Keep Me Ghosted (Sophie Rhodes Romantic Comedy #1)

by Karen Cantwell

  “Yes, Sophie,” he answered through the intercom. “What is it?”

  I could have dragged my announcement out so the one-two punch would have been stronger, but I decided to just say it and say it fast. Like ripping off a band-aid. “Your wife is on line one. Says it’s an emergency.”

  The silence on the other end certainly was predictable, if nothing else. “Uh,” he mumbled finally. “Thanks. I’ll take it in the vision therapy room.”

  I heard his exam room door open and close, then his footsteps moving toward the vision therapy room further down the hall. The red hold button blinked at me, mocking me. I fought back tears. The sound of his footsteps didn’t make it as far as the therapy room though. He’d turned around and was heading back down the hall. He stopped at the desk.

  “If it isn’t Doctor Debaucher,” hissed Marmaduke.

  “I can explain, Sophie,” said Cal. “I... I can explain.”

  The phone beeped again. I pointed to it and whispered through gritted teeth. “That’s the second warning beep. Next time it rings back, I’ll have to answer it and tell your wife why you haven’t picked up yet.” I filled the words your wife with as much verbal venom as possible without actually spitting. “What should I tell her?”

  He threw his hands in the air, then slammed his hands on the counter and waggled his finger at me. “You’ll understand when I explain.” He tore back down the hall and I heard the vision therapy room door slam. And the light for line one turned from red to green.

  I bolted upright from my chair and paced behind the desk. Should I stay? It was my job. I was earning a paycheck each week now. I had mouths to feed other than my own, rent to pay, and after this, a big bottle of wine to buy. I liked that Sauvignon Blanc. I’d drown myself in it.

  “I understand this is a trying time, Sophie, but will wearing a hole in the rug solve anything?”

  “It helps me think.”

  “What, if you don’t mind my prying, are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that I made a big mistake. You were right all along. I never should have fallen for him.” I whapped myself on the forehead with my palm several times. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  “I hardly think that self-abuse is the answer.”

  I’d been down the married-man road before. And even though I’d gotten over the cheating creep long ago, the pain of the whole affair came flooding back on me like rushing waters through a broken dam. The tears were impossible to hold back. I grabbed my purse, and despite every sane thought that told me I was an adult and should act like one, I acted like a child instead, and ran out the door.

  It was too early in the day for wine, beer, or whiskey drinking, no matter how depressed I was, so I stopped at Quickie Mart for a different approach: a two liter bottle of soda, a giant bag of Twizzlers, and a box of Ho Ho’s. What I couldn’t do with alcohol, I’d achieve with sugar.

  The man behind the counter must have felt sorry for me, watching me sniffling and crying as I walked the aisles, because he threw in a giant Snickers bar on the counter and said, “My treat, lady. And just remember, there’s always more fish in the sea.”

  “How did you know?” I sniffled.

  “Hey, you think you’re the first jilted chick to make a sugar run in the middle of the day?” He looked me up and down. “Only usually they’re wearin’ sweats and a dirty t-shirt.” He mimed his hands around his head. “And their hair don’t look so good.”

  I blew my nose. “Well, I wasn’t jilted, exactly, but...” sniffle, sniffle “... same thing, I guess.”

  I paid, thanked him for his generosity, and departed in the middle of another blubbering outbreak.

  As I was about to back out of my spot, I remembered I didn’t have cable television anymore. A woman couldn’t mourn a romance, even one that had barely lifted from takeoff, without watching some really depressing movies. So I jumped out and got three DVDs from the Dollar-a-Day DVD just outside the Quickie Mart’s door. I didn’t even pay attention to the titles—I made my decision entirely from description. DVD number one: Keep the Kleenex nearby for this tear jerker. DVD number two: This movie would make Chuck Norris cry. And DVD number three: The saddest movie you’ll ever watch in your entire life.

  Marmaduke appeared next to me as I sped home. “Sad movies Sophie? Truly? Do you think it wise?”

