by Kilby Blades
“I didn’t settle. I told him no.”
Michael quieted, ostensibly satisfied with this response. But before Darby could relax, he spoke again.
“There are only three kinds of guys who call, Darby. The kind who are actively dating you, the kind who think they have a shot at dating you, and the stalker kind.”
“Oh, yeah? What does that make you?”
He ignored her. “How long has it been since you broke up?”
“Almost a year.” Darby cringed.
Michael sat up even more, further disrupting her previously comfortable position.
“How often?”
She sat up, too. This was not how she had wanted to spend their time.
“A few times a week.”
Michael was starting to look pissed.
“Stalking is serious shit, Darby. Do you think that just because you’re a psychiatrist you can handle your own situation?”
“He’s not stalking me. He thinks he has a shot, and I understand why.”
When Michael looked at her impatiently, she relented and began to tell the story.
“So out of the blue, Felix proposed to me…and, practically in the same breath, tried to sell me on having kids. It turned into a huge fight. He pinned me down about exactly why I didn’t want kids. I admitted some things I’d never told him, which pissed him off more and made the fight worse. It got so ugly, I broke up with him on the spot.”
“It didn’t take him long to figure out that he’d gone about everything all wrong,” she continued. “He shouldn’t have sprung it on me like that. He thought he’d just messed that one thing up and that if we could press rewind and have that same conversation differently, we could get everything on the right track.”
“But that’s not what you thought.”
She shook her head.
“Him proposing was the wake-up call I needed to realize we were in two different relationships. He was…”
She hesitated, because it was uncomfortable to say.
“…deeply in love with me. More than I realized. The proposal was a surprise. It proved how little we understood each other. He didn’t know how lukewarm I was about marriage…about him, really. He didn’t know I—”
I was too fucked-up to get close to someone, she almost let slip out.
“—didn’t want kids. I had to break up with him.”
She watched Michael’s face as he absorbed the story and waited for him to ask her again why Felix was still calling after a year. But he went in a different direction.
“So you just walked away? Maybe you didn’t want to marry him, but weren’t you at least a little in love with the guy?”
Michael picked up on everything.
“I really, really liked him.”
And he gave her that look again, that look that said he could see right through her, the look that, in moments like these, scared her to her core. Because she wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t telling the whole truth and she wondered whether Michael really saw that part of her.
“Tell me why he’s still calling you.” This time, his demand was softer than before.
“He rarely does anymore. And rarely on purpose. It’s midnight in New York right now. He’s probably drunk dialing.” And her voice held her compassion. “He really is getting over me. Just…every once in a while, he has a bad day.”
Michael still seemed wary. Instead of speaking, he pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out two pixy sticks. He opened both of the candies before pulling Darby back into his arms and rearranging their bodies so they were once again reclining on his bed.
“Do you want me to have a little talk with him?” he asked finally, breaking their silence after he had poured the flavored sugar into his mouth.
“Is that a euphemism, Vito Corleone? Are you going to make him an offer he can’t refuse?”
“Guys know what to say to one another in these situations,” he said. “You think I’ve never had to talk a guy down from chasing a woman he couldn’t have? Besides, any call he gets from a guy he doesn’t know telling him to back off of his ex is gonna be a pretty clear warning.”
She’d never thought of it like that. Felix was getting better about not calling her, but what she hadn’t admitted to Michael was that some part of her was concerned. On the very rare occasion when she picked up the phone, Felix sounded unhappy, and very much still in love.
“Alright. The next time you hear that ringtone, have at it.”
She would be curious to eavesdrop on what she guessed would be an insightful conversation. Michael held her tighter in response and she snuggled back into him finally tipping back the straw full of sugar and pouring it in her mouth. A moment later, he spoke again.
“Hey…you wanna watch The Godfather later?”
It made her laugh.
“Yeah. I do.”
He kissed her hair.
“SHIT.”
Darby bristled at hearing the staccato bass guitar opening of You’re So Vain by Carly Simon from beyond the door of her research lab’s supply closet, her makeshift dressing room when she had somewhere to go after work. She’d been using it a lot lately. In the past month, she’d been to more bars, restaurants and night spots with Michael than she’d visited in the previous six months combined. After Felix, swearing off dating and avoiding social events had turned her into somewhat of a recluse. But she liked going out with Michael. He seemed to know every nook and cranny of Chicago and spending time with him gave her the sense of discovering her own city again.
The most amazing meal they’d shared had been at a tiny place in Little India. An older man sat near the front of the festively decorated dining room playing mesmerizing music on his sitar; the meal had cost them less than $45, including beer. The following night they’d done the tasting menu at TRU, a $700 affair that was walking distance from his house.
She loved all of it—loved the way he took her out, and loved the way he fucked her, loved that things between them felt natural and easy, uncomplicated by expectations. When he was gone, some part of her missed him, but some part of her liked having her space. He was back in town now. For once, she was on track to be early—in half an hour they were slated to meet at the Four Seasons for drinks.
