She shrugged and rose from her chair—ow, ow, ow, my feet—tossing her tea into the trash before heading back to the ER.
When she arrived, it was obvious which patient was giving everyone a headache.
“Putamadre! Take your damned pinche hands off me!” the woman bellowed with a thick Mexican accent.
“No! No. You listen here, Ms. Luci,” a man with an accent bellowed back. “You let them look at your parts or I will be no more in your life. I take the Muffin Top with me!”
I hope it’s his muffin top he’s trying to take. Otherwise, that would be weird, Macie thought.
“I told you I am fine, Don Sebastian,” the woman yelled. “And you can keep your pig!”
Muffin Top is a pig? Very eccentric people. Deciding it was time to intervene, Macie entered the room with her trademark calming smile. The Hispanic woman on the bed had long silver hair swept up into a messy bun. Her wrinkled face held deep smile lines, which weren’t smiling at the moment since she was too busy glaring at the odd little man with one large eye and a turquoise cowboy hat.
“Good evening, folks. I’m Nurse Franklin.” She pointed to the name tag on her lavender kitty scrubs. “I hear someone wants to go home immediately?” She reached for the pulse monitor on Luci’s finger. “Let me just unhook you and take a few pieces of information. Then you can get on your way.”
“But she hasn’t seen a doctor yet,” argued the man with the wandering eye.
“Well,” Macie said, “the patient says she’s fine, and who are we to argue?”
The woman’s dark eyes narrowed on Macie’s face.
Macie went on, “In my experience, only the patient knows what’s best, so…” She looked at Ms. Luci. “Feeling okay now, right?”
“We-well,” Luci stuttered, “it was a bit of gas, nothing more. But this moron had to blow it all up.” Luci fumed at cowboy-hat man.
“Ah,” Macie said. “That sneaky, sneaky gas.” She lowered the bed railing. “I can’t tell you how many people come in here, wasting valuable bed space with false alarms. Only two or three a day are really anything to worry about.”
“Two or three!” Luci barked. “Out of how many?”
Macie shrugged. “Five. Maybe six. But that gives you pretty good odds. Fifty-fiftyish that your gas is nothing. If you’re wrong, you can always come back. Just make sure you have plenty of aspirin at home and someone who knows CPR.”
The Luci woman made a fake spit. “Those odds are terrible, child. And stop playing games. I’m too old for that.” She glanced at cowboy-hat man on the other side of the bed. “Fine. You win. But if they don’t find anything in an hour, I’m going home. I TiVo’d my favorite telenovela—Los Pantalones de Cuero—and I’ve been waiting all week to catch up.”
“I’ll get the doctor in here immediately.” Macie smiled and turned away, feeling satisfied. That trick always works.
Just before midnight, Macie walked through the front door of her cozy one-bedroom apartment in downtown Napa, kicked off her work sneakers in the living room, and headed straight for her little bathroom to run the hot water.
Come to mama! She stared at the inviting extra-deep tub—the only reason she’d rented the place. That and it was within walking distance to tons of shops and restaurants, not that she ate out much. But overall, she loved being close to so many activities—the park, gym, yoga center, and rock-climbing place. She enjoyed being active and trying new things.
The steam rose from the tub, and she sprinkled in her bath salts. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Dammit. Why did I just say that? Now she’d made herself think of doctors, and you-know-who popped in her head.
Nope. Nuh-uh. I’m not doing this to myself. She lit a rose-scented candle and set it atop her white tiled counter before stripping. She sank into the water, placing a washcloth over her eyes.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Dammit! Relaxation, where the hell are you? A hot soak always worked wonders on her tired muscles but sadly didn’t do much for her brain. She kept imagining the Chadster at the bar, surrounded by drooling nurses while he told fat jokes about her.
I’m being ridiculous. Macie got out of the tub. This entire thing had blown up in her mind, which only made her more upset. Why the hell was she allowing—yes, allowing—this crap inside her brain? She was permitting that jackass to make her feel bad about herself.
