Chapter Six
I’m hoping it’s not a bad omen that my first week at Lakeview has officially both started and ended with regret. For instance, I regret that I didn’t handle my conversation with my grandmothers about their regrets better.
That they got offended, and we argued about it, and it’s made the entire week harder.
Today’s regret came in the form of standing onstage in front of an audience of senior citizens, wearing a hot-pink T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase “Ask me about my STD.”
Sure, it’s meant somewhat ironically, but I can’t very well convince residents to remove shame and discuss a subject honestly and openly if I shrink away myself. Didn’t mean I wasn’t thanking my lucky stars that no one anywhere near my age was in attendance as I lifted the microphone.
“Hello, everyone.” My pulse is off and running, spreading heat to my face and armpits, and I exhale a shallow breath and adopt my most chipper tone. “My name is Mia Andrews, and I’d like to welcome you to tonight’s Safe Sex Seminar…”
As far as turnout goes, I’m rather impressed at the significant number of residents seated behind tables in the rec room of the community center—those fliers must’ve worked.
Patting myself on the back gets cut short when the hecklers in the third row yell they’re only here for Boozy Bingo, and how long is this going to take?
Not exactly the show of support I hoped for from my grandmother and her friends, but they’ve been rowdy since I declared the event mandatory and dragged them along ten minutes early to help with setup.
That’s not all, though. This is penance for my refusal to hand over control and live out their regrets while drowning in a sea of my own.
I’m trying so hard to throw myself into this new job and move on, but occasionally it slams into me and robs me of air, that loss of my job, my apartment, my entire life and career trajectory.
Sure, it would’ve been nice if Jan mentioned the seminar was on the same day of the week and hour that occupants expected to play bingo, but it’s too late now, so I charge full speed ahead.
I’m halfway through the Four C’s of Sexual Safety when a clang echoes through the gymnasium, followed by the arrival of the doctor with the delicious dimples.
Butterflies careen through my gut as Dr. Vasquez strolls down the middle aisle, casually destroying the age gap I’d been so appreciative of with a wave and an uttered apology about being late.
“For the STD presentation?” Feedback from the microphone creates an awful screech and amplifies the hitch in my breath. “I think you would’ve learned it in medical school.”
Sniggers round the room, sending my internal temperature rising.
The twitch of my thumb clicks past the slides on contraception and communication to land on the section with the obligatory Images of Doom.
In my rush to minimize the renderings until I’m ready—or as ready as anyone can be for inflamed testicles, anyway—I’ve also bumped my laptop and nearly blinded myself with the beam of the projector.
“I mean, thank you, Dr. Vasquez, for coming.”
“That’s what she said,” someone snarks.
I flatten a hand to my brow to combat the glare but can’t pinpoint the rabble-rouser. My damn laptop is lagging, or perhaps it’s the sluggish wifi ruining my chances with the hot doctor as I click the remote and trackpad to no avail.
Taking a step backward helps the searing eyeballs but turns me into a spectacle, half of the image projected on the screen beside me and half on me, and did I mention the drippy dick?
No matter how many times I inhale, my lungs just constrict, constrict, constrict. This wasn’t the performance I practiced last night in the bathroom mirror, fan on, so no one else could hear.
Automatically, I glance to the Cronies for help, only to be greeted with smug expressions that proclaim Dr. Dimples’ attendance is their doing.
And while I’ve often admired the group of powerhouse women, I’m completely drained after a week of contending with them.
Refusing to let one mishap or handsome doctor’s presence snowball, I lift my chin and power on through. “This is chlamydia.”
A groan punctuates the air, followed by a “Dagnabbit, I was lookin’ for B7.”
The crowd roars, and while I can appreciate it’s not at me this time, they continue cracking jokes and requesting bingo spaces.
Then drink orders are hollered out to nobody in particular.
Tom Collins and gin and tonics are very popular, and there’s a lady with her hair in curlers and a scarf over the top insisting on a Sazerac.
I’m not even sure what it is, only that she wants me to “go heavy on the absinthe,” and is that even legal?
That’s about the time I remember I’m the one with the microphone, so I clear my throat and charge on.
“Chlamydia is referred to as the silent disease because most infected people have no symptoms.” I enunciate the words and pop my P’s, demanding respect since they won’t just give it to me.
