by Jewel Ann
PERFECTLY ADEQUATE
Jewel E. Ann
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Jewel E. Ann
ISBN: 978-1-7337786-3-3
Kindle Edition
Cover Designer: Sign.Yra
Formatting: BB eBooks
Dedication
To Marley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Playlist
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Jewel E. Ann
About the Author
Preview of Naked Love
Playlist
“Our Love” – Judah & the Lion
“If You Ever Wanna Be In Love” – James Bay
“Arms” – The Paper Kiss
“Magnetised – Acoustic” – Tom Odell
“Hold Me While You Wait” – Lewis Capaldi
“7 Minutes” – Dean Lewis
“The Shores Of Scotland” – Max Richter
“On the Nature of Daylight” – Max Richter
“Rosalee Theme” – Max Richter
“I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) – Blake Stratton
“Don’t Give Up On Me” – Andy Grammer
“Only To Be With You (Unplugged)” – Judah & the Lion
“The spectrum is human. It’s not autism.”
–Dorothy Mayhem
CHAPTER ONE
She’s Gone
Elijah
A woman broke me, so I chose a woman to put me back together.
Probably not my most brilliant idea.
“It’s been a year.” I stare at my folded hands, ignoring cloudy downtown Portland just outside the window to my right.
August.
My wife left me at the end of summer, two days after our son’s second birthday. Impeccable timing. I’d say out of the blue, but that would be a monumental understatement. She seduced me the previous night, after we shared a bottle of wine—and dare I say the best sex of our entire married life.
We met in high school and attended the same college. Medical school. Residency. Hobbies. Shared life goals.
Check.
Check.
Check.
“Yes. Time to move on. Julie’s not coming back to you. Have you thought about dating? You’re surrounded by women all day. Surely someone has a friend that might be a good match for you.”
“You’re the worst psychiatrist ever.” I close my eyes, shaking my head.
“My colleagues would disagree.” Dr. Lori Hawkins brushes her chin-length, silver hair away from her face etched with a few soft wrinkles. Her hazel eyes peer at me from over the black frames of her glasses. She excels in all the mom looks.
Sit down.
Shut up.
You’re lying.
Don’t be a baby.
The family discount comes with an extra-large side of sarcasm and hardcore truth. My mom’s attention lingers a whole two seconds before returning to her salad.
“I haven’t dated since high school. Do you know how many years that’s been?”
“Twenty since you graduated. Twenty-four since you started high school. I’m good with math.” She dips her fork into basil-lime dressing before stabbing a grape tomato.
“It’s all online dating now. No one gets fixed up. I don’t think. I’m not really sure.” I rub the tension from the back of my neck.
“You’re a millennial. You’ll figure it out.” She blots her red lips with a napkin.
“I’m a millennial by fourteen days.” Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on her desk, framing my face with my hands. A deep sigh escapes me. I have lots of deep sigh moments. The previous year has felt like one big, deep sigh.
She fights her grin. “You look like the little dirty-blond-haired boy that your grandma used to bring into this very office thirty-plus years ago to have lunch with me. That baby face and cute nose.” The tip of her fork bops my nose as I wrinkle it. “Of course, now you’re all grown up. A tall, handsome doctor who needs to shave more often and could use a haircut. I wish your grandma was here to see you now. She’d be so proud.”
After a few seconds, I frown, scratching my scruffy face. “I hate her. I thought after this much time I’d stop hating her, but I think I hate her more now than I did then.”
“Grandma? That’s not very nice … she was a bit stubborn, and she liked to swat your ornery little ass sometimes, but—”
“Julie.” I roll my eyes.
Mom smirks. It quickly settles into a sad smile. “Why? What purpose does it serve to hold on to that hatred?”
My shoulders lift toward my ears, an excruciatingly hard feat given the way I’ve carried the weight of the world for so long. “I’m not sure it will ever make sense to me. We waited until our mid-thirties to start a family. Roman wasn’t an accident. We planned for him. We planned every part of our lives to fit around him. Julie scaled back her surgeries because she wanted to be home more with him. I turned down a promotion because the added hours would have taken away from time with my family. Then one day she’s just … done? I go from seeing my son every day to being a part-time parent? What is that? Who does that? Who just walks away because they’re…” I shake my head “…what were her words? Not that woman anymore?”
Mom bites her lips together, returning the lid to her salad. “I saw Julie with Roman the other day at Shemanski Park, buying flowers for her mom’s birthday. Julie has a tattoo on her ankle, a lotus. When I complimented her on it, she showed me Roman’s name tattooed at the nape of her neck with a heart next to it. Did you know about the tattoos? Or that she’s a redhead now instead of a blonde?”
