Best Medicine, The

by Brogan, Tracy

  Marty went on talking, but I didn’t pay much attention. All roads seemed to lead back to the old porn loitering unviewed in his storage units. The unspoken invitation was there. Come to my pad and we’ll watch Debbie Does Dallas.

  Maybe I should’ve listened to him more carefully, engaged him more actively, directed the conversation to things worth talking about. But the truth was, my mind was on Tyler. And Tyler’s ass.

  The object of my obsession returned as Tyler brought us our drinks. He gave a nearly silent sigh as he set mine down, just loud enough for me to hear.

  Marty was studying the menu. “You got any specials, kid?”

  Tyler looked at me and sighed again. Audibly this time.

  “Sure.” He flipped through his little notepad, his irritation palpable. “There’s salmon with ginger sauce, lobster ravioli, and risotto that looks like it might have bacon and peas in it. I don’t know. I didn’t taste it.”

  I bit my lip. Clearly it was not his intention to dazzle us with superior customer service. I could hardly blame him. This was patently awkward.

  Marty’s eyebrows rose and fell at Tyler’s attitude.

  “I’ll have the risotto,” I blurted out.

  Both men looked at me so fast it was as if I’d said, “Do you think this blouse is too low-cut?”

  “What?” I snapped in response, my glare trying to capture them both at once. “I’m starving. I’ll have a salad with vinaigrette dressing too, please.”

  My patient appointments had run long, so I’d missed lunch; I’d let date number two snarf down all the appetizers hoping they’d distract him from telling me all about his mother’s post-hysterectomy recovery; and I had expected a nice dinner here at Jasper’s. Oh, how naive could I be?

  I wanted to pull the plug on this entire misadventure, but I had no food at my apartment. My best option was to eat here, eat fast, and get this date over with before Tyler got fired for being rude.

  Marty nodded at me, jowls jiggling. “You’re decisive. OK. I can roll with that. I’ll have the steak, bloody. Baked potato, loaded. Garlic-ranch dressing on the salad.”

  “Garlic-ranch? Excellent choice,” Tyler said, the implication being garlic ranch = skunky breath = no kissy, kissy from me. As if there were any chance of that.

  Tyler flicked me with another if-this-is-what-you-want glance, then turned and walked back to the kitchen.

  Dinner progressed. Tyler brought our food in a moderately courteous manner but didn’t say much. Not that he could have, what with Marty’s constant anecdotes about the seedy underbelly of storage unit politics. In between stories, my date would ask questions, such as “how many gallons” was the largest breast implant I’d ever given a woman?

  “You know,” Marty said, screeching his knife across the plate as he carved up his virtually raw steak, “that gives me a phenomenal idea. You and I could team up on this and make a killing.”

  Typically, as a doctor, I tried to avoid that phrase. “Really, and what’s that?”

  He leaned forward, his face serious as bad news. “Saline-filled testicular implants. Boom!” He smacked his hands down on the table and sat up straight. “Think of it. Just like boob implants, only for the balls. ’Cause women like a good set of stones. Am I right?”

  No.

  He was wrong.

  No woman ever was attracted to a man because of his gargantuan balls.

  “This could be a huge moneymaker,” Marty said.

  I burst out laughing. The carbs had gone to my head, and the absurdity of his suggestion was the second-funniest thing ever—the first thing being that I was out on a date with this moron.

  Thank goodness my risotto was delicious, because if it weren’t, this night would have been a total loss.

  “You like the idea?” Marty asked, smiling big and revealing a gap in the back of his teeth I hadn’t noticed before.

  I shook my head and swallowed down my next wave of laughter.

  “No, I don’t like the idea. And I hate to tell you this, Marty, but someone has beaten you to it. No pun intended.”

  His smile waned, his jowls drooped . . . like a pair of saggy balls.

