Asher #2
But seriously. When did I get so . . . needy?
Don’t like it. Not at all.
What is this . . . squirmy feeling that likes to linger in the dark places?
“You sure this girl wasn’t just leading you on?” Joss asks.
I’ve considered that. Disregarded it, too. “Grace wouldn’t do that. She just thought I was joking when I flirted.”
Skeptical Joss emerges. “I don’t buy it.”
It’s true, though.
Perhaps I was born with some sort of shroud over my personality, one that tells others I lack depth. Asher Foley is a running
joke. Not serious boyfriend material. The funny doctor. A class clown.
A few patients recently left me for my older partner. Why’s that again? I don’t know. Don’t know if I want to know.
Recent comments from nurses and fellow surgeons have me itchy. Implying I’m first-rate fun, but perhaps practice second-rate
medicine?
Never spoken directly, of course.
But are they thinking it?
My statistics are great. Complications low. Patient satisfaction high.
But I feel like an imposter. These weights of inadequacy aren’t particularly light. Who keeps putting them on me?
Oh, right.
Cue Taylor Swift: It’s me. I’m the problem.
I want to laugh it off. Take the invitation from her. Trash it to avoid everything. I shrug instead. “She thought I was joking, and I thought she was shy. It’s not a big deal. It’s just—”
I don’t want to go alone.
Can’t say that.
Not even to Joss.
She doesn’t know all my insecurities. Or . . . I don’t think she does. And I divulge little of my love life to her, just as
she does to me. She knows, however, that my awkward past with the girl who didn’t know I was in love with her is the reason for my strict No Dating At Work policy—something that came up very early in our friendship.
“You’re not going,” Joss says. “It’s not that complicated.”
I look up and give her puppy dog face once more.
Ah. There’s suspicious Joss. Not as fun, this one. “Oh, Ash. What’d you do?”
“I got the invitation this morning. Before I’d thought about it, Maxwell called me—”
“Maxwell DeBakey? That man is so fine . . .”
“You’ve met him once.” Two years ago, he stayed with me when he drove down to Corpus Christi from Dallas for a weekend trip.
She shrugs. “Once was enough to know he’s hot.”
I pat her knee. “He’s married, baby girl.”
“Not in my fantasies, he’s not.”
“Ha. Ha. Aren’t you not into relationships?” I say the last words with air quotes.
She gives me her crooked Joss grin, the one that promises mischief and mayhem. “There you go again, confusing sex with relationships.”
Yep. She’s more than not into relationships. She crosses herself from fear if they come anywhere near.
See? Look at us. Joss and I are burning down stereotypes left and right. She’s a playboy and I’m a romance-novel heroine.
If I wasn’t actively trying to strike the pairing of pussy with weak man from my psyche, I’d be chanting it in my head.
Need a better word for that.
I shake myself. “Whatever. Max is Julian’s best friend. They were together when Max asked if I was coming so he could plan
numbers for the bachelor party—”
“And you said yes, didn’t you? Because you’re incapable of saying no.”
“That is . . . correct.”
“Okaaay.” She tilts her head. “Well, the answer’s obvious, then. I’m coming with you.”
I blink a few times. Didn’t expect that. “What?”
She rolls her eyes and tucks some free strands of hair behind her ear. My gaze catches on the angel wing earrings her sister
gave her—a tribute to their parents.
“You’re nervous enough that you dragged me to this freezing-ass call room in the middle of the night instead of talking about
it at a normal time of day. Like in four hours. When I’m covering your hysterectomy.”
“This is the first time I saw you today—”
She sits tall. “Well, you need moral support, so I’m there.”
“The wedding’s in Florida.”
“Ugh.” She shakes her head. “That excuse for a state shouldn’t even exist. Whatever. I’m still going. I’ll whisper about how
ugly the bride is all day and definitely won’t tell her when she has toilet paper stuck to her shoe. I’ll be completely head
over heels in love with you and pretend like you hung the moon just for me.”
A laugh crawls up my throat. Uncomfortable. Is laughter supposed to feel barbed? “You’ll come to the beach with me and pretend we’re together just so I don’t look pathetic?”
“Isn’t it the best friend’s job to prevent pathetic vibes? You’d do it for me.”
“Yeah, but I love the beach.”
She throws her head back and sighs at the ceiling. “I don’t hate the beach.”
“You won’t even touch the water.”
“The ocean and the beach are not the same thing.”
Yeah, yeah. I learned early that Joss’s bone-deep fear of the ocean and the danger it represents is an immutable portion of
her personality—one she pretends isn’t a key factor in why she lives her life like everything is tenuous and will ultimately
be taken from her. Flying her to a sandbar jutting out from the ass crack of the United States, surrounded by nothing but
water, just so she can shield me from gossip, is selfish. Borderline mean.
I’m being obnoxious.
Man up, Asher.
Jocelyn’s fierce loyalty is her best quality. She’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but her devotion to her friends—that’s
the prettiest thing about her.
Someone should protect her from herself.
“I don’t need a fake date,” I say. “I need a real one or a way to get out of it.”
She shrugs. “Then get a real date. You don’t need me, you know. Anyone would go with you.”
I snort. Not true. But okay. “I can’t invite a stranger on a weekend getaway.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right. Then do what we all do when we mess up. Fake a seizure.”
Laughing again, I scrub my face, willing away the sleepy.
“Listen, Ash.” Her tiny hand lands on my shoulder.
“I have to go to sleep or I will be a grumpy, hollow-eyed hag in the morning. We don’t have to figure this out tonight, but if you want to go, I’ll go with you.
And if the ocean tries to get me, I’m counting on you to Prince Eric my ass back to safety. ”
I pat her cold fingers where they squeeze my shoulder. “All right. Deal. I’ll tame the sea witch, and you can show up the
bride.”
“It’s settled, then,” she says. “Can I go get sleep now?”
“Sure. See you bright and early.” She stands to leave, but I grab her hand. “Hey, Joss?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for this. Seriously.”
She pinches my cheek like she’s a grandma. “Anything for my little snookums.”
“All right.” I roll my eyes. “I see we’re done with the serious portion of the evening.”
“Good night,” she singsongs as she flutters out the door.