  “I’m not doing crack cocaine. Sad movies are emotional detoxins. I’ll sink so low and cry so much that the only way out is up. I’ll take them back tomorrow, buy three comedies, and laugh my way out. This is how women work. And where have you been? Don’t leave again. I need you right now.”

  “You need some warm-bodied friends. And what, pray tell, is crack cocaine?”

  He was right about the human friends. How pathetic was I? All I had for friends was a dead guy and two animals who probably only loved me for the nuts and kibble I put in their bowls. I started bawling all over again.

  I polished off one and a half liters of the two liter bottle of soda, and nearly the entire bag of Twizzlers during the first movie, which really was the saddest movie I’d ever watched in my entire life. In fact, I had to drink three glasses of water to re-hydrate. Then I fell asleep during the second.

  The sugar must have really put me into a coma because Marmaduke had to rouse me by yelling in my ear. It wasn’t until I was rubbing my eyes that I realized the doorbell was ringing and that someone was pounding on my door.

  “The doctor is here,” said Marmaduke, “and I think you should give him some heed.”

  “What does that mean?” I could hear Cal shouting my name through the door.

  “It means, let him in.”

  Most of me wanted to do exactly that. Let him in and wrap my arms around him, smother him with kisses, and never let go. Married? Pshaw. Minor obstacle. The tiniest part of me—the smarter part—knew nothing good came of married men and that I should barricade the door with every piece of furniture in my apartment.

  The part of me that ached to kiss every inch of Cal’s body stumbled to the door and put an eye to the peep hole. He held a huge brown grocery bag in one arm while he knocked and rang with the other hand.

  “Sophie!” he yelled. “Let me in! Please!”

  “I don’t allow married men in this apartment. Are you married?”

  I saw his shoulders sag. “Yes! But if you’ll let me in, I can explain. Please let me in!”

  Mr. Franklin’s door across the hall flew open. My burly and very hairy neighbor appeared, his bushy eyebrows expressing his displeasure. “For crying out loud, Sophie! Let the man in! I can’t hear my football game.”

  My tummy grumbled. “What’s in the bag?” I yelled.

  “Dinner,” said Cal.

  “He brought you dinner,” hollered Mr. Franklin. “Now would you let the man in and let me get back to my game?”

  “Sophie,” urged Marmaduke. “I do think it would be wise to hear the man out.”

  I leaned against the door. “He’s married, Marmi. I am not doing that again.”

  “He’s getting divorced.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I had a chat with the man when you fell asleep.”

  “Well, I’ve heard the getting-divorced line before. They say they’re going to ask for a divorce, but that’s just to keep you hanging around.”

  “The man isn’t asking for a divorce, he is in the middle of obtaining one. And I can see why. The woman is a she-devil.”

  “You’re taking his word for it?”

  “She came by his office while we were talking. Sophie, he needs rescuing from the horrid beast. She makes Medusa look like St. Bernadette.”

  I turned and peeked through the hole again. Cal had stopped knocking and ringing, but he hadn’t left. He was talking to Mr. Franklin.

  “You’re getting divorced?” I shouted.

  He spun around and put his face close to the door. “Yes.”

  “He’s getting divorced, Sophie!” shouted Mr. Franklin. “His wife is a wi
tch. Trust me, I’ve been married to a couple of really nasty wenches. They’ll steal your soul. Give the man a chance. He needs a nice girl like you.”

  “You’re sure about this, Marmi?”

  He nodded. “Open the door.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, I pulled the chain off, twisted the deadbolt, turned the lock on the doorknob, and did as Marmaduke said. “What’s for dinner?” I asked.

  Cal rushed in, dumped the bag of groceries on the table, hugged me tight, then pulled away, but held onto my shoulders. “I am so sorry.”

  “Close the door,” I said, sure to keep my tone tight. This was no time to be a wuss. “I don’t need any other neighbors knowing my business.”

