2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
J essica
The next week passes in a blur. My dreams are full of gray eyes and warm hands. Twice I give in to temptation and masturbate to the thought of him, once in the shower using my hand-held sprayer set on high and once under the sheets with my pink vibrator. Both times, I call out his name when I come. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know his first name, so I scream, “Dr. West. Yes! Oh, my god, Dr. West,” as I orgasm.
Maybe I am sick, but sick in the mind rather than the body.
When my phone rings on Saturday morning with the name of his office on the screen, I have to check twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Is he calling me?
My knee jiggles with nervous excitement as I accept the call.
It’s not him—of course it’s not.
“Ms. Jones,” his secretary says, her voice rushed and shaky. “We’re so sorry, but we made a mistake when we booked your appointment— I made a mistake, actually. I should have put you down for an annual exam with pap smear, but I left off the pap. I checked and your last one was three years ago. You’re overdue.”
“Oh, I had no idea.”
“Dr. West has a last-minute cancellation today at noon. I know that doesn’t give you a lot of time. Can you make it?”
Pretty sure I’m the only woman in the world who heard they needed a pap smear and responded with a shiver that’s more excitement than anxiety. The doctor-patient relationship is supposed to be professional, sterile, detached. And yet, here I am not dreading this visit. I’m eager. I tell myself it’s for my health, but the sick truth is I’m secretly hoping it’s for more than that.
“Yes,” I agree immediately. “I’ll be there.”
This is it. I’m going to see him again.
By the time my appointment arrives, I’m a bundle of nerves and anticipation. Inside the exam room, I strip quickly and pull on the scratchy paper gown. My movements are so jerky that I rip a small hole in the paper, right over my breast.
Why am I so clumsy?
My phone jangles next to me, ringing its chime that means I’ve gotten a text message. Hoping it’s not Brad harassing me again, I peer down at it.
Sarah: Did you hear back yet?
Jessica: Lol. Chill. I just put in my application yesterday.
Sarah: So that’s a no??
Jessica: No. Not yet.
Sarah: I’m just excited. Once you get to NYC, we can hang all the time. Go on double dates. Finally meet our Mr. Rights.
Jessica: I know. I can’t wait.
Sarah: You won’t miss Chicago?
Jessica: Hate to leave my students, but that’s about it. Nothing else is keeping me here.
Sarah: Assistant Principal Jessica Jones sounds pretty great.
Jessica: It really does. Hey, I’m at the doctor’s. I’ll call you later?
Sarah: Okay! Love you.
Jessica: You too.
I’m smiling as I place the phone back on the table, next to my thigh. Sarah’s my cousin, but we grew up more like sisters. Both only children, we lived blocks away from each other until eighth grade, when her family moved to New York. Even with the distance between us, we’ve stayed close, talking regularly and visiting a couple times a year.
Ever since my parents died when I was in high school, she’s begged me to move out to her, but I’ve said no, hesitant to leave Chicago, the only place I’ve ever known. The place that still holds so many memories of my mom and dad. I thought I’d live here all my life. That I’d find the right guy, settle down, and raise a family, just like my parents did, but the years have flown by and, although I’ve had lots of boyfriends, none of them have stuck. Now, I’m in my late twenties, surrounded by friends with children of their own. The truth is that it’s been hard watching everyone move ahead without me, embracing their adult lives, while I’ve been left standing out in the cold. At this point, I’m losing hope that my soulmate will ever show up.
The door swings open, and my head snaps toward it, expecting to see him walk in. I’m disappointed to find it’s not Dr. West but his super-attractive nurse. She’s blonde and curvy and does the top three buttons of her shirt really need to be unbuttoned? Jealousy claws at my stomach.
Stop it, I admonish myself. Dr. West isn’t mine. I’m not even sure what went on the last time I was here, but it definitely didn’t mean anything. So what if he’d given me the best orgasm of my life without even taking off his clothing? That didn’t make us boyfriend and girlfriend. I had no right to be envious of his nurse.
But still, I wonder what exactly is their relationship? Is he using those magic fingers on her too?
