by Elle Casey
She smiles even bigger. “Oh, did I say that? Yeah. I meant weekend. Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”
“Friday?! I have patients on Friday!”
“I already checked with Veronica. You’re done at six. You can pick Cassie up at seven.”
I frown at my lo mein and then my niece. “I think I just got bamboozled, Cassie.”
She squirms and farts.
Jana starts snorting she’s laughing so hard.
I sigh deeply and then stab my chopsticks into my noodles. “This is the story of my life,” I say, before stuffing my mouth full of soy-sauced goodness. At least I have Chinese food.
“I recommend you buy a crib,” Jana says, “and a rocking chair.”
I try to say, “And I recommend you buy a nanny,” but she can’t understand a word of it because I have too many noodles in my mouth.
“Caveman,” she says.
I don’t respond. My mind’s too busy panicking over being a single father for two days. I have no fucking clue what to do with a baby for more than fifteen minutes; what am I going to do with one for forty-eight hours? I have a sneaking suspicion that Jeremy’s forty-eight hour commitment is going to be a lot easier to manage than mine.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I SHOULD BE FULL AND completely sated after my meal and dessert at Jana’s, but I’m back at my condo feeling empty inside. I convince myself it’s a digestion issue and pour myself a glass of whiskey.
The night is perfect. Balmy for Manhattan in the middle of summer, with a sky full of stars. I sit out on my terrace, staring at the buildings across the street from me, wondering about the lives of the people who live in there. My vision’s too blurry to be able to see inside their windows.
The evening spent with the girls has made me sentimental. I miss Cassie’s mom. She was such a great girl. The best sister-in-law a guy could ask for. She was cool. She could pop open a beer top with a lighter and drink it down like a champ, but she never over-indulged. She was a great cook, a real down-home kind of girl who loved to cook and have family gatherings. The Sunday dinners were her idea and before she came into our lives, we never felt so close. She changed us all, and now it felt like we were changing back again, back into the separated cold people we used to be when our father ruled the roost.
My phone buzzes and I take it out of my pocket to see who’s there.
I need to come get my things, the message says.
Hilary.
I’ve put her clothing and odds and ends in boxes stacked by the front door. Should I let her come get them now? It feels like a bad idea considering the fact that I’m lonely as hell and halfway to drunk. But I type out the text anyway.
Come now if you want.
I stare at the phone, almost hoping she’ll turn me down.
Be there in 20, she says.
I finish my whiskey and get up to pour myself another. I don’t trust myself to manage this face-off sober.
Hilary arrives forty minutes after her text. As usual, she’s late, probably because she spent a lot of time in front of the mirror and her closet before she came. She looks great and she knows it. As soon as she comes in the front door, I know what she came for, and it’s not her boxes of shit.
“Hey, James, you’re looking fine,” she says, coming close and rubbing her hand up my chest.
I back away one step, trying to get some perspective on this … situation. Everything from my waist up is telling me to get the hell out of here. Unfortunately, everything from the waist down is telling me to stay. That means I have no control of my dick or my legs.
I take a step back closer.
“You smell nice,” I say, recognizing the perfume I bought her for her last birthday. Before she’d told me it was too light, too flowery. She refused to wear it, giving me a list via text of good replacements, should I feel the urge to “try again”.
“It’s the perfume you gave me,” she says sweetly, pressing her breasts into my chest, running her hands up my arms. I always loved the way she arched her back as she leaned into me. She knows this. I’m annoyed that she’s playing me so easily. I’m also turned on.
“I thought I recognized it,” I say, leaning down to kiss her neck. “I thought you didn’t like it.”
Her hands stray down to my ass and she squeezes when she gets there. My dick goes rock hard, knowing it’s close to getting what it wants.
“Sure I liked it. I love it, silly. Why would you say that?”
I pause for a moment and speak against her neck. “Because you told me you didn’t like it. You said it was too flowery.”
“No, I didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.” She reaches her hand around to the front of me.
I pull away so I can think clearly. My head is swimming a little, but my memory’s as sharp as a razor.
“You sent me a text with a list of perfumes you would have preferred.”
She frowns playfully. “You’re drunk. Come on, let’s go into the bedroom.” She takes me by the hand and tries to lead me away, but finally my bottom half gets on board with my brain train.
My arm extends out with her efforts, but that’s as far as it goes. My feet remain planted.
“Hilary, I think this is probably a bad idea.”
Her smile slips. “Don’t be silly, it’s a great idea. Our make-up sex has always been fabulous.” She winks. “That’s why we fight so much, baby.”
I yank my hand away. “Do you have any idea how sick that sounds?”
Her expression falls into bitch mode. “Oh, so I’m to blame because you like to fuck when you’re mad.”
I never thought of Hilary as anything but a hard-driving, goal oriented woman before, but tonight I’m seeing her in a completely different light. Maybe it’s because I just spent the evening with my sister playing house with a baby, but whatever the reason, all I can think when I look at my ex is that she’s fucking harsh in the light of truth. Harsh and bitchy and fucking cold.
