years, I’ve wanted nothing but to annihilate him, and now that I have my chance, I should take it. It’s finally checkmate. No one would blame me.

  “Lucas?” I call out.

  No one answers.

  The silence is torture, like a parent who should be yelling but instead sighs and shakes their head in disappointment. I want to tell Lucas he was wrong. That I never, not even for one second contemplated taking that position. That as much as I’ve hated him, I don’t want it to end like this.

  I need to say it out loud to believe it myself.

  I try his cell phone, a sequence of numbers I have dialed maybe thr
ee or four times in my entire life. He doesn’t answer. I pace the apartment, looking for clues for where he could have gone. His gym bag isn’t hanging by the door and his tennis shoes aren’t where he left them yesterday. My guess is that he’s working out, but I have no clue where. I could go to every gym in Hamilton? Shout his name from the doorway until they kick me out?

  It’s a solid plan, but I don’t leave. I want to stay right here until he comes home, until he walks through the door and I convince him to hear me out, to try to see that somehow, during all our years of fighting, I’ve turned into a half-decent human being. I clean out the lint screen in the dryer, I help elderly people cross streets, and I don’t stab people in the back, even if I have spent my whole life competing against them in a backstabbing match.

  Lucas, where are you?!

  I make myself a snack. Change my clothes. Pace. I wander back into his guest bedroom and sit down on the bed, regretting that I chose to sleep in here and not with him the last two nights. It felt like too much, a little desperate. Oh, sorry. I need a place to stay and a bed to sleep in, how about yours? It all seems trivial and stupid now. I add it to the list of things I will tell him when he walks through that door.

  Which he finally does an hour later.

  I’m sitting on the couch, staring at my phone and willing him to call when he walks in. He hangs his gym bag by the door and kicks off his shoes. I stand and wait for him to see me. He pretends I’m invisible and walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

  “I’m not going to take the job,” I volunteer.

  I’m hoping my words are a spell. I will say them, Lucas will understand, and bippety-boppety-boo, we will go back to banging on his kitchen counter.

  He shakes his head and finally turns so I can see his face. He’s defeated. Shoulders slouched. Face crestfallen.

  I say the spell again, just in case it didn’t work right the first time.

  “I wasn’t going to take the job!”

  “You signed the offer, Daisy.”

  “Lucas, you aren’t listening!”

  He brushes past me and tries to make it to his room, but I move in front of him and block his path. My hands are pushing against his chest, keeping him in place when he really wants to plow right through me.