Fucker. She wrapped herself in her plush yellow ducky robe and slid on her matching slippers, winding up her long dripping hair into an oversized towel. She marched over to her small all-beige kitchen and went straight to the fridge. Nights like these usually meant she’d give in to one treat—a low-carb cookie, a bowl of skinny ice cream, or one of those low-cal mini pizzas. People assumed she ate poorly and pigged out all the time, but that had never been the case. Her body simply ran off of very few calories and stored up everything else. It was genetics.
Oh, but tonight, you’re looking mighty tempting, Mr. Chilled Bottle of Sparkling Wine.
She held it to her ear. What’s that? You’re all for me?
Okay, twist my arm.
She always kept bubbly around for Sundays when her two best friends, Fiona and Grace, came over for their morning hikes through wine country. Afterwards, they’d all make brunch, drink mimosas, and sometimes watch movies if one of them had had that kind of week at work.
Macie popped the cork on the bottle, poured herself a flute, and returned to the tub, adding a bit of bubble bath and more hot water. Bubbles, bubbles, wash away those troubles. Now she was getting somewhere.
But an hour later, the relaxation efforts had only served to refuel the BS swimming in her head.
Frustrated as hell and a bit tipsy, she got out of the tub, threw on her favorite purple nightie, and went for more bubbles in the kitchen, this time going for the big wineglass. Flutes are for sissies.
Macie headed to her living room, intending to watch a movie, and found her cell vibrating on the glass coffee table. A text from Fiona.
Fiona: Sorry, babe. Can’t make our run-and-brunch Sunday. Got a date.
Fiona, one of her best friends since kindergarten, was a redheaded, sassy-mouthed viticulturist who worked up in Calistoga at one of the organic wineries.
What? She’s not coming? Fiona had missed last weekend, too. She’d gotten onto one of those dating apps and had been meeting up with all sorts of men, mostly for coffee, since none of them made it past Fiona’s extremely demanding checklist: Must love wine. Must love people who love wine. Must know the difference between a Carneros pino and a Russian River pino. Like she said, Fiona had a demanding checklist.
Macie: You’re flaking again?
Fiona: Taking New Guy on private tour of my work. Sunday’s the only good day.
Macie shrugged, feeling her head all warm and fuzzy from the sparkling wine.
Macie: Make sure he gives U the full tour after.
Fiona: That’s the whole point
Macie set down her phone and sighed. She couldn’t remember the last time someone made her scream. Or kissed her. Partially, it was her fault since she’d stopped dating years ago. Something about trying to overcome the barriers—such as the men she found attractive only saw her as friend-zone material—had worn her out. Still, for once she would like to be chased, wooed, and pined over.
Hell, I would settle for a nice guy who just takes the time to get to know me. But it was a well-known fact: Men automatically put women into two buckets. I’d fuck ’em. I wouldn’t fuck ’em.
Okay, I guess there’s a third: I’d fuck her if she lost weight, but for now, she’s not my type. That was where she generally landed.
Macie then started thinking about Fiona. It seemed so easy for her. One day she said she was going to give online dating a whirl, and the next she was meeting up with some cute music teacher for a drink.
Why can’t it be that simple for me? She was fun, really active and adventurous, and she loved people. Men jus
t wouldn’t give her the time of day. If they did, they might see she was a catch. Not for one night or a few years, but for life. A good life.
Right then a crazy idea popped in her drunk head.
CHAPTER THREE
“Owwww…” The next morning, Macie’s violently buzzing cell pulled her from a deep sleep, bringing her face-to-face with the world’s worst hangover.
She cracked open one dry eye and glanced at the tiny screen. Buzz…buzz…
Huh? Her phone had over fifty messages from strangers. “What the hell?” She scrolled. FFS? Fit, Fun, and Single.
It all came flooding back. Oh. No.
She had grabbed a photo off the internet—one that actually looked like her, only a size eight, tanned, and very toned. Okay, so nothing like me. She’d then created a fake profile, and within minutes, the private messages had poured in.