  “Testicular implants are already available,” I said. “Although they’re typically reserved for reconstructive surgery rather than cosmetic enlargement.” I hadn’t done any myself. Something like that would most likely be handled by a urologist, but there was no point in explaining that to Marty. I’d already crushed his dreams, and I also knew his night was not going to improve.

  I caught a glimpse of Tyler in my peripheral vision. He was holding a tray and waiting for the bartender to fill it up with drinks. And he was frowning. At me. Because he thought I was having fun.

  I wasn’t.

  I was having a good chuckle because Marty Cable was pretentious in the most misguided and undignified manner, but so far my scientific attempts at finding the perfect man were falling far short of the mark. So, no. I wasn’t enjoying myself.

  “Are you sure they’re already invented? Seems like I’d have heard something about that if they were,” Marty argued.

  Really? Were we still talking about this?

  “Testicular implants aren’t exactly something you’d see advertised on an infomercial. Most doctors would only mention something like that to patients who needed them due to a medical condition.”

  Marty’s chest puffed up, his jaw jutted forward. He looked like an American eagle—a cartoon version of an American eagle. Wearing a shiny suit from the Men’s Wearhouse.

  “Well, that’s why I’ve never heard of them, then,” he blustered. “Because I can assure you, I’m in perfect physical health.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Both hemispheres of my brain were firing neurons frantically at the moment, trying to eliminate any image of Marty’s testicles. Or testicles in general. Thank goodness I was done eating.

  My risotto was only half finished, but I was full, and these leftovers would make an excellent lunch for tomorrow. So all I needed now was a box to take it home. Unfortunately, for that I’d need Tyler, and he’d been fairly negligent. It wasn’t because he was a bad waiter. I’d watched him charm his way around the dining room for the last hour. He was very attentive to his other customers, smiling and chatting. It seemed to be just me and Marty-of-the-inferior-nut-sack he was ignoring.

  I let my gaze wander back over toward the bar, and Tyler was still there. He was talking to the bartender, but after a few seconds, he turned and caught me staring.

  I crooked my finger at him. Come here.

  He pointed to the tray of drinks he was about to deliver. You’ll just have to wait.

  “Give me the chance between some sheets, Evelyn,” Marty insisted, “and I’ll prove to you I’m in excellent health.”

  I looked back to Marty as he wiped his napkin across his lips and chin. A dark spot, which all evening I’d thought was a benign little mole, was swept away along with the cloth.

  No.

  Really?

  That little dot had been a scab over a pimple?

  Yes.

  And now it was bleeding. Only Marty didn’t know it.

  He started talking about his fitness regimen, and how he could bench press three hundred pounds, and how he ran six miles a day and had amazing stamina. On and on he went, but all I could do was stare at that speck as fresh blood oozed to the surface and began to form a droplet. I should tell him what was happening. That blood was going to drip any second now, but it was hypnotic, watching it grow. I felt like a Cullen.

  Tyler showed up right about then, the bill for our dinner in his hand. He set it on the table and did a double-take at my date. With a blink, humor chased away the surprise from Tyler’s face. He looked at me and folded his arms. Are you going to tell him or can I?

  I gave the most infinitesimal tilt to my head.


  “Um, hey, man. You’ve got a little something, right there.” Tyler tapped his own chin.

  “What?” Marty wiped at his face with his bare fingers, smearing blood across his hand and jaw. “What?” he said again, looking at the crimson stain. He picked up his napkin and pressed it against his mouth. “Am I bleeding?”

  “It appears you are,” I said.

  “Maybe you should go to the men’s room,” Tyler suggested.

  “Excuse me.” Marty lurched from his seat and hurried across the dining room.

  Tyler looked down on me. Literally and figuratively. His voice was quiet but inquisitive. “What are you doing, Evie?”

  “Me? What am I doing? I’m on a date. What are you doing? When did you start working here?” I had no right to be irritated, but I was.

  “Jasper said he needed servers, remember? My sisters both have jobs right now, and I’ve got legal fees to pay for, so here I am, earning a little extra money.” His arms spread, emphasizing his location, right here, right now.