“Left untreated, it can also lead to burning, swelling, pelvic inflammatory disease, ectopic pregnancy, and infertility.”
“Infertility?” a female retort-wheezes in an incredulous tone. “Honey, that ship’s already sailed.”
“Thank God,” adds a woman seated at the same table as Dr. Vasquez, and I want so badly to look at him and not look at him that my heartbeat thunders through my head.
“Hell, I consider it a good day if I can get an inflammatory situation going in my pants.” That comes from one of the older men at a table near the back, and I’ve not only lost their attention, I’ve completely lost control.
They don’t respect me or want to listen, and I don’t know how to make them.
I’ve bossed around basketball players pushing seven feet and made of solid muscle and acted as a personal drink holder for an assistant coach who really liked to yell.
I’ve coaxed disgruntled penguins out of a pool after a wild party thrown by a Fortune 500 company and then lectured the CEO about proper treatment of animals.
Yet I’d take any of those situations over the one I’m in now, because this is like trying to teach physics to preschoolers.
Dr. Vasquez pushes to his feet, and I’m mortified at the thought of him leaving before I can save my flailing presentation.
He clears his throat, commanding the room so easily I just stare in awe.
“It’s going to be a lot less funny when your genitals end up itchy and oozing, and you have to come see me at the clinic. ”
At that harsh reality check, the laughter and chatter fades, and I’m embarrassed he had to say anything while being grateful he did.
I readjust my laptop so the projection fills the screen and launch into ways to prevent the spread. With my nerves under control, I’m able to navigate much better as I rattle off startling statistics about their demographic.
A tiny sense of accomplishment breaks through once I get through three whole slides in a row, similar to those first magical rays of sunshine after a storm.
Finally, I’ve inspired them to at least listen.
“How much longer?” Wanda asks with a pop of pink bubble gum, and I’m so telling her dentist.
“At least let us start drinking,” Grandma tacks on, and judging by the murmur of enthusiasm, most everyone’s in favor of her suggestion.
Unfortunately for them, I’ve got my feet back under me. I blaze through infections and diseases, complete with accompanying Images of Doom, cover the charts on herpes and hepatitis, to reach the section on reducing the risk.
They don’t all listen, but some do, tuning in and out as they please. Better than nothing, I figure, until several launch into loud discussions with their neighbors. While a few are on topic, the majority involve the weather, gossip, and how many more minutes till Boozy Bingo?
After I cover everything in the last slide of my presentation, I check the time and, despite my qualms, announce we have fifteen minutes left for Q and A.
Then try not to be insulted at the moans and groans I receive in response.
Refusing to lose control of a situation I’ve now got semi-in-hand, I clear my throat and add, “Remember that communication is the gateway to safe discussions about safe sex. So please, don’t be afraid to ask.”
There’s a perceptible shift in the air I don’t understand…
And then, “Yeah, I’ve got a question.” The deep voice rumbles from the back of the room, coming from a guy standing in half shadow as if he’s the Phantom of the Gymnasium.
Something about the timbre and his profile tickles my brain and prickles the hairs on my skin.
His booming footsteps bring him closer, intensifying the skittering beats of my heart. Without sunlight gleaming off the paler strands in his beard, his scruff appears darker—as does his temperament—and I thought he’d been surly before.
Blond and Burly and Dr. Dimples both here at the same time—what are the odds? And as much as I’ve prepared for tonight, whatever he asks, I know I won’t be ready.
With my stomach twisting in knots and my tongue gluing itself to the roof of my mouth, I get a harsh reminder that I’m better at pulling strings behind the scenes. This feels too daunting, even from my raised position onstage.
His lips part, and I tell myself not to focus on how nicely his whiskers frame his rugged features and contrast the soft pink of his mouth.
He thrusts a crumpled paper in the air and, between the neon yellow and the loud, blocky font I changed thirteen times for readability, I instantly recognize the flyer I made and distributed for tonight’s event. “Are you the one telling my grandma she needs to get laid?”
“Noah,” Arlene chides in a harsh whisper, and I’m connecting the familial dots as she throws a hand to her pinkening face.
My response pops out before I can think better of it. “Technically, I’m just teaching her how to get safely laid.”