“Yes. I know. My sophisticated wife—ex-wife—who obsessively ironed our clothes and wore her hair in the same long, straight style since we were in high school, has wavy, red hair, tattoos, and the wardrobe of a teenager.”
And boobs. I don’t say it aloud and neither does my mom, but Julie got breast implants six months ago, and she likes to show them to the world. Turtlenecks … she wore turtlenecks with me.
“Rhonda’s daughter recently turned twenty-four. She’s an architect who just got out of a lesbian relationship because she’s questioning her sexuality again. She’s had some health issues that have played havoc on her hormones. Poor thing. But she’s doing better, and Rhonda thinks she’s ready to try dating men again. Loves adventure. The nicest girl you could ever meet.” Mom takes out a compact, checks
her teeth for lettuce, pops a mint into her mouth, and applies a soft pink shade of lipstick.
“Your secretary’s maybe-possibly-not-sure-if-she’s-a-lesbian daughter? I feel like you’re disregarding my emotions.” I stand, angling my arm to see my watch. “But we’ll save that for next time. I have to get back to work.”
She pushes back in her chair, making her way around the desk to give me a hug. “I love you, Eli. And not just because you bring me lunch every Friday.”
I drop a quick kiss onto her cheek. “But that makes me the favorite, right?”
Mom chuckles. “You’re my favorite boy.”
I grin, being the youngest of three … and the only boy.
Releasing me, her glossed lips turn downward. “You met Julie when you were sixteen. That’s pretty young to expect forever.”
I nod. She’s been my other half, my better half, my morning cup of coffee, and my favorite goodnight kiss for so long I stopped counting. We were supposed to be forever—that unreachable number. Yet, here I am starting again at zero.
One … I have Roman. He is my one, and one is enough; it’s officially everything.
“She wasn’t everything, Eli.”
How did she read my mind?
“Julie is the mother of your child. That makes her something … but not everything.”
* * *
I grab a coffee and make my way toward my lab. Rounds went well this morning. Some good research results this afternoon is all I need to make Friday officially the best day of this week.
A shiny pair of red sneakers with red soles and red laces snag my attention when the doors open on the second floor. The sneakers move toward me, and my gaze slides up the blue scrubs to the young woman with shoulder-length, sable hair and a friendly smile. She makes eye contact for two seconds before turning toward the doors and pressing the button to the fifth floor.
“Nice shoes,” I say.
“Thanks, Dr. Hawkins.” Her blue eyes make a return to me with her surprisingly enthusiastic reply to my compliment.
My lips curl into an unavoidable smile. “Have we met?”
She tucks her dark hair behind her ears. “Yes. No. Well, I hear a lot about you. And I’ve delivered mail to your office and test results to your lab. We’ve passed in the hall, but clearly you don’t recognize me, maybe because I’m usually pushing a patient or a piece of medical equipment. So … we have not officially met.”
“I see…” I glance at her badge “…Dorothy?”
She doesn’t look like a Dorothy. Maybe a Lauren or an Elizabeth. Maybe even a trendy name like Poppy.
Her hand goes straight to her badge. “Yes. I’m a patient transporter and a nursing student.” Blue eyes roll toward the ceiling as she bites her lips together. Dorothy’s cute. Young. Petite. My mom and sisters would say something like “simply adorable, cute as a button,” or something crazy like that.
My grin swells by twenty percent. She has a forced confidence. I think it’s forced. Maybe just nerves. I can’t tell for sure. “What do you hear about me?” My head cants to the side just as the elevator stops on the fourth floor—my floor.
She points her finger upward. “I’m the next stop.”
“You’re not off the hook. I’ll catch you later.”
“You will?” she blurts as I step off the elevator.
“Yep.” I don’t turn back.
Dr. Warren, my intern, glances up from his tablet, peering over my shoulder as the elevator doors close behind me. “Dorothy Mayhem. Now there’s an odd duck.”
Mayhem? I keep my amusement to myself. Dorothy seems like an oxymoron to Mayhem.
“Odd how?” I brush past him toward my lab, and he follows right on my heels.
“She has like a million pairs of tennis shoes and they always match her undershirt. I saw her in the cafeteria last Sunday, eating lunch. She had a red metal lunch box, all prim and proper looking on one side, but the other side was covered in stickers. Decals … like Nike and Taylor Swift. I tried to say something to her, but she had earbuds in and was reading some textbook. Willow said she’s on the spectrum. I can totally see that. I once dated an Aspie. It lasted all of two weeks. Damn eager to please in bed, so it wasn’t completely awful.”
“You’re a dick. Did you know that?” I swipe my badge to open the lab door.
“I’m just saying … it’s a tough personality. Grating and annoying.”
“It’s ASD, not Aspie, and you’re annoying me. Does that mean you’re on the spectrum?”
