Asher #2
A playful scream draws my attention as Yayoi topples into the sparkling blue water. Joss throws her hands up in victory.
For half a second, my gaze drops to her perky chest, and something clenches in my stomach.
Don’t like that.
Inappropriate.
That black bikini is a shard of kryptonite, weakening the boundary of Friend Zone.
Because . . . boobs.
Joss’s boobs, though. Different than the normal kind.
Geoff swims to the edge beside me and hoists himself out. “Need a drink?”
I hold up my empty Stella. “Yeah, I’ll take another.”
He returns with a refill and a Natty Light for himself. Like me, Geoff is a country boy at heart. Grew up in the town next
to mine, out in the boonies in Oklahoma. Small world. We wrestled each other in high school. He won State our senior year.
Still holds it over me, the dick.
That we wrestled as teenagers makes Joss endlessly happy.
Early on, she bullied a picture of me in my singlet from my mom.
It’s now my contact photo in her phone. Luckily for me, Jocelyn’s hospital employee photo is the most unflattering picture she’s ever taken, so naturally, it’s her contact photo in my phone.
She once threatened me with a macabre sort of violence if I didn’t delete it. As a ceasefire, I graciously allowed her to
keep the wrestling photo. The conversation went something like:
“Fine. Keep it. You just want to ogle me in the spandex I wore when I was in the best shape of my life.”
Blah, blah. Excuse, excuse. Childish laughter. “Little Asher leans left!”
Ridiculous woman.
“I heard you single-handedly saved a man’s dick yesterday,” I say to Geoff as he settles into the lounge chair beside me.
The dude is rocking a sharp farmer’s tan, the bright sun only accentuating the whiteness of his shoulders and chest.
Geoff cracks the tab of his beer. “It probably would have survived without me. Just . . . less aesthetically pleasing.”
Not the prettiest appendage as it is. Less than ideal to make it uglier. Still, I snort at the picture in my head. “What happened?”
“Skateboarding accident. Straddled a rusty rail.”
Wincing, I quell the urge to protect my groin against invisible threats. “I heard he almost severed it.”
Geoff sighs. Hospital gossip annoys him. Understandable, given it’s usually wrong. “It was a bad laceration, but it wasn’t
severed. It’ll heal okay.”
“Yikes. Who even skateboards anymore?”
“Teenagers.” Geoff downs a quarter of his beer with a loud gulp. “We were all idiots once.”
Some of us still are, I think, but I shake that off.
“How’d you get up on that pedestal, G-spot?
They always call you in for the tough shit.
” Unlike me. I’m bypassed for my more established partners.
How do I get to Geoff level of surgical respect?
It isn’t enough to be a good surgeon with minimal bad outcomes—both
of which I already do. There’s some element I’m missing. Something that shouts Hey! I’m who you call in a crisis!
Would like install chip for said element, please. Will pay nicely.
Geoff shrugs. “The pedestal isn’t always a great place to be. When people think you can do no wrong, it’s inevitably worse
when shit hits the fan.”
I get that. Have made that argument to myself a million times, but . . . still would rather be on the pedestal. Respect is
earned, however, not bought. Should I joke less? Frown more?
What’s the secret?
Joss and Yayoi gather close in the pool, giggling to themselves while Talia floats by on a blow-up raft, pregnant belly shining
in the sun.
I lean closer to Geoff. “Yayoi still on your case about knocking her up?”
He groans. “Frickin’ biologic clock. Starts ticking and suddenly she can’t stop talking about babies. You’re lucky you’re
still keeping it casual.”
Casual. Another word for not serious. Yeah, so, so lucky.
I swallow a large gulp of beer. “You’ve already got the dad bod, bro. Might as well earn it.”
Geoff adopts the mildly panicked look married men develop when their wives talk about wanting children. “Do you think she’d
notice if I gave myself a vasectomy? It’d take five minutes . . .”
“She’d castrate you, dumbass.”
He chuckles. “I know.”
Geoff pretends he’s not ready for kids, but last week he was very drunk. Very drunk Geoff equals very truthful Geoff. He announced
to us all they were trying for a miracle, and they were doing it right now. He then carted Yayoi off to one of my guest rooms, where they stayed until everyone left except Joss.
Yes, I made them launder every scrap of bedding in that room.
