Asher #3
“Why are you so mean?” she teases, but the jest loses its effect when her voice trembles around the words. More quietly, she
adds, “It’s not you. I just don’t like talking about this.”
“Hmm.” I squeeze tight. “Subject change?”
“Yes, please.”
I reach for something else—anything else—and come up with, “So was I super awkward when I turned her down?”
Her breathy laughter warms my chest. “No. You were sweet about it, as usual. But the qualifying . . . Bro, that’s a bad look.”
“Almost as bad as any girl would be lucky to have you, right?”
She smacks my back. “Shut up.” Her pager dings, and she pulls away. “Sorry. I’m supposed to relieve Kevin for lunch.”
“Lunch?” I check my phone. “It’s only ten twenty-four.”
She shrugs and wipes her face. “Rolling lunches. The OR stops for no man.”
“You’re still riding with me to Yayoi’s birthday dinner, yeah?”
She nods.
I touch her soft, soft cheek. “You going to be okay?”
Her grin is forced, but at least it exists. “I always am.”
Yayoi’s birthday is always the one we celebrate the quietest. She doesn’t like big parties or large crowds or attention in
general. Honestly, getting her out for an early four-person dinner is about as wild as she’s willing to get.
After abandoning my scrubs for the less comfortable street clothes I brought to work, I head out to the parking lot. Jocelyn
is already leaning on my truck, mint-colored dress sifting in the breeze. Wonder if she’s moved past our little blip in the
sterile hallway. Should I bring it up? Gloss over it? Let her lead the way?
Her attention is riveted to her phone. Probably planning another hookup. Don’t love the way that feels like fishing hooks
between my ribs. Ignore, ignore, ignore.
I parked by the pond. Always do—because ducks. And I’m not disappointed. Three of them are waddling by the shore, eyeing me
as I pass.
“I don’t have any snacks today, friends,” I say.
Joss looks up from her phone and frowns at me, then catches sight of the ducks and chuckles, her mischief firmly back in place.
“Have you married them yet?”
Ah. So we’re glossing over it, I see. She swings around to the passenger side.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “It was a quiet ceremony. Family only.” The truck unlocks automatically as I pull the handle.
She hops in. “And here I thought I’d be your best man.”
“Ha ha.” The engine roars to life and I slip my wallet from my back pocket—so annoying to sit on it—before doing a double
take on her face. “Why are you staring at me?”
“No reason.” She shrugs but doesn’t look away.
Suspicious, I shift the vehicle to Reverse, and the backup camera view pops up on my center display.
A scream rips through my throat. Shrill. Embarrassingly feminine. My heart jumps clean out of my chest.
Amidst the multicolor guidelines, the horrifying image of Samara from The Ring emerging from her well glows on the screen.
Jocelyn howls in laughter so hard it’s soundless, and joyous tears sparkle in her eyes. It takes me a few more seconds to
verify the image is frozen on the screen and not, in fact, coming to murder me.
I turn on her. “You! What is this?”
Her shoulders shake and she covers her face, still lost to mirth. “I taped it to your backup camera,” she gasps through the
laughs.
“Truce!” I declare. “I call a truce. No more pranks, dear god, please.”
Her expression lights up in pure venomous delight. “I win?”
“You win. Take the throne. Please get this off the screen.”
My gaze lands on the image again and I squeeze my eyes shut. So manly. Dr. White would have a field day with this. She chuckles
a little longer and swings herself out of the truck. Out of my peripheral vision, her fingers paw at the image, but I don’t
dare look.
Hate Samara.
Hate her well.
The whole premise of scary movies is that it’s all fine. It’s in the TV. No big deal. Then she comes out of the fucking TV.
My heart is still near jogging rate when Jocelyn returns to the truck, cackling. I shoot her puppy-dog face, and she wilts.
“I’m sorry.” She scratches behind my ear like I’m a real dog. “Will you forgive me?”
“You’re buying my dinner tonight.”
She sighs. “Fine.”
When I try to back up, the truck won’t go, and she laughs again, releasing the emergency break. “Safety first, Asher. Duh.
Couldn’t have you slamming on the gas in sheer terror.”
Frustrating, heart attack–inducing woman.
“I can’t believe you caved,” she says once we’re on the road.
“You know all my weak spots, and you’re willing to fight dirty. It isn’t fair.”
Her smile is pure devilry. “You wanted fair, you should have put down rules.”
A fine point, really. Oh, well. You live, you learn, and I’ve internalized my lesson. Never engage Jocelyn Mattox in a battle
of pranks. She’s not above making me pee my pants.
Roosevelt’s is a small gastropub, part hipster-industrial chic and part prohibition-era speakeasy. They locally source their
menu and specialize in craft beer.
Yayoi loves it. She gets this thing called the Roosemelt that’s basically a grilled cheese for DINKs.