  “So, you’re an EMT and a waiter?”

  “Technically I’m an EMT and a bartender, but times are hard, so I fill in wherever somebody needs me.”

  He pointed his thumb back toward the restrooms. “But it looks like you don’t need me. You’ve found yourself another winner.”

  I couldn’t argue with him about that. “My computerized dating profile won’t work if the applicants lie.”

  “You think?” Tyler slid into the booth opposite me, pushing Marty’s plate to the side. His presence was like static electricity, pulling me close and certain to create a spark.

  “Maybe you should just meet somebody the old-fashioned way.” A mischievous glint brightened in his eyes. “You know, like, by giving them stitches.”

  Reality-blinding endorphins flooded through all my systems, just as I’d worried they would. I could only hope to fend them off with logic and persistence.

  “Tyler, I admit it. I find you very attractive, and I suspect you’re a wonderful person, but you’re not what I’m looking for.”

  He shook his head slow, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re right. If oozing and crude is what you’re after, I guess your fiancé is in the men’s room right now, dealing with his scabs.”

  A chuff of laughter escaped me. I couldn’t help it.

  Tyler reached across the table and lightly tapped his fingers against mine. “Come on, Evie. Go out with me. I promise you’ll have fun.”

  My pulse went tachycardic at his touch.

  “I’m not looking for fun. I’m looking for a husband.”

  The one-two punch of his burst of laughter and unrepentant smile knocked me senseless. Damn, he was sexy.

  “Well, I’m no expert on marriage,” he said, “but I think the whole idea of finding a partner to share your life with is supposed to be fun. Not a research experiment.”

  I pulled my hand back and let it fall to my lap. “But I’m a scientist. That’s the only way I know how to approach things. In a linear fashion, moving from point A to point B.”

  “Yeah, so point A is meeting someone, point B is spending time with them, and point C is . . .” He paused to chuckle again. “Well, point C is still up to you at this point.”

  “Why do you even want to go out with me, Tyler? Because you think I’m pretty? That’s not enough of a reason.” My voice hitched.

  “First of all, yes it is. That’s how I approach things. But the other reasons, well, I guess I’m just intrigued by you. I like how you try to be all businesslike. But I can tell you’re not really all business all the time, or you wouldn’t blush so much. And quite frankly, I like the way you keep telling me I’m not for you. Every time you say that it just makes me want to prove to you that I am.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. You know we want different things.”

  He laughed again, his voice going husky. “Quit telling me what I want, Evelyn. I know what I want.”

  His gaze locked on mine, turning me to a useless puddle of estrogen. He was talking about me. He wanted me. Maybe only for a little while, but the compliment went straight to my . . . vanity.

  “I’ll think about it.” Damn it, who said that?

  He straightened in his seat. “You will?”

  Oh, crap. It was me.

  “Yes, I’ll think about it, but no promises. And you need to move now, because if you sit here any longer, Jasper will fire you.”

  “It would be worth it.” His smile was ridiculously broad.

  “I doubt that. Plus my date’s coming back.” I tipped my head toward Marty’s approaching form. He had a little piece of paper towel stuck to his chin. That was klassy with a capital K. He watched with furrowed suspicion as Tyler move out of his spot.

  “Could I have this wrapped up to take home?” I pointed to my leftovers and tried to sound nonchalant, as if my waiters always sat down with me.

  “Certainly.” Tyler took my plate and pointed at Marty’s cold steak. “Did you want to take that home?”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Mm, I think you are.” Tyler picked up the plate and took it with him, and I bit back my guilty smile.

  Marty glared at me. “That kid is the worst fucking waiter ever.”

  Yeah, he was. But I was starting to like him anyway.

  Chapter 14

  “ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, Mom?”

