Perfectly Adequate(17)
“What is the lesbian talk?”
He scratches his head, leaving more dirt in places it doesn’t belong. “Rewind, since I’m not really sure what that is. How do I flirt with girls? Well, very carefully if I want to keep my nuts intact. Your mom acts like a confident woman, but she has a lethal jealous bone.”
“How did you flirt with Mom?” I sit on the edge of the opposing garden bed.
“Are you asking me how to flirt? Again, this might be a subject that you should discuss with your mom.”
“No. I don’t need to flirt. I’m sure I can flirt if the situation arises. I’m just wondering if this doctor at the hospital has been flirting with me. I’m sure he hasn’t been flirting with me because he’s older and really successful and his ex-wife is my idol, but while I was walking, the thought came to mind. But …” I shake my head. “Just forget I asked.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing … I don’t know. He just smiles at me … a lot. Maybe excessively. I’m not sure.”
Dad chuckles. “Remind me again why you’re having this conversation with me?”
“Because you’re a guy. Who better to know how guys flirt?”
“Okay, sweetheart. If I’m going to be honest with you, then I have to confess that I’m no longer an expert on flirting. Your mother beat that out of me years ago. I walk straight lines, with a straight face, looking straight ahead at her—the only woman for me.”
“Bullshit. What about your favorite waitress at The City Grill? I’ve watched Mom elbow you in the ribs at least a hundred times. I just always miss what you do to make her react like that.”
The latch to the back-screen door clicks. Mom has two bottles of beer and a fruity wine cooler. “He looks at her boobs when she’s taking our order and watches her ass when she leaves the table.” She hands a beer to Dad and the wine cooler to me before frowning at the brown basket of harvested goods—four small tomatoes, a tiny head of cabbage, and a gum-ball sized onion.
“Lies. All lies.” Dad shakes his head just before wrapping his mouth around the amber bottle’s neck.
“How did you get on this topic?” Mom asks, squinting against the setting sun while swatting at a fly.
“A doctor has eyes for our Dorothy.” Dad winks. “If he hurts my baby, he’ll get his ass handed to him.”
I spit out my drink, earning me two unappreciative scowls from my parents wiping at the splattered wine cooler and saliva on them. “Oh my god! You have to rock three times to get enough momentum to get out of the recliner. I don’t see you handing Dr. Hawkins his ass. He’s at least six-four and much younger. And I heard someone say he’s done the Iron Man competition.”
“Whoa … wait.” Mom peels her index finger from her bottle and points it toward me. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same doctor who invited you to dinner, would it? A young, athletic, and tall doctor. Tell me more, Dorothy.” My mom taps her mouth with the beer bottle to hide her smirk.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Is he cute? Did you tell him you’re a vegetarian?” She nudges my dad’s elbow. Why? I don’t know. Is she asking him to answer her question?
“His wife … ex-wife is Dr. Julie Hathaway.”
My parents look at each other with wide eyes before sharing knowing expressions with me.
“Boss Bitch?” Mom asks.
I nod with a grin. Dr. Julie Hathaway isn’t a new name in our house. She’s a familiar fixation of mine. I try to emulate her confidence every single day … with little success. Dr. Hathaway knows her stuff, owns her job like a bad-ass, speaks with intelligence and authority, yet focuses her goals around surgeries that give children a sense of confidence and belonging. She heals them in ways that go way beyond surgery.
“Yes.” I sigh.
“So Roman is her son?”
For a high-functioning person, it shouldn’t take me so long to really think about that. Dr. Hawkins asking me to babysit his son is—on a mind-numbing scale—the equivalent of asking me to look after a piece of my idol. Quite possibly the most important piece of her life.
I’m nauseous, so nauseous I have to sprint to my room, take out another new journal, and list all of my fears. My predictions never come to fruition, so I list every possible fear to prevent anything bad from happening.
Roman gets kidnapped … on my watch.
Roman chokes and dies on a grape … on my watch.
Roman gets attacked by a mountain lion … on my watch …
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mixed Signals and Matching Bibs
Elijah
“Blue or green?” I hold up two shirts as Roman jumps on my bed.
“Boo!”
“Blue it is.” I slip on the short-sleeved shirt and button it while my mini-me giggles with each jump.
The spaghetti is done, resting in a strainer while the sauce simmers on the stove.
Salad in the fridge.
Roman’s favorite homemade cherry popsicles in the freezer for dessert.
Why am I so nervous I can barely button my shirt? Oh, that’s right. I haven’t been on a date with anyone but Julie. Does six kids in the eighth grade going to a movie together count as a date as long as I held Candice’s hand? God, I hope so. Otherwise, my dating track record is pathetic.