But Huck calling her on the phone now was standing in the way of her enjoyment of the cozy little bar, creating distance between Darby and her dirty martini with blue cheese olives. Still only half-dressed, she threw open the closet door and rushed to the phone, not wanting to miss Huck’s call. God forbid she fail to be on duty five minutes before the end of her shift.
“Dr. Christensen,” she answered, as if she didn’t know exactly who it was.
“The results from the clinical refresher are in. I need to see you in my office. Now.”
“On my way,” she said, but before she’d even finished her sentence, he had already hung up.
Charming.
Darby threw the phone back on the lab table and buttoned her jeans as she returned to the supply closet. She pulled on black boots and a sheer black cowl turtleneck before flipping and rearranging her hair. God only knew what Huck wanted now.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Huck’s bald head, which she’d always thought he’d shaven completely in order to look younger in the face of actual balding, made him look like a diminutive version of Lex Luthor. She sat down in the guest chair and picked up the folder he had slid across the desk. Inside was a printout of her scores from the test she’d taken the week before. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
“This can’t be right.”
The scores indicated that she had failed, and failed badly. She was licensed and board certified, but the hospital required all physicians to demonstrate that their specialty knowledge was still current. Quarterly testing was routine. The test had been administered to every doctor in her department. She remembered the day she’d taken it the week before. Huck himself had been the proctor.
“There’s been a mix-
up.” She looked at him defiantly.
“The scores don’t lie, Dr. Christensen.”
“Except this isn’t my score,” she seethed. “I’ll retake the test.”
“That’s against protocol. Tests are administered no more frequently than every three months. I’ll have to suspend you from clinical work pending Board review.”
Darby stood up.
“My scores have been in the 97th percentile every other time I’ve taken it,” she protested. “Would you have the hospital incur the cost of backfilling my shifts with temps over an obvious mix up?”
He paled a bit at that. “Rules are rules.”
“And who will take my shifts for the rest of the week?”
He rose, grabbing his coat and giving her a withering look.
“It’s not your job to worry about the schedule. Be available tomorrow to Dr. Skubic for any transition work.”
Five minutes later, Darby was barging into Dr. Chandrashekar’s office. Four of those minutes had been spent collecting herself in the bathroom. Still too angry to speak, she threw the folder down on her mentor’s desk.
Chandy, as she called the older woman, wasn’t merely a mentor—she was a longtime ally to Darby. She’d overseen Darby’s residency years before and they shared a deep respect for one another. Chandy was someone who had seen her work and could speak to her knowledge and skill—someone who could vouch for her.
Although Darby had been subtle about it, she had shared her concerns about Huck’s treatment with Chandy a few times. No stranger to common troubles of women in male-dominated fields, Chandy had subtly indicated that she understood. She had once been Chief of Staff to the entire hospital and had faced her own challenges on her way to the top. She was highly respected, but semi-retired. Best of all, she outranked Huck.
“This doesn’t look right,” Chandy murmured, confirming what Darby already knew.
“Huck wants to suspend me.”
“Tell him it’s a mistake.”
Darby pinned Chandy with a pointed look. “I did.”
Chandy looked at her watch. “How long do you need to retake it?”
“Last week, I finished it in half the time.”
The older woman nodded. “Let’s go.” Together, they went one floor up, to the training suite.
Chandy made quick work of pulling up the computer-generated test, which randomized questions to each user. It wouldn’t be identical to the test that Darby had taken before, so a good score would be a strong indicator that she knew the material. Darby sent a quick text to Michael, letting him know she would be late.
As she retook the test, she double-checked her answer to every question, not wanting to make a single mistake. Since the test was multiple choice, her scores could be instantly tallied.
“You got 100%,” Chandy said less than a minute after Darby had submitted her last answer.
Darby felt more anger than relief, but suppressed it. She appreciated the fact that Chandy had dropped everything to help her.
“Thanks for letting me retake it. It’s better I do it the same day I found out about my scores. It will take care of speculation that I had to cram to pass it.”
“With your record, there should be no speculation,” Chandy said the same moment that the printer roared to life. “Though these new scores will make any conversation about it pretty short. The only one who needs to be called out here is Dr. Huck,” she finished bluntly.
Darby voiced the question that had been in the back of her mind since this had begun.
“What do you think happened?”
Chandy handed her a copy of the results and gave Darby no less than what she wanted—an honest opinion.
“A bad score didn’t find its own way into the system. I think someone else failed the test.”
Order me two.
It was the text Darby sent to Michael seconds after she had tucked herself into a cab. She probably needed a walk, to clear her mind, but she needed a drink more, and didn’t like that she was already late.