As Macie scrolled through the results of last night’s lame decision, she remembered one private conversation with a guy whose profile pic was so hot that even now, oven mitts were required to hold the phone. Green eyes, the most brain-crippling smile, and a body like a gladiator.
Dr. J-Love.
Her eyes scanned the racy messages they’d traded while she’d been in a drunken stupor. I said that? Ohmygod. Butter churner? I don’t even know what that one is. And she was a nurse.
Her eyes continued skimming the explicit sexts. Wow. Honey, licking, nipple sucking, back rubs. Well, cheers to him; this guy knew what she liked.
Then she’d upped the ante by describing what she’d do to his balls… “I’ll treat them like salted caramel popcorn and crunch you into ecstasy?” she read out loud.
Please tell me I didn’t say that. Macie winced and deleted the entire chain.
As for the rest of the men who’d messaged “Catrina,” her made-up identity, they were all incredibly sleazy. “Jesus, so many dick pics, and—ohhh. Poor guy.” The man had a micro-penis. “Maybe he thinks I’m a fish.” Fish liked worms.
Macie shut off the phone, placed it on her nightstand, and stared up at the textured ceiling. Her head throbbed, and her stomach didn’t feel so great either, but worst of all she’d had no idea that this was how the other half lived. Men had literally thrown themselves at Catrina. And no, she wasn’t blind or stupid—she knew men liked beautiful women—but there was a tinge of desperation in those notes, like they’d do almost anything for just a piece of Catrina’s attention.
Her phone beeped, but this time it was a text, not a message from the app: “Hey. You never replied. We on for tomorrow? – J”
Oh no. I gave him my personal cell? What was the matter with her? She quickly blocked the number, deleted the app, and threw her phone to the foot of her bed. Never again. It was wrong to catfish, even if these guys were a bunch of horny, shallow men looking for hookups.
As for you, Catrina, you are no more.
Suddenly, Macie felt a dull ache in her heart. The things that Dr. J-Love had said, no matter how cheesy, had been salacious words of desire. It wasn’t real, but Macie couldn’t deny that part of her wished she wasn’t invisible anymore. It felt good to be wanted, and only someone like herself, who’d never truly been wanted by anyone, could fully understand.
Sunday morning, Grace was at Macie’s front door, holding two bags of groceries, a glow in her lively brown eyes. “Hiya! Ready for our day of guilt-free bad behavior?”
Still recovering from her bubbly shame-over, Macie held open her front door, wearing her favorite black yoga pants and oversized pink T-shirt. “Morning,” she said miserably.
“Yes! It is.” Grace walked in, wearing a blue tank and matching shorts, with her blonde hair in a ponytail. She headed straight for the kitchen. “You’re not going to believe what I’m making for brunch today. It’s a new recipe I’ve been working on—skinny benedict—or, as I call it, skinny dick. Half the calories, all the full-feeling fun!”
Grace was a friend from middle school and another fixture in Macie’s life. Recently, after years of being an accountant, Grace quit her job, moved back with her parents, and was now studying to be a chef at the Culinary Institute. Talk about determined. Lately, Grace’s new friend, Holly, had been joining them on Sundays, too. Holly, also a blonde, thin little thing, had just moved to the area from LA. She used to work at some big international auction house and traveled all the time. Recently, she too had left her life behind to open an antique shop here in Napa.
Everyone seemed to be taking risks and chasing their dreams. Meanwhile, Macie—now thirty—was beginning to feel stuck. She’d come so far but had done little these past eight years to push herself.
“Errr…sounds good?” Macie tried to put on a smile, but it wasn’t working. Didn’t help that Grace was a horrible cook and that they only put up with it to be supportive of her chef dreams.
“Where’s Fiona?” Grace asked.
“She’s got a date,” Macie replied.
“Really? Wow. It’s shocking that any man could live up to her standards.”
“Every nut has a shell.” Macie sighed.
“Well, I guess it’s true, and love does seem to be in the air because I met someone, too,” Grace confessed.
