5. Matty
Chapter five
Matty
The ER was eerily quiet when I returned from lunch. Several nurses worked at the central station at the unit’s heart, while others pecked at keyboards on mobile stations outside patient rooms. Documentation was the bane of our existence. I didn’t fault anyone for not looking up and greeting me as I passed. A free moment to catch up was worth its weight in gold.
Moments didn’t have weight, did they? That sounded funny in my head.
I laughed at myself as I approached the eternal Formica countertop where my hospital bestie sat with her Botoxed brow trying to furrow at something on her screen.
“Hey, Sierra-poo. Whacha doin’?”
A Latina with dark hair that flowed halfway down her back (and front) with eyes that made Superman’s lasers look weak glanced up, though her furrow attempt continued to fail against the power of the cow juice. She flicked her hair back with a swoop of her head and tried to cock a brow, as if questioning why I had disturbed her peace.
Sierra Vega was one hot tamale, both in her Miss America looks and her fiery personality. We started at Piedmont in the same class, which meant we attended the same orientation, and were paired together through much of our first year. Like Omar, Sierra had moved to the mainland from her home in Puerto Rico for college, then stayed when nursing school called. I still didn’t understand how she ended up in Atlanta after studying in Chicago, but Fate worked in wondrous ways.
When a patient was in need, Sierra had the compassion of a thousand mothers. She was the oldest of six siblings—which, according to her, made her a surrogate mother growing up. I wasn’t sure what that entailed when their real mother was very much alive and herding her cats, but that was Sierra’s claim. She talked about her brothers and sisters every day, and I could see a longing in her eyes when she did. It was both beautiful and sad to see someone miss others so deeply. As an only child, I didn’t get it, but I could see it. Something about how her gaze would drift into the distance made my heart ache, too.
When someone riled her up, she had the claws of an angered bear.
I’d been a nurse for five years and had never seen another RN manhandle doctors the way Sierra did. She wasn’t disrespectful, but she also never showed fear or cowed to some of their godlike egos. When she squared off with the worst of them, there was never a doubt about which would look away first.
Sierra’s razor-sharp wit paired well with my general fabulosity. She could be fierce when called for, but she also had the snappiest sense of humor ever given to a human being—well, a human being that wasn’t me, of course.
We were made for each other.
“Sierra-poo? Seriously? That is not an acceptable nickname. You already have a dozen others for me, yes? No, this will not be added to the list.” She raised an index finger and wiggled it in the air. “Just no.”
I let my shoulders slump and put on my best pouty face. “Aw, Sisi-poo, come on. It’s so cute and matches your warm and fuzzy nature.”
Her skin un-fossilized long enough for a scowl to form, then she artlessly changed the subject. “How was lunch? Did you beat the newbie into submission?”
As an ambassador on the hospital’s Warm Welcome Committee, I was one of three staffers tasked with greeting new employees, making them feel welcome, and keeping them from getting lost forever in the bowels of the beast that was our facility. Omar was my assignment, not my target.
My elbows hit the counter so fast I might’ve bruised them. Face in hands, I blinked like a cow staring at the moon. “OMG, Sisi, I’m dying. This one’s so freakin’ cute. He’s Egyptian, the son of a king or something, and he’s so nerdy funny. Did I mention he’s super cute?”
“Yes, you mentioned it. Twice.” She picked up a pen and began clicking the end. “Was this an orientation welcome lunch or a date? You were on the clock, you know?”
“You’re not my Head Nurse, missy.” I waved a hand in the air. “Besides, I’m always on the gay clock.”
She snorted and dropped her pen. If her eyes rolled any harder, I thought her eyeballs might’ve popped out. “Yes, you are always Mister Gay . . . or is that Miss Gay? I am never sure of the English with you people.” She winked and flashed me one of her million-wat smiles that made all the men in bars swoon—that was what straight men did, wasn’t it? “The question, my dearest Matty, is, ‘Is your cute, funny rookie gay?’”
That pulled me upright. Had I assumed because he was a man working as a nurse with babies that he played for the home team? Had I just fallen prey to some false analogy or preconceived notion or micro-aggression prejudice thingie? My mind raced through every HR term I’d ever heard trying to grapple with the idiocy of my assumption that every cute man who looked in my direction dreamed about dick as often as I did.
I thought he’d admitted to being gay during our lunch date, but my mind was so befuddled with black curls and dimples that I couldn’t quite remember. Hell, I couldn’t even think straight.
I chuckled at that. Of course, I couldn’t think straight. Or walk straight. Or do anything straight.
Gross.
My aimless fear resurfaced and tossed aside the silliness that threatened to have lost in a giggle fit.
Was Omar sweet on me? Was he even sweet at all? Sweet, as in wanting a dick shoved up his ass so far he could feel it in his future self? Or he could want to be the shove-er. I would’ve loved that actually.
Whatever.
Did he like shoving . . . with a man? That last part was critical.
Images of my nurse-in-waiting flitted through my mind, curling my lips in a most delicious way.
It wasn’t as though Omar was some football jock whose neck was thicker than his head was wide. He was kind of scrawny—in an adorable way that made me want to squeeze him until he begged for mercy.
Omar didn’t give off gay vibes. His British accent was dreamy, but his vowels weren’t lilting ,and his letter S didn’t drag like a boa behind a drag queen. His gestures didn’t sail through the air like a diva. Those were mine—and I was fabulous—thank you very much.
There were no alarm bells with Omar.
Had my gaydar misfired?
Was it overdue a tune-up?
“Sweet baby Jesus. Have I . . . ?”
“Typecast? Projected? Wished for something without checking to see if it’s real?” Sierra’s grin widened. “It’s not like I, as a strong, brilliant Latina, would know anything about those things.”
“This isn’t your story, Eva Perón,” I snarked. “Back to me, please.”
“She was not Puerto Rican, but I will let that slide this one time because you are in gay distress.” Sierra snorted and draped a terrible British accent around her shoulders like a tattered shawl. “To gay or not to gay, that is the question.”
“I . . . I think so. He didn’t say he wasn’t, and he blinked at me like Bambi watching his mother.”
“Looking at you is like staring into the sun, if you want to be poetic.”
“Aw, Sisi. Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
I put on my best shocked face and clutched my imaginary pearls. “I will have you know men moon over me every day. I may be a lot, but I’m worth it. Just look at how the light shimmers off my curls.”
“Umm-hmm,” was all she said in reply before the screaming of a monitor brought every nurse’s head up to the big board. “Seventeen again. Gotta go. We are not done talking about your cow or baby deer or whatever the hell you decide to call him later.”
She tossed her hair back, then gave me a wink and whisked away to care for her patient.
Wholly unsatisfied by her lack of enthusiasm for my . . . enthusiasm . . . I scooted around the counter and settled into a seat next to Sierra’s and began checking notes for my afternoon routine. For some inexplicable reason, every time I tried to focus on the screen, deep brown eyes, deliciously dark skin, and an awkwardly shy smile invaded my vision.