Chapter 19 #3
Nico’s eyes flickered over my features; he openly studied me, and his gaze lost most of its warmth in favor of cool annoyance.
After a prolonged moment, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed it on the table, and then he leaned forward on his elbows so that we were just a few inches apart.
“Frank Sinatra once said, ‘I like intelligent women. When you go out, it shouldn’t be a staring contest.’”
I scratched my chin. “I’ve never heard that quote before.”
“That’s because you don’t know anything about Frank Sinatra, just like you don’t know anything about my show.”
“I know you have bimbos dancing around in bikinis.” I felt better and worse as soon as the words were out of my mouth. The gathering thickness in my throat and my sudden irrationality reminded me of our conversation earlier in the week when we’d discussed his girl B.
“No. I don’t.” His features darkened. He looked honestly wounded.
“Really?” I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair. “So those women, they’re not wearing bikinis? What—are they robots? Automatons? Fembots?”
“No. They’re women, and they’re wearing dance costumes. But they’re not bimbos.”
I snorted. “Right.”
He shook his head. “They happen to be very bright, very intelligent women.”
“Who all happen to look like the freaks of nature also known as supermodels.”
“Not all of them look like supermodels. In fact, maybe only one looks like a supermodel.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really, unless you consider yourself a supermodel. Erin, who is a graduate of Columbia with a degree in physics, is shorter than you are. Tamara is about your height and has a master’s in Russian literature from Brown.”
I squirmed in my seat and fiddled with the hem of my scrubs. “You only hire college graduates?”
“No. Cassandra, our lead choreographer, doesn’t have a college degree. But she’s a great dancer and a great mom. I’m also her oldest son’s godfather. So you can imagine how it upsets me when you refer to her as a bimbo.”
I tore my bottom lip between my teeth; my eyes were caught by his disappointed, frustrated scowl.
Before I could respond to this new and interesting information, Nico pushed slightly away from the table and turned his chair so that we were fully facing each other. For a brief moment, I didn’t know if he was going to give me a lecture or kick me out of his apartment.
“If you watched the show, or knew anything about it, you would know that each of my dancers plays a key role.” I sunk lower in my seat as he launched an impassioned defense of his show.
“Three of them are writers on the show. Did you know that?
All of them participate in the skits. In fact, Erin has her own segment called ‘Are you Smarter than a Bikini Model?’ She annihilates her opponents.
We had Franklin Orin on—you know, that famous political scientist, always on the cable news programs?
Well, she killed it; she wiped the floor with him. He was actually really nice about it.
“Over half of our viewership is women. Our main female demographic is between the ages of twenty-two and forty-eight. When asked why they watch the show, they overwhelmingly respond that it portrays women in a positive light.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and huffed. “You have to admit, the commercials do not portray the show to be pro-female.”
“Depends on what your definition of pro-female is. If you think pro-female is having a show where various kinds of women—all different ethnicities, with diverse backgrounds and talents, but also all healthy and in great physical shape—work together to make an exemplary product, then, yes, it is pro-female.”
I blinked, nonplussed. “Your audience is naked!”
“Not the whole audience; just the group closest to the dancers’ stage, and it’s because they choose to be.”
“Come on! All the commercials show you wrestling—half-naked—in tubs of Jell-O. They show your girls doing gymnastics!”
He shrugged, but his grimace betrayed his frustration.
“Gymnastics is an Olympic sport but, I admit, some of the commercials don’t represent the show in the best light.
I don’t make the commercials, and I don’t have control over the marketing team.
They work directly for the network and do what they need to do to bring in viewership. ”
“But you can’t expect me to be ok with what I see on the commercials.”
“That’s a cop-out, Elizabeth. That’s like rating or reviewing a book after reading the first ten pages. Do you really think my sisters or my mother would speak to me if my show marginalized women? More importantly, how can you think so little of me?”
I again squirmed in my chair and stared at the table. I didn’t think so little of him. I thought a lot of him; I thought a great deal of him.