“What?”
Grace emptied the groceries into Macie’s fridge. “He’s actually one of the instructors at my school—a chef from New York.”
“When did this happen?” Macie asked.
“Last month.”
But they were best friends, and she’d said nothing? “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Guess I forgot.” Grace looked away.
For an entire month? “Do Fiona and Holly know?”
Grace stood up straight and brushed back the loose strands of her blonde hair. “Yes. I didn’t want to rub it in your face, Moo.”
“I-I—well, thanks a lot, Goo.” Yes, yes, they all had stupid nicknames. Grace was Goo. Fiona was Foo. It was a solidarity thing.
“I just know how hard it is for you,” Grace said, “and the last thing I want is to make it seem like I’m bragging.”
Hold on. This had never been a problem in the past. Her friends drifted in and out of relationships, searching for Mr. Right. Macie was there every step of the way, cheering, giving advice, and holding the box of tissues when things ended. But not once had she ever indicated that their romantic endeavors made her feel bad or jealous. But now they were pitying her? What the fuck?
“Yunno what?” Macie fumed quietly, trying to keep her cool like she did at work. “I’ve never felt like a loser about my dating life until now, Grace. So thank you for that.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am.”
“I think I changed my mind about brunch.” She’d never felt so…so pissed at Goo. Macie could handle everything the outside world had to dish—usually—but this? From her best friends? Nuh-uh.
“Come on, Moo. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to hurt you—I worry, you know? You won’t even look at a guy because you’re too afraid of getting rejected.”
“What! I look all the time and—you know what? Get out.” Macie walked to the front door and opened it.
Just then Holly came up to the door. “Oh, hey, guys…” her voice trailed off. “What’s going on?” she asked, noticing the furious look on Macie’s face and the tension on Grace’s.
“What’s going on is that I’m cancelling brunch. No mimosas for you!” Macie pointed at Grace. “And you can leave the groceries in the fridge. I’m a better cook than you anyway.”
Grace’s jaw dropped. “Fine. Be that way.” She looked at Holly. “We’ll go to IHOP where we’re wanted.”
“Yeah. And at least they know how to make a pancake!” Macie yelled as Grace stomped away with a stunned Holly in tow.
Macie slammed her front door and went to her kitchen to make coffee. Then she would go for a long, long walk and try to figure out why everything suddenly seemed so focused on her weight and love life.
Did everyone really see her as some pathetic old maid or a social
outcast? Okay, she had her moments of weakness and insecurity, but who didn’t? Her friends were much more self-critical about their looks, and they were all skinny and hot. Her mother and older sister, both on the thin side, weren’t much different either, always on diets and touting the wonders of their latest health kicks. The world was obsessed with how they looked while she accepted herself. She was healthy, ate well, and exercised regularly. No signs of high cholesterol or diabetes. She simply just couldn’t lose weight.
So fucking what!
Macie went to her bedroom to grab her cell charging on the nightstand and caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror on the wall. She stared at her long brown hair cascading down her shoulders. She turned, studying her breasts, thighs, hips, and arms. So there’s a little extra. She didn’t see anything wrong with the face staring back. It was her. Just her.
Except nobody sees the real me.
Her other phone—the one from work—beeped on the nightstand, and she went over to it. It was the hospital calling her to fill in.
As she texted back, she realized she was always first on the list because she was single, no kids, and usually available.
Maybe it’s the other way around. Everyone saw the real her except herself. I have no life.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Wow. Somebody’s pubes got all stuck in a mousetrap,” Kirsten said, looking up from the nurses’ station as Macie walked in with her floral lunch cooler and plain blue scrubs to match her mood.
“I don’t know how long your pubes are, Kirsten, nor do I want to know, but that visual was completely weird and unnecessary.” Macie tucked her things under the counter.
“Weird pube jokes are off the table? What happened to you?” Kirsten asked.
“Nothing.”
“Right. I’ve been working with you for four years and have never once seen you frown. You’re like a smile missile, always exploding with joy.”
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