She smiles brightly and says, “I’m here to get your vital signs, Ms. Jones.” Her shirt rustles as she moves to my side and pulls a blood-pressure cuff off the wall. I read the name tag clipped to her sheer blouse. Nurse T. Jensen, it reads. While I’m staring at the tag, it’s impossible not to notice how the buttons of her shirt strain against her enormous chest. She must be a double-D bra.
I glance down at my own unimpressive B-cups and feel depressed. Why would Dr. West want someone like me when he works next to her all day long?
She attaches the blood-pressure cuff high on my arm and sets her stethoscope in her ears. When she inflates the cuff, it squeezes my arm painfully. I suck in a hiss of pain, wondering if she’s doing it on purpose. Is it possible that she’s as threatened by me as I am by her? That can’t be it, right?
I’m going crazy. The strange encounter with Dr. West last time has officially driven me insane.
After she finishes with the blood pressure, Nurse Jensen takes my temperature and attaches a clip to my finger to make sure I’m getting enough oxygen.
Once that’s done, she tells me, “The doctor will be in shortly.” Her hips swish as she exits the room.
I’m left alone, shivering on the hard table, because, once again, the air conditioning is turned on high. I lay back and wrap my arms over my chest to shield myself from the blast of Arctic air.
Time stretches out. I hear voices in the hallway, but they fade away. Footsteps pause outside the door, but no one comes in. A phone rings faintly, probably in the lobby at the front desk. This is taking forever. The longer I wait, the more I begin to worry.
What if Dr. West had to leave for an emergency and they’ve assigned a different doctor?
What if he’s cold to me and barely touches me?
What if he’s disgusted by me and how I acted last time?
Adam
It’s my lunch break. I should eat but instead I’m staring at a photo.
Black and white, grainy with age.
It’s from my high-school yearbook. I searched through box after box in the back of my closet after the visit from her , Jessica. For a minute I’d had a rising sense of panic. I’d been worried I threw the damn thing out. It would make sense, really—I hated that yearbook and all the memories it contained. Luckily, I was lazy and never bothered to get rid of it. I found it finally in an old moth-eaten suitcase I’d bought from a thrift store when I was a broke-ass college kid.
The spine cracked with a loud snap when I opened the dusty book. I’d flipped through it, confirming what I’d remembered—that Jessica Jones was on practically every page. There she was leading the freshman welcome rally. There she was, class treasurer, posing with the Student Council. She was feeding the homeless, teaching kids to read, walking rescue dogs during after-school outreach programs.
So shiny I can’t look away from her.
Like the obsessive asshole that I am, I brought the yearbook with me to work today, so I can page through it during this time off. The same way I’d looked at it every night since that odd appointment with Jessica. The one where she— nope . Not thinking about that, a promise I’ve broken every day so far with my dick in my hand.
There’s a knock on my door. I blow out an annoyed sigh, exhaling sharply through my nose. My staff knows not to bother me during this rare thirty minutes of alone time.
I bark out a harsh, “Come in.”
Hayley, the new front office assistant, creeps in like she’s walking into a minefield.
Another burst of irritation. My staff respect me, some even like me, but they’re also scared of me. I’m strict, rigidly professional, and quite frankly, never any fun.
Dr. Benedict, one of my partners, gives each staff member a ribbon-topped mason jar of homemade snack mix for Christmas. She hand writes thank you notes, with personal details inside. I give them each a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. My gift cost at least eighty dollars more than hers, but they always clasp the jars and notes like they’re cherished heirlooms versus the stiff nods and forced smiles I got in return for the cold, hard cash. I don’t get it. Do they not understand basic economics?
No matter. I’m not in the market for friends.
Just an efficiently run medical office.
“What is it?” I ask Hayley with a scowl.
She wrings her hands like they’re wet dishcloths, and she needs to squeeze them dry, “I—I’m so sorry, Dr West. I made a mistake.”
“What?”
“There was a patient…I should have scheduled her for an annual with pap, but I only put her down as an annual. You saw her earlier this week.”
Foreboding stirs. My stomach does a nauseating flip flop. “Which patient?”
“Ms. Jones, sir.”
I hate it when she calls me sir. I’m in my early thirties, hardly a relic.
