Chapter 13 #2
The irony of this conversation was not lost on me.
A small shiver raced down my spine as my thoughts automatically recalled a vision of Nico and the words we’d exchanged just moments ago, words of mutual respect.
Then I thought of his soft, yielding lips on mine when he kissed me goodbye.
My stomach dropped and I experienced a brief moment of vertigo.
I wasn’t an idiot. My tangled feelings for Nico were more than a need to exorcise pent-up sexual frustration.
Furthermore, I knew that engaging in benefit sessions with Dr. Ken Miles wouldn’t erase my desire for Nico.
I just hoped it would dull the building ache a little by scratching the most pressing itch.
I reflected with some optimism that maybe after a few sexual encounters with Dr. Ken Miles, I might be able to interact with Nico without massive, crush induced, fumbling female failure. Then maybe I could get some sleep.
“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, I’m still interested.”
And, really, why not? Dr. Ken Miles was still disease free, and he had a really nice body. Hopefully, he knew how to use it.
Dr. Ken Miles studied me, his hands on his hips. “Do you really think that once we start dating…?”
“It wouldn’t be dating.”
“Once we start whatever, do you really think that you won’t want to get serious?
Do you think you can resist getting serious with me?
” To his discredit, he appeared to be completely perplexed by the notion that someone would want him only for his fine body, and not his insipid little mind or potential bank account.
I recalled his propensity for frappuccinos, his secretive nose picking, his hall monitor-like behavior, his complete lack of humor, and his most recent prissy jealousy attack.
I schooled my expression to be as serious as a heart attack. “I’m pretty sure I can contain myself.”
Synchronizing schedules with Dr. Ken Miles was like trying to pee upside down: nearly impossible, horribly uncomfortable, and entirely frustrating.
When we emerged from the infusion room, we had three trysts scheduled.
The first one was scheduled for three weeks from Thursday; it was the first evening we both had off where neither of us already had plans.
For our first meetup, Dr. Ken Miles insisted—and I reluctantly agreed—on taking me out to dinner before commencing with the benefits portion of the evening.
I wasn’t happy with the concession, but he, in turn, agreed that we would only have to share the one meal together for the duration of our interactions.
If I didn’t want to watch him eat in the future, I wouldn’t have to. It seemed like a fair trade.
The rest of my Monday workday was fairly benign.
I encountered only a few broken bones, cuts, and cases of the flu in the emergency room.
I avoided Meg, ate in the doctor’s lounge, and knit a baby hat.
Between large projects, I frequently knit hats for the newborns.
They are fast and thus give me a sense of completion, and I have the pattern memorized.
It also gives me a little thrill to see the hats on the infants when they leave the hospital.
I was able to leave the hospital on time after my double shift was over, which was a rarity.
I wasn’t looking forward to my evening alone in the apartment.
It would likely be spent trying to drown out fantasies of Nico and the weird shortness of breath I was beginning to associate with thoughts of him.
I pulled on my coat, hat, and gloves. Now that I was no longer busy with the day’s tasks and with taking care of others, the first inklings of decisional doubt and regret began to plague me.
I had a vague impression that was quickly morphing into a very large, Godzilla-like monster of a feeling that I’d made a monumental mistake agreeing to a benefits-only relationship with Dr. Ken Miles.
I was wrestling with myself about the decision.
From one perspective, it made a lot of sense: sex, no feelings to hurt, total honesty, itch scratched.
But, from a different perspective, the perspective that liked to pretend from time to time that I was a decent human being, the agreement was making me feel like a piece of foolish poo.
The internal stubborn versus pigheaded struggle for dominance warred within me as I distractedly strolled to the hospital exit, and it followed me outside, but my brain froze as soon as I stepped onto the pavement.
My paralyzed state wasn’t due to the biting April wind that pelted my face as one might guess. Rather, it was due to the crowd of photographers loitering along the length of sidewalk outside the main ER doors.
I locked eyes with one of the crowd and he, only hesitating for a split second, lifted his camera and started snapping pictures as he jogged toward me.
His sudden movement alerted the rest of the paparazzi.
The first man’s head start was soon usurped by a younger, seemingly more athletic photographer.
I heard one of them shout, “It’s her—Nico’s girlfriend!”
Thankfully, my wits returned before they reached my position. I backed up three steps and darted back into the ER, jogged through the double doors marked Staff Only, and stepped into a vacant clinic room. I shut the door behind me and leaned my forehead against the partition.
I was wrong. Mondays were so much worse than Sundays.