That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella (22)

SOM (8:12AM): Girl, you better be dead bc your stupid brother just woke me up at 5AM. CALL HIM BACK





SOM (8:14AM): Plz don’t actually be dead





HARRISON (8:20AM): Tess says you’re hungover, not skull emoji LMK about Sat





Now I’m laughing. These two are too much. My brother and his husband are rising stars in the culinary world. Harrison just opened his own restaurant in downtown Seattle, which has been a smash hit. And Somchai runs a legion of Thai food trucks and takeout eateries. It’s brilliant—gourmet taste at street food prices. They can afford such high quality ingredients by making it all takeaway. No wait staff, no dining room, no cleanup except the kitchen.

Apparently Harrison was asked to be a guest judge on some new cooking show. He jumped at the chance for the free publicity. And he’s always been more comfortable trading on our famous father’s name and connections too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he drags daddy to the taping. Which means that, if I go, I’ll be seated in his shadow when the cameras inevitably pan to him for a closeup. Then I’ll get three weeks of hassle as the tabloids remember I exist.

No thanks.

I type out a quick reply in our group chat.

RACHEL (8:31AM): Not dead. Can’t come bc I gotta work. But good luck kiss face emoji





Spotlight glare is literally the last thing I need right now. A decade of bimonthly therapy has helped me unravel and own my emotions, and I’m not ashamed to admit it: I’m stuck in a rut. Scratch that. I’m depressed. If my therapist doesn’t see marked improvement by my next visit, I think she’s ready to prescribe Prozac.

It wouldn’t be my first time on medication, but this rut is different from my lost years of mid-teens existential angst. This is completely situational. Carolyn assures me I have all the tools I need to work myself out of this darkness without the crutch of medication.

I’m less convinced.

Two months ago, my own career rocket crashed out of the sky. I was in Seattle for my brother’s wedding when I got the news that I lost out on the Barkley Fellowship. The top sports medicine fellowship in the industry, it pairs early career doctors and physical therapists with professional sports teams.

The last three residents Doctor Halla put up for it all won. After their ten-month rotations ended, they were all offered permanent positions. I was supposed to be lucky number four.

Doctor Halla was so sure I would win that he confidently started interviewing for my replacement in the residency program. I had to crawl back from Seattle with my tail between my legs and beg him not to give my spot away. He was kind about it, righteously indignant, swearing he’d never recommend a doctor to their sham of a program again.

So that’s where I’ve been for the last two months: back in my quirky loft apartment in downtown Cincinnati, going through the motions day to day. When I’m not putting in my residency hours at the sport injury clinic, I’m working out or hiding out…until Tess gets fed up and drags me out.

Carolyn might be ready to prescribe Prozac, but Tess has a whole other kind of therapy in mind. Dick therapy. Since I got back from Seattle, she’s been on a mission to get me laid. She thinks a wild night with a guy will cure me of my funk. But just the thought of touching another guy has me cringing.

I go still, my phone balanced in my hand.

Another guy. God, I’m such a mess. As if I already have a guy and Mr. Random Hookup would be the other guy.

I don’t have a guy. Not even close. But hey, a girl can dream, right?

In my case, my nightly dreams are full of only one guy. The guy. My Mystery Boy. I haven’t told anyone about him. Not even Tess, and we share every detail of our dating lives. We met on my last night in Seattle. I was sad about the fellowship and he was sad about his sister’s cancelled flight. We found comfort in each other. Friendship, romance, a total instant connection.

And yeah, we hooked up. It was the best one-night stand of my life. Hell, it was the best sex of my life. I’ve never felt so dialed in to another human soul before. But that’s all it could be for me. One perfect night. No names. No numbers. I woke in the morning and quietly packed my bags, leaving him naked in my bed looking like my every dream.

I’d be lying if I said that missing him wasn’t feeding my depression. I regret not telling him my name. I regret not staying with him longer. He asked me to stay. He wanted me like I wanted him…want him.

I groan, dragging my hand through my messy hair again. I can’t think about Mystery Boy right now. I’ve got to deal with Doctor Halla. I glance back at my phone and see I’ve got a missed call from an unknown number. Area code 212…that’s Manhattan, right? I purse my lips, tapping the text from Doctor H.

DR. HALLA (8:08AM): Price, call me ASAP





DR. HALLA (8:15AM): MISSED CALL





Taking a deep breath, I lift the phone to my ear and tap the little green call button. The dial tone chirps three times before it connects.

I dive right in. “Dr. Halla, so sorry I missed your call—”

“Price, are you here? Come to my office,” he says in that posh, slightly accented voice.

“I—no, sir. I’m not scheduled to come in until this afternoon.”

“Damn. Well, I didn’t want to do this over the phone…”