Perfectly Adequate(9)
“I want her lab results ASAP.”
“You got it.” He tucks his phone into the pocket of his coat and slips out of the lab.
My brain hurts more than my burnt ass. Warren and Dorothy. Dorothy and emus. Willa is Willow. Willow wants to hump my leg.
*
Thursday night, Julie picks up Roman. Her mom watches him while she works—because only his awful father sends him to daycare … which he happens to love.
Friday morning I arrive early to the hospital and park by the entrance where Dorothy gave me the bag of clothes. I may have pried a little to see what time her shift starts, and I may have been told that she usually arrives thirty minutes early for her twelve-hour shift that begins at 8:00 a.m. So I arrive by 7:15 to play it safe and not miss her.
At exactly 7:30 a.m., a white Audi Q5 zooms past my blue Tesla and makes a ninety-degree turn into a parking spot. How did it not crash into the car next to it? A miracle.
“Damn … didn’t see that coming,” I whisper to myself when Dorothy emerges from the vehicle—blue scrubs, pink undershirt, matching pink tennis shoes. She curls her dark hair behind her ears, hikes her bag onto her shoulder, and shuts the door.
Dorothy Mayhem drives a luxury car like a bat out of Hell. On all accounts, I’m in shock. It takes me a few seconds to close my gaping mouth and climb out of my vehicle.
“Good morning.”
She turns just before the entrance. “Oh, hey! Good morning.”
“That was quite the parking job.”
Her gaze flits to her car. “Thanks. I’ve had a few issues with parking. So once I got my Q5, I decided to slow it down a bit.”
I try not to react, but I feel my eyebrows inching up my forehead all on their own. That was her slowed-down version of parking? “Here. You really should not have done what you did last week. So the least I can do is give you this.” I hand her the thank-you card. “By the way, Roman loves the cape. Wears it all the time. You hit a home run with that gift.”
“What’s this?” She takes the card from me.
I feel stupid. Is the card a bad idea? Do people no longer give thank-you cards? Is everything communicated via text and email? “It’s uh…” I slip my hands into the pockets of my gray pants “…a thank-you card.”
“Oh.” She inspects it. “Should I open it now? Or do you want me to wait?”
I have no clue. Now, so she’ll see my number? (Thanks, Mom.) Or later, so she doesn’t have to acknowledge my phone number? Since common sense has a tradition of arriving late to the party, I want to pluck that thank-you card from her hand and buy a new one that doesn’t have my phone number scrawled on the inside of it.
“Oh. It doesn’t matter. Whenever.”
She shrugs and rips it open, making my stomach twist with regret. The phone number was a terrible idea. (Really … thanks, Mom.)
I can’t stand here like an idiot waiting for her to react. “Thanks again. I’d better get to my office. I have rounds soon.” Slipping past her, I breeze through the automatic doors.
“Is this your phone number?”
I stop. Closing my eyes, I curse my mom and her terrible idea … that I didn’t have to take, but she’s smart and usually right, so … “Uh, yeah.” I cringe, unable to turn around like a grown man and face her.
“I’m in school during the week, and I work twelve-hour shifts over the weekend, but—”
“No.” I turn, feigning confidence mixed with indifference. “It was stupid and impulsive of me. I’m not really sure why I felt compelled to do it. Just—”
“No. I mean … as long as it’s after lecture and clinical during the week. Or I guess if you’re thinking late on the weekends. I can totally babysit Roman for you.”
Oh, for the love of …
I’m just that oblivious to reality. I have been since the day my wife left me. How can I be just that stupid? Dorothy is younger than me. Of course she thinks I’m looking for a babysitter, not a date. Dr. Warren is closer to her age. And what a dick move of me to even leave my number after Dr. Even Bigger Dick asked her out.
“You uh … have a lot on your plate. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to babysit my son.”
“Well …” She waves the thank-you card. “Clearly, you thought of it at some point.”
Nope. Just thought we’d grab a drink this week while Julie has Roman.
“My intern said he asked you out.” If in doubt, throw your intern under the bus. When you fail at properly asking a woman out on a date, you move to plan B—discuss other men who are waiting for her to answer their date invitation.
I’m clueless. Maybe I should stick to looking for a cure for cancer. I honestly think it might be easier than asking Dorothy out on a date.
“Dr. Warren.” Her face scrunches. “Yeah, I’m not sure about him. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t know what we might discuss. And there are rumors that he’s the hospital’s man-whore, which makes his invitation to take me out on a date that doesn’t involve the on-call room feel a little suspicious.”
Her lips twist. “On the other hand, I’ve heard he’s good at what he does.”
“Mmm … yes. Dr. Warren is an excellent doctor.”