“Doctor.” I correct automatically.
Her face burns red, “Sorry…doctor.”
I return to staring at Jessica’s photo. Distracted by long blond hair in a high ponytail, I absently tell Hayley, “Reschedule Ms. Jones with Dr. Benedict whenever her first available appointment is. It’s okay if it’s a few weeks from now.” I don’t look up, assuming she hears the dismissal in my tone.
“Um…I can’t sir—doctor.”
Running out of patience, I slam the yearbook closed and spit out, “why not?”
“Because she’s in exam room six. You had a cancellation, so I put her in the spot.”
The air shifts, grows thick, suffocating. My grip tightens around the yearbook, the brittle spine cracking beneath my fingers. My pulse hammers at the base of my throat.
She’s here.
My expression must be thunderous because Hayley squeaks out a quick, “I’m sorry! Did I do the wrong thing? I figured you’d want her back as soon as possible.”
I open my mouth to yell at her, so she never makes such a stupid mistake again when her words hit me.
Want her back.
Fuck. She’s right.
I do want Jessica to come back so I can see her. Not this unsatisfying black-and-white image. No, I want the full color real life woman, warm and soft and moaning.
This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I mutter, reopening the yearbook. It automatically flips to Jessica’s class picture. I’ve looked at it so often, the spine at that page is bent into submission.
I can do this. I can see her without losing my shit.
If only I could convince myself I don’t like Jessica. That I hate her. That I resent her. But hate shouldn’t feel like this. Hate shouldn’t make my skin burn at the thought of her body under mine. Hate shouldn’t have me gripping the edge of my desk, trying to breathe through the memory of how soft she looked that day in my office.
Come on. Hate her.
I take another look at the yearbook. Twenty-three pages she’s on.
Jessica, always Jessica.
Smiling. Perfect. Untouched by the world.
And then there’s me. A single, forgettable square on one lonely page. No clubs. No teams. No adoring captions. A nonentity in the background of her shining, golden existence.
I don’t remember my classmates. But I remember her.
I tell myself it’s resentment that churns in my gut. That it’s injustice, not obsession, twisting my grip around the worn leather cover. That it’s the discrepancy—the overwhelming presence of her and the absence of me —that makes my jaw tighten.
That’s the only reason I keep that penny in my nightstand drawer.
The one she dropped in the parking lot back in high school. The one I picked up. The one I’ve packed and unpacked through college, medical school, residency, bringing it along with me every time I’ve moved like some pathetic memento of a past I should have burned a long time ago.
I should throw it away.
I should throw her away.
But first, I need to strip her of the illusion of perfection. Of everything that made her special. Everything that made her so much better than me.
I need to see her the way I saw her last week—unraveled, helpless. At my mercy.
Yes. That’s the new reality. The new status quo.
This time, I’m in control.
This time, she’ll see me. She’ll feel me. And this time—when I’ve taken everything she once held above me—maybe then, finally, I’ll get her out of my system. I’ll be free.
A knock pulls me from these dark thoughts.
Nurse Jensen, my partner’s wife, steps in with paperwork for me to sign. “What do you have going on tonight, West?”
“The usual. Work out. Trade stocks. Read. Go to bed,” I say truthfully.
She rolls her eyes, well aware of my routine. She’s been trying to set me up with her single friends for years. “You need a wife, or at least a girlfriend,” she scolds, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.
A flashback to high school, the bathroom by the gym. My face pushed into the toilet. How the girls snickered when I walked out with my hair dripping wet, covered in shit. I could’ve fought back, but I didn’t. By that time, I’d realized I couldn’t get kicked out of any more schools. I needed to bend if I wanted to achieve my goals. Still, it lingered to this day. The gleeful sound of them laughing at me. “I don’t need a wife or anyone else.”
She shakes her head, looking at me with something close to pity. “Everyone needs someone, and those little fuck bunnies you spend one night with don’t count.”
I shrug, tired of this conversation. We’ve discussed this topic many times before. “I have needs, and my needs are met. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to see.”
I stand, straightening my coat. Time to put an end to this.
To her hold over me.
To my fucking weakness.
I push open the door and go to exam room six.