But I didn’t like that he was right and I was wrong. If I were going to form an opinion about something and offer it freely as fact, then I needed to be knowledgeable on the subject.
Nico shook his head as though exasperated. “Women dance around in bikinis on every beach in the United States, and I don’t see you throwing temper tantrums about their behavior.”
I was on the precipice of doing something I’d never done with him before. But the urge—the absolute need—to utter those three little words was so overwhelming, I was surprised I didn’t shout them as they fumbled from my mouth.
“I am sorry.”
Nico blinked at me and was speechless for a moment; he seemed a bit startled. His frown lost some of its severity. “Excuse me? Did you just say…?” Suddenly, he was fighting a smile. “Did Elizabeth Finney just apologize for something—to me?”
I firmed my expression and glanced at the ceiling. “I’m sorry I called them bimbos, because I guess they’re not bimbos. But, despite your excellent point about bikinis on beaches, I still take issue with the bikini prancing.”
He glanced around the room. “Did that just happen? Am I…am I dreaming? No!” He smacked the table with his palm then pointed at me. “A hallucination! I’m hallucinating, right?”
I closed my eyes and completely lost the battle against my laughter.
“Or, the world is coming to an end.” I felt his hand close over mine where I held it guarded in the crook of my elbow, and he pulled it toward him and held it in both of his; he waited until I opened my eyes before he continued.
“You can level with me. Is the world ending? Is the apocalypse upon us? If so, I propose we forget my no-benefits rule and start humping like rabbits.”
“Stop!” Through my chortling and laugh snorts, I attempted to pull my hand from his but he held it hostage.
“No, no, forgive me. Not like rabbits, like Shaw’s jird. Did you know they try to copulate two hundred and forty times an hour?”
“What in God’s name is a Shaw’s jird, and where did you pick up that lovely tidbit?”
Nico tugged my hand until I was upended from my seat. I lost my balance, crashed into him, and landed on his lap. “It’s a Middle Eastern rodent, if you must know. If you watched my show, you would know these things. We cover all sorts of educational topics.”
“Educational for whom?” I tried to right myself even as he tried to arrange my legs so that I was straddling him. “Educational for rodents?”
“No—educational for students of animal behavior.” One of his big hands gripped my hip, pressed me down, held me over his lap; his other arm snaked around my waist. I tried to stand and succeeded only in pressing my boobs against his face.
He nipped at my chest and I pulled back, out of the reach of his mouth, but stopped my halfhearted struggle. “Oh, animal behavior, huh?”
As was our habit, we stared at each other for an extremely tense moment, both breathing perhaps a bit too hard given the briefness of the struggle.
His hands relaxed, and he let one rest perilously close to my bottom.
I could feel through my thin cotton scrubs that our short wrestling match had left him hot and bothered.
His chin and mouth were about two inches from my chest, and he gazed at me with intent——kissing intent.
I gazed deeply into his eyes. My fingers moved to the back of his neck. I licked my lips. His eyes followed the movement.
And then I pulled his hair—hard.
“Ow!” He winced. His hands flew to the back of his head, and I took the opportunity to escape.
I stood and quickly put the table between us. He also stood, still rubbing the back of his head. “Hey. That hurt.”
I lifted my chin and issued my frostiest glare. “I hope so.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Are you mad about something?”
“Yes. No.” I crossed my arms then decided to put them on my hips instead. “I don’t know.”
“Well, when you figure it out, I’d like to know.”
We stood across from each other, the big dining table between us, and I fought to find the source of my fury.
Almost immediately, I knew the answer: I was jealous of girl B.
I was jealous of his dancers. I was jealous of the one he’d dated, girl C.
I was jealous of the obvious respect he shared with the others, of the time they shared with him, of the years, and the friendship.
I was jealous—and I was worried he would guess the truth.
I didn’t know where to look. After a long moment, I sighed, shook my head, and glanced over his shoulder.