Yes, Jocelyn and I spent the entire evening making awkward jokes.
Yes, we watched Knocked Up later that night to poke fun at them.
“Doctor Foley!” I turn toward the table on the porch, populated mainly by OBs. Aaand they’re all looking at me. What’ve I
done?
One of the residents raises a hand in my direction. “Tell them what happened with your delivery yesterday.”
Oh. Ha. This is a good one. I jog over to the table. “Right. Funny story. The dad was a little overeager, right? Every prenatal
visit, he talked about skin-to-skin. Early breastfeeding. The whole thing. So, the patient starts crowning, and the dad yells,
‘Is it time?’ and immediately strips.”
Evie, one of the OB hospitalists, widens her eyes. “Wait. Stripped naked? Like naked naked?”
“Total birthday suit,” I say with a laugh. “So much dong I did not want to see.”
Giggles and exclamations of disbelief burst from everyone at the table.
“So then what happened?” asks the only male resident, Ashesh.
“The respiratory therapist went to turn on the oxygen, not realizing the dude was exposed, and as soon as she sees it, she screeches, ‘Dick! Oh, my god. It’s a dick!’ and the patient yells at him to put his boxers back on, but she can’t stop giggling, so she basically laughs the baby out, and the nurse is so busy throwing clothes at the dad that she doesn’t realize the baby was born, so we had to guess time of delivery. ”
Everyone at the table is laughing, and thus begins a round of OB-GYN Story Time, the classic game of one-upsmanship that can
usually only be beaten by an ER doc.
Should make it into a drinking game. Everyone would win.
A poke in my side draws my attention toward Jocelyn behind me, chewing a giant bite of burger. Her platinum hair is pulled
into a wild, dripping ponytail, and she’s thrown a sheer cover-up over her wet bathing suit.
Good. Don’t really want to be thinking about Joss boobs again. Black bikini is my least favorite. Much prefer tie-dye bikini—far
less pushy-uppy-ness.
“You forgot to buy my pineapple White Claws,” she mumbles around the food.
I rest my shoulder on the wooden pillar beside me. “I forgot, or you did? You know you could pay for your own booze every once in a while.”
A look of deep affront mars her forehead, and she pokes me hard in the stomach. “Treason! Betrayal! I agreed to fly to Florida for you.”
“Ow.” I snap the bathing suit strap over her constellation-tattooed collarbone in retaliation. “I put them in the fridge in
the garage, you monster. Otherwise, you’d complain when everyone else drank them.”
Her eyes light from within. I sort of hate what that does to my insides. Why does making her happy give me internal hives?
Always has, from the moment I met her.
She offers up a contrite smile and sidles closer, walking her fingers up my arm. “Have I mentioned you’re the best?”
Her mock-flirting is masterful. I now have no desire to argue with her. “No. Feel free to gush.”
“Don’t be extra.” Her pointy nail jabs me in the stomach again, and she grins. “Better head to the gym tomorrow, Ash. Getting
a little soft there.”
She skips away before I can strike back. She knows abs are my sore spot when it comes to working out. It takes so much more
than exercise to keep a six-pack. The six-pack lifestyle is . . . restrictive.
I like beer. And Cheez-Its.
Come at me.
I’m in good shape. Decently shredded. With abs that are visible . . . sometimes. Mostly when I’m hungry.
Good enough.
Just like Jocelyn’s tiny ass is good enough, even though she does a million squats each day to change it. When I point out
the reality of genetics, she merely rolls her eyes.
“I just want a little junk back there. I don’t need the whole trunk full. Only a little.”
“And I want to look like The Rock. It ain’t happenin’, girl.”
I find a seat on one of the blue cushioned chairs before the TV and take a long draw on my beer. Against my interior designer’s
wishes, I selected these rocking chairs for comfort. William and Larry, sitting on the matching couch nearby, are still hot
for NASCAR and barely acknowledge my existence. Where are their wives?
Oh, over there in the pool.
When Joss returns with her pineapple White Claw, her bony butt perches on my armrest. “Maybe we skip the gym tomorrow. I like
you a little soft.”
“Oh, don’t start that. You just don’t want to come with.”
She throws a beleaguered glance at the porch ceiling. “You always want to go so early.”