He chuckles. “Point made. I was just making conversation. Don’t get me wrong. She’s cute. Kinda has that innocent sex appeal. Plain but forbidden in some ways.”
I pull up the previous day’s test results on my laptop. “Placebo is performing better. Go figure. Tell me why the placebo is performing better, and I’ll forgive you for being a dick.”
Warren deflates as I smirk at him.
No one wants to cure cancer more than me … except Warren. His younger sister died of a malignant brain tumor a year earlier. My motivation isn’t as personal. I just want to stop offering painful and oftentimes false hope to young people who should have their whole lives ahead of them instead of fighting for a chance to have one more Christmas, a high school prom, or the opportunity to fall in love and have their hearts broken.
CHAPTER TWO
Catch and Release
Dorothy
I push bodies and equipment around the hospital the rest of the afternoon. That’s all I do every weekend—push, deliver, wait, return. It doesn’t require in-depth conversation, which is good since conversation is not my best honed skill. Sometimes, I deliver mail and lab specimens, but most of that is done digitally. I feel certain the future will have robotic wheelchairs and gurneys to transport patients without the assistance of an actual human—like autonomous cars.
With one year left of nursing school, I want to work in plastics. But after talking with Dr. Hawkins, I’m reconsidering my goals. Dr. Elijah Hawkins, pediatric oncologist, complimented my shoes. And what was that promise of later? Later when?
Today?
Tomorrow?
The dilemma plays out as different scenarios in my mind. I consider finding him to see if he wants to set a specific time to discuss my being on a hook. After one brief encounter, I’m indebted to him for some unknown reason.
I push Gavin Hamlin’s wheelchair back to his room after his MRI. He’s twelve and doesn’t say much. He has a tumor in the upper right quadrant of his brain—probably not cancer. They’re unsure if surgery is an option. I transported him three times last week.
If they find out it is cancer, then he might have Dr. Hawkins as his oncologist. And for a full second I think this would be great because then I might get to see Dr. Hawkins more often if Gavin needs more tests. But right after that second passes, I think, “What the fuck just went through my mind?”
The upside to this young kid having cancer!
Not a finer moment for me.
See, my parents think I need to put myself out there and be more available, but after one interaction with the hottest doctor in the hospital, I’ve let my thoughts seep into the darkness, wishing death sentences upon young kids. What’s next? Running through the halls, telling all of the kids the Easter Bunny isn’t real and that most of them with rare cancers will not live another five years?
“Do you think I’m going to die? I mean … it’s a tumor. In my brain. It’s going to kill me, right?”
“I’m not your doctor.” It’s not my job to discuss medical information with patients. It’s not really my job to discuss anything with them. But kids don’t know one set of scrubs from another, so sometimes I field these life and death questions.
“Yeah, but you work here. I’m sure you see this a lot.”
“Sick kids? Yeah. I see a lot of sick kids. But not all of them die. Most live. That’s all you need to think about.”
I make conscious efforts to censor every word I say to kids at the hospital
. My mind abandons all emotion when asked questions that have factual answers.
Neat and tidy.
Black and white.
Only, kids don’t do well with the truth. Scratch that. Parents don’t do well with the truth.
Lie to my child. I don’t want to scare them.
Code for: I’m not ready to face reality.
I can’t imagine having children. Keeping track of my own shit, my own issues, and my own anxiety gobbles up all twenty-four hours.
“Why do you think I have this tumor?”
“Because you have cells in your body that are dividing at an excessively rapid rate.”
“Duh … but why?”
Before I can entertain him with my theories—based on solid research by some of the world’s leading doctors and medical researchers—his parents greet him just outside of his room. I give them a smile and make sure he gets safely back into his bed.
Several hours later, I take a quick break to get a coffee from the cafeteria. And talk about timing … Dr. Hawkins is in front of me in line. He doesn’t see me because of that unfortunate evolutionary flaw in humans—no eyes in the back of our heads.
My mouth falls open to say something, but then I clamp my jaw shut and replay the dialogue in my head one more time to make sure it’s not stupid.
“Hey, Dr. Hawkins. I have ten minutes if you want to catch me now.”
Catch me now … hmm. I’m not sure that’s what I mean or he meant. But since I don’t really know what he meant—
Whoa! Dear lord he smells good.
Like herbaceous good. Not woodsy, vomit-worthy cologne stench. More like he rolled around in a patch of my dad’s herbs, that kind of herbaceous good. Maybe … rosemary?
I lean in and take a generous whiff. “Fuck!” I yell as his elbow lands in my nose when he turns to reach for a wood stirring stick.
“Shit!” He jumps forward, arching his back after I spill my hot coffee down his backside—but only because he elbowed me in the nose.
My eyes see stars and burn with those unavoidable tears that always spring out the instant someone rams you in the nose. I look at my hand.