“Look. I’m not mad at you. I’m just jumpy because of earlier, and I’m low on sleep because somebody keeps me up at all hours talking on the phone.”
I peeked at him. He was grinning at me with kind, gentle eyes. “Ok then.” He clapped his hands. “Off to bed with you. I’ll take you home.”
“No! I can take myself. I don’t need any more friendly kisses.” I walked to the door, and heard him follow behind me.
“I can give you an unfriendly kiss if you want.”
“No thank you. No kisses, please.”
“Suit yourself.”
I turned as I exited and found him behind me leaning against the door. His four glasses of wine had rendered him delightfully hazy, smiling softly, and looking at me like I was next on the menu.
I swayed forward then caught myself, fisted my hands at my sides to keep from touching him, and averted my eyes. I stomped to the elevator.
“Sweet dreams, Elizabeth!” he called after me.
I didn’t respond. In my jealousy-fueled foul mood, I would probably say something nasty or, worse, something honest.
My wonderful mood lasted through the day Tuesday.
I was suffused with raging jealousy, and the green-eyed monster grew bigger within me every time I thought about those prancing bikini-clad dancers.
I tried to ignore Nico in the morning during Angelica’s 6:00 am infusion.
I did my best to be coolly polite during the 2:00 pm hospital visit.
But he knew and I knew that something was up.
I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that something was up.
And I hated it. I hated that I felt like I was playing games. I didn’t want to play games. I wanted to be honest.
But I couldn’t be honest.
If I were honest, I would tell him that I liked him, and that I wanted to be more than friends.
I would tell him that I wanted exclusive, full-time, 24-7 benefits in a more-than-friends relationship.
I would tell him that I thought about him night and day and that thinking about him had become a second full-time job.
I’d worked myself into an irritation tornado. Therefore, when a pissy Dr. Ken Miles decided to pitch a fit one hour before my shift was over, he was quite lucky I didn’t stab him in the neck with a wooden tongue depressor.
“Well?” he said bitchily, hovering at my shoulder.
That’s right, bitchily.
I was charting in the ER alcove, halfway finished with a discharge summary. I glanced at him, rolled my eyes, and paused the recording.
“What do you want, Dr. Ken Miles?”
He huffed then snorted. “Really? You’re irritated with me?”
I set the phone on the desk, mentally preparing myself for a lecture on my childish behavior or some such nonsense. “What? What is it? What did I do now?”
“Our date is in two days!”
“I told you, it’s not a date. And, about that, I need to cancel….”
“Whatever—you said we’d be exclusive.” He leaned in to whisper. “And then Meg shows me your boyfriend on TV talking all about your ‘relationship’.” He air-quoted this last part.
Add air quoting to the list of things that annoyed me about Dr. Ken Miles.
I stared at him blankly because his words made no sense. “What are you talking about?”
“Like you don’t know.”
“I don’t. What are you talking about?” I was seconds from finding that wooden tongue depressor.
He blinked, his pretty features marred by a severe frown that morphed into confusion, then incredulity. “You don’t know.” It was a statement.
“No. I don’t know. So please stop speaking in riddles. What…are…you…talking…about?”
Dr. Ken Miles pulled out his cell phone and grabbed my hand. I paused a minute to collect my chart, and then I allowed myself to be led away from the alcove to the doctor’s lounge. He fiddled with his screen a bit then shoved a video clip in front of my face.
“Here. Watch this.”
I stared at the paused YouTube clip for a moment, about to tell Dr. Ken Miles that I didn’t have time for this, but then he hit the Play icon and handed the phone to me. It was a clip from an entertainment news program. A hot, leggy reporter was laughing with Nico.
As I watched it, I felt my temperature rise to near lava levels. When it was over, I shoved Dr. Ken Miles’s phone back in his hands and swiftly left the lounge and the hospital.
I decided that the rest of the charting would have to wait. I needed to either go kiss or kill a hot Italian comedian.