Michael rose to greet her when she arrived at the bar, taking her hand briefly and pressing an innocuous kiss to her cheek. This bar, with its dark woods and rich fabrics, was familiar and comforting, and recalled what a hotel bar may have looked like a century before. He had chosen an out-of-the-way table, and sat in a chair that had him facing the room while hers would face the wall. She was grateful for his constant mindfulness of maintaining her anonymity. She didn’t want to be recognized—especially that night.
“Thanks,” she said as he pushed one of the two large martinis toward her—a Belvedere dirtied by olive juice with a skewer of olives filled with blue cheese. She took a long gulp before setting the glass back down.
“Easy, tiger.”
She picked up the skewer and pulled an olive into her mouth. “You have no idea the day I’ve had.”
He set down what looked like scotch. “Tell me.”
She could hardly say it. Anger still hummed in her body. The accusation that was forming in her mind was too scathing to say out loud.
“My boss is sabotaging me.” It felt big to admit. Darby had complained about Huck being a colossal jerk, but she’d downplayed parts of it to Michael. “I don’t have proof but I think he’s actively trying to destroy my career.”
Michael frowned. “Tell me what he did.”
“Today he suspended me from practicing after I failed a test that he proctored. It’s a skills refresher exam everyone has to take once a quarter. I’ve passed it with flying colors at least ten times.”
“You think he tampered with the results.”
I know he did, she thought to herself. She was afraid that saying it out loud would make her seem paranoid.
“I’m sure it could have been a computer glitch or some other error,” she admitted. “I didn’t speculate on what went wrong, but I offered to retake the test.”
“Which is why you were late.” She nodded. She had vaguely explained that she had to sit for an exam in her text.
“I got a perfect score.”
“What did he say?”
“He doesn’t know yet. When he refused to sit with me for a retake, I got my former advisor to administer it on my behalf. She outranks him, so she’ll fix it. I’ll be reinstated by tomorrow, but…”
“But your boss just tried to bench you. And going over his head will only make things worse.”
She nodded. Medicine and architecture couldn’t have been more different, but workplace politics were something they both understood. By then her first drink was nearly gone and the alcohol had done nothing to make her less emotional. Michael was right. She should probably slow down if she wanted to avoid becoming a sobbing mess.
“You know you have to report him, right?”
“Who am I gonna tell? My boss?” Her voice was more sarcastic than she’d intended.
“That’s exactly the logic he’s hoping you’ll adopt,” Michael said bluntly. “It’s classic bully behavior. He’s banking on the assumption that his intimidation will be so effective that you won’t tell.”
The truth of his words stung her. She pushed aside thoughts of other bullies, of others who had gotten the best of her before. Maybe later she would return to thinking about what had made her such a target for manipulative men.
“I’m not saying you are weaker,” Michael followed up when she didn’t respond. “I’m asking why you’re playing the shrinking violet.”
She looked up at him sharply.
“Is that how you see me?”
“You know better than that.”
She looked away again, feeling irrationally betrayed.
“I know I’m not weak.”
“So fight back.”
“By doing what? I can’t prove any of this.”
Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. But you have to play dirty. Beat him at his own game.”
That phrase was one that her father had used. She didn’t like it coming from Michael’s lips. Darby had spent wh
at felt like a lifetime watching people fight dirty with dirty. She’d vowed to be the opposite—to never let herself play that game.
“That’s not how I like to operate.”
He finally picked his drink back up and took a long sip. She appreciated the he wasn’t pushing her, but she could tell he had more to say.
“When people show you who they are, believe them.”
She recognized the quote as Maya Angelou.
“What he did is unscrupulous and reckless. It’s an indication of how far he’s willing to go. He’s not done with you.”
She groaned a little. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Fine…I have a surprise for you,” he said after setting his drink down, his face transforming until a small smile showed through.
“For me?” Her spirits brightened a little. “What is it?”
He opened the flap of his messenger bag and pulled out a DVD case.
“Julieta,” Darby said, pronouncing the ‘J’ in the English pronunciation.
“Julieta,” Michael corrected, sounding the ‘J’ as an ‘H’. “It’s the new Almodovar flick. When I was in Europe, I scored us a copy.”
“For real?” She gaped at him. “This hasn’t even opened in the U.S.”
He shrugged, and she knew that even if she asked more directly, he wouldn’t answer her silent question.
“We can watch it tonight, right?”
He nodded. “Let’s go to your place. Your couch is comfier than mine.”
Ninety minutes later, she was tucked into his arms as they lay on her sofa engrossed in the movie. She hadn’t thought of this—of the certainty that any Almodovar film would make her cry. That she would have to cry in front of Michael.
She’d come close before, when they had watched Forrest Gump together. She had remembered it as a benign enough movie, but she’d forgotten about the part when Jenny died. Since then, she’d been more careful about avoiding movies that would turn her into a sobbing mess. She’d held back during Forrest Gump, but she couldn’t hold back right now.