“It’s time for you to go,” I say with a heavy heart. I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much time with this person. I’ll never get those years back. “All your things are in the boxes there. I’ll have Carlos bring them out to your car.” I’d normally do this kind of heavy-lifting thing myself, but decide that the less time I spend in Hilary’s presence, the better off we’ll all be.
She crosses her arms and sticks her chin up. “What if I’m not ready to go?”
I want to be angry at her, but I can’t. This is the worst part of breaking up; when you know it’s the right thing but you still keep fighting it. There’s just no way I can believe that she thinks this is real love. Real love isn’t about battling for every single thing and then enjoying the temporary peace resolution found later in bed.
“It’s over, Hilary. Say goodbye.”
Her expression turns vicious. “It’s not over until I say it’s over!” She rushes at me and slaps me hard across the face, her nails taking some of my skin with them as they slide across my cheek.
I grab her by the arm, but she yanks it away, headed for the door. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” she says.
“I look forward to it,” I say, picking up one of the boxes.
She’s way ahead of me, standing in the foyer outside my door. The elevator is down the hall. I place the box just behind her.
When I turn around to get the other box, I take my phone out of my pocket. Speed dial gets me to Carlos, one of the guys who mans the front doors to the building.
“Carlos, Doctor Oliver here. Could you make sure Ms. Winterfield gets into her car with these boxes I’m going to put into the elevator?”
Once I have his assurances, I shut the phone down and grab the other boxes. I reach the elevator just in time, before Hilary can get the doors shut.
“Take these,” I say, “or I’m donating them to charity.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she says, her eyes just slits.
“Try me,” I say, sliding the last one in with my foot. “See what happens.
”
She leans over and pushes the button for the lobby forcefully, several times, before straightening and looking up at me.
“You’re a fucking bastard, James,” she says through angry tears.
“Yeah. I’ve heard that about me.”
The doors slide shut between us.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
THURSDAY DAWNS BRIGHT AND SUNNY, the exact opposite of my mood. A headache rages as I catch a cab to work.
My day is full, starting with three different surgeries and then consults until early evening. Assuming everything goes well, I won’t be coming up for air until eight o’clock. Too late to visit Jeremy. I try not to feel guilty about being relieved.
“Good morning, Veronica,” I say to my secretary.
She smiles at me and holds out a paper. “Your updated schedule, James.”
I lift an eyebrow at that. We’ve always been on somewhat formal terms. I recall telling her she could refer to me by my first name but up until today, she’s always declined. I wonder what caused the change of heart.
“Thanks. Any surprises?”
She shakes her head. “No, just the same old, same old.” She stands and smoothes the front of a very tight skirt. It’s the exact opposite style as the one worn by that Leah Wallace person. Why her name and her face jump to mind when my secretary stands up is a mystery. It must be the leftover booze talking.
I leave the front desk for my office. “Buzz me when the first patient arrives,” I say, disappearing inside.
Leah Wallace. Leah Wallace.
I can’t get this girl out of my head now that the memory of her has resurfaced again. Manhattan is a big place with millions of people walking around in it at any given time. What are the chances that I’d literally bump into the same person more than once?
Sure, I see some of the same people again and again over the days, weeks, and months. It’s inevitable when you live in the same area or work nearby someone. But I didn’t get the impression that this Leah person lives near me. Her clothing tells me she lives uptown. Way uptown, probably near where I bumped into her in the subway. Where was that? A hundred and fifth? I’m trying to recall the stop when my intercom lights up.
“Your first patient is here, James.”
James again? The hell?
“Thank you, Veronica. I’ll be there in a moment.”
I jump on Google maps to take a look at the subway stops. “A hundred and twenty-fifth,” I say to myself before I stand. I wonder if she lives near that stop. I have an insane flash in my mind, seeing myself standing out on the corner of 125th and Lexington waiting for her to walk by. Of course she’ll be soaking wet…
“James? She says she’s in a hurry.”
I roll my eyes. I probably should have gone into general surgery. They have all the luck, meeting a patient five minutes before they go under anesthesia and then once more for another five minutes when it’s all over. Sure, they make a hell of a lot less money, but when have I ever needed to worry about that? Not since birth. My trust fund remains untouched, getting bigger and bigger every year with accrued interest.
I walk out my door into the lobby and smile, showing as many teeth as possible. “Good morning, Corinne, how are you today?”
“I’m great now,” she says breezing by me into my office, her heavy perfume making my nose go stuffy immediately. “And how are you?”
I close the door behind us, ignoring my secretary’s weird expression. She looks pissed.
“I’m great. Are you ready for the big day?” I’m referring to her upcoming surgery. I always have a consult the day before, just to be sure the patient and I are still on the same page.
“Yes, but I wanted to talk to you about some changes.” Her hands flutter around her, making the diamonds she wears on several fingers flash crazily in the fluorescent lights. My mind strays to the Cartier showroom where I spent way too much money exorcising the ghost of Hilary.
“To the surgery plan,” she says, working up the courage to tell me whatever it is she has to say. I could tell her not to bother because I already know the drill, but I don’t. It’s a process she needs to go through.