  Without taking his eyes off of me, he swung the door closed with one hand, then placed it back on my shoulder. “I am so sorry.”

  “You said that already.” He was melting my heart with his sad blue eyes. He really was sorry. It was written all over his hang-dog face.

  “I’ll say it again: I am so sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried. But you’re so...” he cupped my face lovingly with his hands. “And she’s so...” he made a freaky face and stabbing motion with his hand like he was holding a knife. “Psycho. She’s really psycho.” He paused. “The trip to the falls—I was going to tell you there, but if you remember, we were kind of interrupted. Then later, when we kissed, I tried to stop myself and tell you then, but you’re...” He widened his eyes. “You’re such a good kisser. And you’re so...”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m so what?”

  “Amazing,” he said on a sigh. “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

  Hmm. No man had ever called me amazing before. I kind of liked that. “So that whole bit about taking it slow because of the office. You really meant because of your wife. It had nothing to do with romancing me.”

  “Yes.” His eyes widened in terror. “I mean, no!” He waved his hands in the air. “I mean, yes, because of the wife.” He grimaced on the word wife. “And no, because I really do want to romance you. You deserve to be romanced.”

  “Because I’m amazing.”

  He grinned. “Yeah.”

  He certainly was saying all the right things. I wondered if Marmaduke had coached him. I wrinkled my nose at Cal. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  The man could make a mean spaghetti marinara.

  “How did you know?” I asked him, as I unattractively slurped up the last of a noodle from my fork.

  “Marmaduke.”

  I nodded. Figured. “Thanks, Marmi,” I said.

  Marmaduke sat in a chair between me and Cal. I made him do it. He wasn’t pleased to be a chaperone. Which was really funny considering that before Cal, I couldn’t keep him away on date nights.

  He rolled his eyes. “My pleasure.”

  Cal reached across the table and took my hands. “Can I explain now?”

  I had taken my time showering and dressing while Cal cooked the spaghetti and sauce, figuring if he really was sorry, that was fine, but no reason not to make him suffer just a little bit for not having the balls to tell me sooner.

  Learning the hard way with Witchy Poo Wife screaming at me over the phone was not even remotely near the ideal scene. “I suppose I’m ready.” I sipped from the juice glass filled with—you guessed it—Sauvignon Blanc. Being poor and new to wine drinking, juice glasses were the best vessels I could offer up. “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Rachel.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Technically?” He looked into the air and counted silently using his fingers. “One year, nine months, and a few days. But that’s just on paper. She took off to Costa Rica with some traveling bartender or something. Three days before our first anniversary.”

  “And she’s back now?”

  He nodded. “It’s just my luck. He dumped her, so she came back and wanted to reconcile. That was... about four months ago.”

  “Did you?”

  “I tried.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask me why. Guess I thought a divorce meant I was a failure. But my heart wasn’t in it. We split up again, and the divorce was going according to plan until she met a lawyer who told her that her lawyer wasn’t serving her right—that she deserved half of my practice in the settlement. Without even reviewing my records, this crook—her new lawyer—found some professional who’s estimated my practice to be worth two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Barristers,” huffed Marmaduke. “The world would be better without them.”

  The dollar amount did seem awfully high based on the low income I’d seen in the last week. “Yikes,” I said.

  “It’s scary. I could lose everything.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But I didn’t want to dump all of my woes on you. I just wanted you to understand that she means nothing to me now. This divorce can’t happen soon enough.”

  I stood and carried my plate to the sink. “So you say now.”

  “I believe the bloke, Sophie.”

  I pointed a stern finger at Marmaduke. “Stay out of it.”

  Cal’s face dropped. It took every ounce of energy in my body not to run and comfort him and say it was all just fine and let’s just do it on the floor right now.

  He turned in his chair to face me. “Do you at least believe me that I wanted to tell you about her?”