“Maybe I could be persuaded to go a little later.” I squeeze her knee. “You spending the night?”
“Don’t I always?”
She does. Every Saturday. Even if I’m on call. Even if I have a date. Even if she has a date. Jocelyn spends Saturdays at my house. She claimed a bedroom for herself, and everyone knows it’s hers. Joss’s
room.
My Saturday night roommate.
I set my empty bottle on the table beside us and steal a sip of her pineapple girl drink. “I’m not turning the air up to seventy-four
for you this time. Sweated through my sheets last weekend.”
Pink lips curve into a smile and her brown eyes turn mischievous. “I know where the thermostat is.”
Maddening woman.
She shrieks when I scoop her into my arms and deposit her tiny frame into the chair beside mine.
“So how was your date last night?” I ask. “Was the nose ring in his picture as big as it looked?”
“Bigger, actually.”
“Whoa.” That thing was excessive.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, eyebrows risen. “Sadly overcompensating for some things.”
“Bad night, then?”
She shrugs. “I consider it a success when I don’t have to finish myself off.”
Behind a soft chuckle, I shove that mental image right over a cliff in my mind. “So . . . was it a success?”
She shakes her head, sighing dramatically.
“Poor girl.” I pat her hand in jest. “Maybe it’s time to hang up the one-night stands. You could do better.”
“I know I could.” She crosses her arms. “I don’t want to.”
Yeah, yeah. Heard that before. Jocelyn’s anti-intimacy. Sworn off love. She’s not been super forthcoming about why, though. Regardless, it’s so . . . sad. She deserves that movie love.
Everyone does, really.
“I feel like I’m being shamed,” she says with narrowed eyes.
I blink at that. “What?” The furthest thing from my mind is that she should be ashamed, but she always goes back to this.
“That’s not at all— Never mind. Do whatever makes you happy, Joss.”
“What about your love life, Honorable Judge Foley?” She pokes my shoulder.
“I wasn’t judging! I’m never judging.”
She’s all skeptical with her pursed lips and her arched brow. “Mmm-hmm. When was the last time you went on a date, Asher?”
A month ago. Geoff set me up with Yayoi’s cousin. I wasn’t too keen, but it would’ve been rude to stand the woman up, silly
to say no when she invited herself inside my home, and downright stupid not to fuck her when she stripped herself in my bedroom.
Didn’t feel great when she left at 3:00 a.m. with a quick kiss and a “I’m free again Thursday if you want to hook up.”
What else could I say except, “Yeah, sure”?
I didn’t call her. Don’t want a hookup. Want something real.
Is it weird to want that? All my married friends act like I’m so lucky to be alone. Like being a single man means I’m drowning
in sex.
But I’m not. I could be, maybe. I’m not ugly. I’m successful. Women like me.
Sex with strangers loses its appeal after a while, though. Five years ago, sure, but in my mid-thirties, I’m kind of over
it.
I stare at the cars on the screen instead of Joss. This is so boring. Why does anyone like it? “You know about all my dates,” I say. “I’m not keeping secrets.”
“That last girl didn’t do it for you—”
“You mean I didn’t do it for her.”
She scowls. “Fine, but what about all the other ones throwing themselves at you?”
I roll my eyes. “No woman is throwing herself at me.” The only ones I even talk to are at work.
A decorative pillow launches at my face. “They are. You just don’t pay attention. Open your eyes next time you’re at the hospital. You’ll see what I mean.”
I toss the pillow back. “I don’t date people from work. You know this.”
Her laugh is offensively incredulous. “Then just walk down the street! If you call them, they will come.”
God, why did I say that thing at hibachi the other night? She’ll never let this go. I glance at the guys on the couch and
lower my voice. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But you said—”
“Joss.” I meet her eyes, and she shrinks in her seat.
“Okay. I’ll stop. But . . . what exactly are you looking for?”
For a moment, I pause to consider, sipping my beer. What am I looking for? My attention strays to Jocelyn’s face. The pool-frizzed blond wisps at her temples. The tawny brown in her
eyes. The arch of her eyebrows, a few shades darker than her hair.
My heart thumps once, twice, before I shrug. “I’ll know it when I find it.”
She shakes her head like I’m utterly hopeless and raises her can in another toast. “To the search, then.”