“Mmm-hmmm.” I take my seat and fold my hands in lap. Here it comes…. Wait for it …
“I was thinking that I’d like to go bigger. Bigger on the breasts but smaller on the nose.”
I nod. She’s not done yet. I know because I go through this at least once a week with one patient or another.
“I was talking to my friend Angelique and she was telling me that if I don’t get at least a double D, I’m going to regret it.” Corinne reaches up and twists one of her diamond earrings around left and then right. She’s nervous. I don’t know why, but apparently I intimidate the hell out of people here in my office. I’ve been told it enough times over the years that I believe it.
“Is Angelique a physician?”
“No, but…”
“Is she an artist, by any chance?”
“No.” Corrine frowns at me. “Why would that make any difference?”
“Because an artist’s eye can be trusted with proportion and perspective more so than a non-artist’s.” I smile as I wait for her to catch up.
“Are you saying she has a bad eye?”
“I’m saying that as a professional plastic surgeon who’s successfully transformed more than three thousand noses and two thousand sets of breasts, I have a pretty good eye for what will look good and what will look … shall we say … unnatural.”
She gets a bitchy look to her face. “Welllll, isn’t anything different from what you were born with unnatural?”
I shrug. “Not necessarily. Subtle differences can make all the difference to a person’s perception of his or her beauty. It’s usually not in my patient’s best interests to make drastic changes. In your case, I definitely wouldn’t recommend it.” I get up from my chair and come around to her side of the desk, taking the seat next to her.
“Why? What do you mean?”
I turn my seat to face hers and lean over, touching her brow. “You have beautifully arched, full eyebrows over a nicely proportioned brow ridge.” I touch the bridge of her nose. “This small bump is something you got ice skating when you were younger, and I understand why you want to get rid of it, but to take your nose down smaller than just a fraction would make it out of proportion to your eyes. The upper part of your face would look too heavy if I took your nose down, say, more than three millimeters in height and two in width.”
“Millimeters? But that’s so small.” She’s weakening, I can tell from her voice. I’m relieved because I’d hate to say goodbye to this patient a day before her big surgery. Sometimes I do have to do that when I think someone is making a big mistake. My malpractice insurance premiums are already too high as it is.
“It’s really not,” I assure her, “when you consider the overall size of a normal human nose.”
She pouts. “But my nose is not normal at all. It’s huge.”
I pull my hand back and smile. “Your nose is not huge, and you know it. It’s bigger than you want it to be, and I get that. But please don’t compare your features to faces and noses that belong on people who look nothing like you. You have German ancestry, I can see it in your bones. You’re never going to look like you come from China, and you shouldn’t try to. You have a beauty that many women from all over the world would kill to have. Please don’t take that away from yourself. Enhance, don’t change. That’s my professional credo. Trust me, it’s the best way to go.” I glance down at her chest. “And with respect to your breasts, I don’t want your skin to end up as thin as paper. It’s not attractive to any guy. You’ll have to take my word on that.”
A smile comes, albeit a bit shaky. “How is it that you’re the most successful plastic surgeon in Manhattan when you spend half your time talking people out of surgeries?”
I put my hand on hers and pat it a few times. “I’m honest and I care about my patients, not the money.”
“Does that mean I can have a discount?” she asks as I stand.
“Do you mind if I hire a less experienced doctor to operate on you in my place?”
She chokes out a laugh. “Uh, yes, I mind quite a bit, actually.”
I shrug after I sit. “Then I guess you have your answer.”
She sighs heavily. I can hear the defeat there and it makes me happy.
“I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve convinced me that Angelique is wrong. About the nose and the boobs.” She looks down at her chest.
“She is wrong, trust me. I have to do reconstructive surgeries every month on people who come from other doctors who I won’t mention by name. It breaks my heart to have to try and remedy the fallout from other people’s bad choices.”
“Does it cost more to have mistakes fixed?”
“Yes, it does, as a matter of fact. I usually have less to work with and a lot of damage to try and turn back into workable tissue.”
She puts her hands on her boobs. “Ouch.”
“Yes. Ouch.” I open up my agenda where Veronica’s schedule is resting between the pages. “So we’re on for tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp at the clinic, right?”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Excellent.” I shut my book and stand. “Unless you have any other questions, I think I’m done here.”
“Nope, I’m satisfied.”
I walk her to the door and out into the foyer. “Remember, no food or drink after eight tonight. I want you in there with an empty stomach. That includes no water, no coffee, no nothing.”
“Got it. And I have the special soap for my shower.”
“Great.” I shake her hand and smile. “See you soon.”
Once she’s out the door, I turn my attention to Veronica. She’s up from her desk and headed toward me.
I back up a step, fearing the look in her eye. She’s never been so … enthusiastic before.
“Can I get you anything, James?” she asks.
“No, I’m fine. When’s the next patient?”
“A half hour. We have time to chat, if you want.”
She follows me into my office. I resist the urge to walk backwards so I can keep an eye on her.