  “I believe that. I do.” I leaned against the counter, but couldn’t look him in the eyes. I stared at my toes instead. “But you’ve got a whole lot going on with this woman, and things can change, I’ve seen it happen, so I have to...” Say it Sophie. Be strong. Say it. “I have to think about it.” I shook my head. “You need to let me think about it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I did think about it. I thought about it all night long and didn’t sleep a wink. Thank goodness for that sugar-induced nap I’d taken before the spaghetti dinner. Finally, at five a.m. I got out of bed. Sometimes showers help me sort out my thoughts, so I took another one and sure enough, it helped. Somewhere between the wash and rinse cycle, I made a decision.

  By nine twenty-five, I was in the office, sorting mail. The coffee was made, messages taken, patient list written up and placed on Dr. Callahan’s exam desk. I drank a cold soda from the bottle. Soon I would dig into the project for bringing more patients in.

  He walked in at nine thirty-five. Circles under his eyes. They brightened when he saw me. The door closed behind him and he set his briefcase down, beginning to move toward the desk. “You came.”

  I held up a hand, motioning him to stop. I’d rehearsed a speech. “Wait,” I said, standing. “Hear what I have to say.” I took a deep breath and tore in. “I’m here as an employee only. That’s it. You’re Dr. Callahan and I’m Ms. Rhodes. That’s what you’re to call me: Ms. Rhodes.”

  His mouth opened to respond, but I shot him down. “No. Let me finish. This isn’t easy.” His shoulders slumped. “True, I really need the job. That’s mostly why I’m here today. I like this job, I like your patients. But it’s more than that. I believe in what you’re doing. That mother yesterday—Mrs. Burgess—she cried. You didn’t just help that girl, you helped her mother. And probably her entire family. It’s one thing to have a job. It’s another to feel you’re making a difference with the job you have. So that’s why I’m here.”

  “So we’re through?” he asked.

  “We weren’t exactly ever started.” I waited a beat. “But, if and when your divorce goes through and the court declares that, technically, you are single once again, I’m open to you asking me out on a date.” I smiled weakly. “I might say yes.”

  He shrugged. “That’s fair, I guess.” He paused, then lifted the briefcase and started toward his exam room.

  “And if that wife of yours calls here and talks to me like she did yesterday, I plan to purchase a spell online and hex her bitchy ass.”r />
  He smiled. “You have my permission to do that now, if you like.” He gave me a small salute. “Ms. Rhodes.”

  I returned the gesture. “Dr. Callahan.”

  The next couple of hours went surprisingly well. With the rules laid down clearly, we went about our business. The phones rang, but not enough. He still had gaps in his schedule where patients should have been, but I finished the database of local optometrists and, after having Dr. Callahan approve the letter, did a mail merge and printed them out. Between the three local towns, there were over two hundred optometrists—none of whom did vision therapy in their own practices. The letter encouraged them to refer young patients with symptoms of developmental vision problems.

  I stepped out during lunch for stamps, and by two in the afternoon, all of the sealed envelopes were filed neatly in a box ready to go to the mailbox. I sat in my chair proud and pleased, but unfortunately a familiar throb started in just above my eyes. I closed them, and pressed my palms against my forehead.

  “Headache?” Cal asked.

  I jumped only because I hadn’t heard him come down the hall. I did love hearing his voice though. The sound of it gave me a little tingle. I gave a slight nod. “Yeah. It will go away soon.” I waved a hand dismissively. “I can work through it.”

  He motioned to the phone. “Put the message machine on. My next patient isn’t until four. I’m giving you an exam.”

  Hearing his voice was one thing, but sitting in a chair with him looking deeply into my eyes, even if for medical purposes, felt way too close to personal. We were supposed to be avoiding personal. At least, I was supposed to be avoiding personal. Business. Strictly business. “I’m fine, really,” I started. “I don’t think—”

  “No arguments.” He picked up an empty patient folder from the stack I kept on my desk. “Let’s go.” When I didn’t move, he cocked his head in playful seriousness. “You don’t want to be my most difficult patient of the day, do you?”