  My mother was standing on a carpeted pedestal in a champagne-colored chiffon dress, eyeing herself in a gilded three-way mirror. As promised, I’d driven to Ann Arbor so we could spend the weekend together and go wedding dress shopping. This was the fifteenth or sixteenth gown she’d tried on. We’d been in this bridal salon for so long I think the shop had changed owners since we’d arrived.

  She turned to see the reflection of her backside. “What? Do you think the color is bad on me? I rather like it.”

  “No, the color is fine. I like that one. I’m talking about the wedding. Maybe the reason you can’t choose a dress is because you’re not sure you want to go through with this.”

  Her breath expelled in a huff, and she faced me, hands on her hips. “Evelyn Marjorie Rhoades, the only reason I’m having trouble is because I’ve lost a few pounds since the last time I tried on dresses. Honestly, I had no idea you’d be so resistant to your father and me reconciling. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  I was being a terrible maid of honor, tossing doubt her way every chance I got. But I couldn’t help it. This was my last-ditch effort to prevent her from making a big mistake.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m still having trouble figuring this whole situation out. I mean, I’m happy if you’re happy, but I’m worried too.”

  “Why? That’s silly. Your father and I are both certain this is the right thing to do.”

  “See? That right there worries me. Usually when you start a sentence with ‘your father and I,’ it ends with ‘and then we nearly killed each other.’”

  My mother chuckled, and I realized how very happy she looked. She looked younger and brighter. That perpetual crease of tension was missing from her forehead. It was as if she’d had work done, but I knew she hadn’t. She would have come to me for that.

  “I know it’s a little strange, darling. But the truth is, we’ve changed. He’s not the same man he was ten years ago. And I’m not the same woman. We’ve relaxed.” She stepped down from her perch and came to sit next to me on the pink satin sofa in the changing room.

  “Evie, I’m ready to retire. I want to take time to enjoy my life for a little while. All I’ve done for the past forty years is work. Now I see you doing the exact same thing, setting up a life full of professional achievements but having no one to share them with. That’s why I’m pushing you to find someone special. It’s not good to be alone all the time. It makes us brittle.”

  I looked down a
s she patted my hand. Hers appeared more delicate now, with veins showing under the surface. But I knew they were still strong, still talented, still resilient. My mother was a brilliant surgeon. Those hands had saved countless lives, and the idea of her retiring was as incomprehensible to me as her being abducted by aliens.

  “Retiring, huh? Is Dad retiring too?”

  “He’s cutting back his hours so we can do some traveling. We’re going to Italy for our honeymoon. We’d wanted to go there the first time around, but we both had school loans to pay off. Those were the frugal days.” She laughed as if that bleak hardship was a lovely memory.

  She adjusted the pillow behind her. “Listen, darling. There’s something else I want to tell you. I wasn’t going to, but your father thinks I should. I have a little confession.”

  Confession? Confessions, like apologies, were rare in our family. My body heated with suspense.

  “OK?” I said slowly. “What confession?”

  She gave a minute shrug of her shoulders, a tiny bob of her head, as if this admission were the most insignificant thing ever.

  “Last summer I had a minor cardiac incident. That’s how I really reconnected with your father. Not a wine tasting in La Jolla, although that’s where things really heated up.”

  My mouth went dry as gauze as I tried to swallow down my wave of apprehension.

  “A minor cardiac incident? Don’t use that ambiguous lingo on me, Mom. What exactly are we talking about here? And last summer? Why am I just finding this out now?” My voice squeaked. I was about to have my own cardiac incident, judging from the wild thumping going on in my chest.

  “It’s nothing.” She patted my hand again, but now it felt patronizing, as if I wouldn’t understand the implications of what she had to say. Had she conveniently forgotten I went to medical school too?

  “I had an arrhythmia,” she said. “It ended up being nothing. I think my hormones are out of whack. Goddamn menopause. But I had a little fainting spell in the operating room. I cannot tell you how humiliating that was, passing out like some fragile intern.” She scoffed and shook her head. Weakness, physical or mental, wasn’t something we tolerated in our family either.