When Jocelyn and I arrive, the place is slammed, but Yayoi and Geoff are already seated and have drinks. As I slide into the
booth, Jocelyn beside me, I tilt my head at the three empty glasses in front of Geoff and the single cup of water before Yayoi.
She shoves a pee stick in our faces. “Happy birthday to me!”
The extremely faint positive pregnancy test is wrestled from her hands by Joss, who gasps. “Really?”
At Yayoi’s nod, Jocelyn jumps from her seat and bear hugs Yayoi.
I raise my eyebrows at Geoff. “That was quick. Congrats, bro.”
He chugs the rest of his fancy beer and jiggles it in the air toward a person I assume is our server. “Another, please?”
“You okay there?” I ask.
“I don’t know how to be a dad,” he whispers.
The server arrives at our table, and Jocelyn returns to her seat, asking about the beer selections.
“I told you, honey.” Yayoi throws her arms around Geoff. “You’re going to be the best daddy of all time.”
“Who’s your OB?” I point at a stout when it’s my turn to order.
Geoff straightens. “Nuh-uhh! No way!”
Taken aback, I lay my menu on the table between us. “No way what?”
“No way are you delivering my baby.”
The server takes that moment to slink away.
I blink at Geoff and laugh. “I didn’t say—”
“No way are you allowed anywhere near her area, Foley.”
I put my hands up. “I wasn’t suggesting . . .”
Geoff takes a swig of water. “I don’t care how clinical it is. It’s still not happening.”
Jocelyn folds her arms on the table, laughing. “You know, it would be nice to have an in with your own gynecologist. Can’t
ask a stranger to take a picture of the inside and show it to you.”
I snort so loud, they all look at me. “You want a picture of your insides?”
She lifts her hands in defense. “It would be cool to know what my own cervix looks like. I know some of them are prettier than others. I want to know where mine ranks.”
Her eyebrow rises.
My insides disappear.
I glance at the others. The table. Behind me. Does she mean . . . She can’t really mean . . .
“I can’t help you with that,” I say. Why is my voice weird?
She frowns, perfect platinum waves shifting as her head cocks. “I’m not asking you to.”
“Then why did you look at me?”
She moves her hand in a circle. Am I supposed to be making some connection here? Because literally nothing is linking up.
I’ve gone utterly stupid.
“You’re a gynecologist,” she says. “You deal with lots of cervixes. Cervices?” She shakes her head. “More than one cervix.”
I’m picturing it. Not clinically. Not gynecologically.
I’m picturing her naked. Spread open. The way a man pictures a woman he wants.
Stop picturing it!
Ears are ringing. Hum of the restaurant disappears. Darkness closes inward. Atmospheric Edison bulbs on the chandelier above
us prove useless. What is happening right now?
My voice cracks. “I’m going to be real frank right now. I mean this in the friendliest way possible, but I cannot be your gynecologist.”
Yayoi barely restrains her laughter.
Joss’s frown turns into a full scowl. “What’s wrong with you? I never asked you to be my gynecologist.”
Geoff chortles around another gulp of water. “Yeah, when you finally let him put something inside you, I highly doubt it will
be a speculum.”
My entire body freezes. Joss’s eyes go wide. Geoff slaps a hand over his mouth while Yayoi smacks his arm.
“I take it back,” Geoff says behind his hand. “Can I take it back? Let’s rewind.”
Yayoi sneaks a quick glance at Joss and me. “Sorry,” she whispers, then to Geoff, “How drunk are you, my love?”
“Well—” he picks up a glass “—these are eighteen percent and I’ve had five of them, so . . .”
“He was joking,” I whisper to Joss.
She looks down at the table. “No, he wasn’t.” The waiter sets her beer before her. She slams it.
“I’m sorry,” Geoff says. “Really. It was stupid.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.” Joss slides out of the booth and disappears. Yayoi smacks Geoff on the shoulder once more,
then rushes after her.
I hurl a cardboard coaster at Geoff. “What the fuck?”
“I don’t even know. It just . . . came out.”
“Why the hell would that come out of your mouth?”
He lets out a drunken snort. “Come on, man. You’re single. She’s single. It’s just a matter of time, isn’t it?”
“We’re friends. Just like I am with Yayoi.”
He rolls his eyes and makes quote marks with his hands, then snatches up Yayoi’s phone from the table. He tap-tap-taps before turning the phone to face me. “That is not friends.”
On the screen is the edited version of one of our fake engagement photos. In true Yayoi fashion, she’s glammed it up with
a layer of enchantment, all golden and light filled. It’s the one where we stood close, her hand clenched on my shirt. Half
my face is hidden, nestled against hers. Only the curve of my mouth and chin is visible.
Her face, though. Hers is highlighted. The focus of the picture.