Chapter 5
Pineapple Belongs on Pizza
I’ve got a clipboard with intake forms balanced on my lap and a pen tightly gripped in my right hand.
The tingling in my arm is making me feel like I might drop the pen at any second.
So far, I’ve written my name. It’s a race to see who’s slower—the ER doctors having time to see me, or me managing to fill out these forms.
Finally, I give up and thrust the clipboard at Mark. “Here,” I say as he takes it. Then I dig out my license and insurance card and pass them over as well. “Fill this out for me.”
He sighs, like I’ve put him out.
“It’s seriously the very least you can do.”
“Mmm,” he rumbles. “I’m pretty sure driving you here was the least I could do.”
“No,” I refute. “That was only to stop me from suing you, remember?”
“Ah. Yes. Well, in that case, any allergies?”
“No.”
“Past surgeries?”
“I had my tonsils out when I was eleven,” I tell him.
“Nothing else?” he inquires, his eyes moving to my face.
“Oh my god! Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”
“What?”
“You. Right now. You’re wondering if my boobs are real, aren’t you?” He’s definitely blushing, and I laugh.
“Well, I wasn’t—” he begins.
“You were totally checking them out!”
“That doesn’t mean I was wondering if they were real. Anyway.” He clears his throat. “Nothing else?”
When it’s obvious I’m not going to answer, he mumbles, “Okay then. Nothing else. Medications?”
“Ocella.”
“What?”
“Just write it down. O-C-E-L-L-A.”
“Any of these conditions?” he asks before beginning to read from a standard list.
“Just check ‘No’ for everything.”
“You don’t even know what they’re asking about.”
“It doesn’t matter. I know you can check ‘No’ for everything.”
Mark finishes filling out the forms, then passes the clipboard back to me. I wince as I stand and my arm straightens—Yup, still hurts, I think.
I cross the scuffed linoleum floor, making my way to the desk.
I pass my license and insurance card to the woman seated behind it when I hand over the clipboard.
She’s on the phone, but she flips through the pages to make sure I’ve filled everything out before scanning my license and health insurance card and giving them back.
“You can take a seat,” she mouths to me, with no estimate of how long I’m likely to be waiting. Oh well. It’s not like it would be accurate anyway.
Mark is on his phone when I return. He appears awkwardly large sitting in the hospital’s plastic chairs, which were designed for someone closer to my height than his. I have no idea what his conversation is about, but it seems to have irritated him more than anything I’ve said today has.
“No. Tell that asshole that if it were up to me, I’d have already fired him, contract or no contract.” He pauses, listening. “No. I can’t. I’m busy,” he replies. “No. I’m already sitting in the ER, and this isn’t an emergency.” He hangs up.
“Problems?”
“Just work,” he comments, and there’s a low growl in his voice which seems to only be present when he’s pissed.
“You’re blowing off work for me?” I ask, grinning ear to ear.
“Something like that. You know I can look up that medication you didn’t want to give me details about?” he questions, changing the subject.
“Congratulations. You know how the internet works. I’m very impressed.”
He folds his arms across his chest and scowls.
“Oh god,” I say with a snort. “Just ask me out already. I know you want to.”
“What?”
“You’ve been doing your version of flirting with me since you paid for my books. I already caught you staring at my boobs. You’re definitely interested in me. Stop being a wuss and ask me out already.”
His eyes widen, and for a split second I worry that I’ve gone too far. Then he laughs. “Do you know the last time someone called me a wuss?”
Immediately, I think, Well, given the half of the conversation I heard, whoever you were talking about probably calls you worse on the daily, but that absolutely would be too far, so I settle for a simple, “No.”
“When I was twelve, and I beat the crap out of that kid,” he replies, staring at me levelly, waiting to see if I’ll blink first, I suppose.
“Don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping,” I warn.
A smile ghosts across his face. He’s pretty when he smiles, but so am I.
Appearances can be deceiving. “Alyssa, are you free this Friday?” he asks.
It’s the first time he’s said my name. I don’t even think I’d told him what it was prior to handing him my license and telling him to fill out my intake forms.
“Actually, I do have plans already that day.” I pause long enough for doubt to creep into his expression, then follow up with, “I was planning to wash my hair that night, but I suppose I could rearrange my schedule for you.”
“Alyssa Reed,” a disembodied voice says over a staticky PA system.
“Well. That’s me. Are you waiting around?”
“You have some other way to get back to your car?” Mark inquires.
“Uber?” I say with half a shrug.
“I’ll wait. What do you like to eat?”
“Food?”
“What kind of food?”
“I’m not picky. I’ll eat anything,” I tell him as I stand. “Well. Not fish. I don’t like fish.”
The nurse is impatiently waiting for me near the doors next to the desk.
I follow her through them, down a corridor, past screened-in beds, to my own, and then explain what happened, leaving out the part about Mark sneaking up on me.
Eventually, they take X-rays of my wrist and elbow, ultimately declaring that there are no fractures.
The attending physician expects it’s a bone contusion, which will likely hurt for the next several weeks.
‘Ice and ibuprofen’ are his suggestions.
He does also offer to write me a prescription for naproxen, but I decline.
If worse comes to worst, I’ll have Jeanette write me one for something stronger than naproxen.
Forty minutes later, I’m walking back into the ER waiting room, looking for Mark.
He’s outside the building, pacing. His phone is pressed to his ear once more.
I bet it’s related to the call from earlier.
The exit doors slide open with a hiss as I approach them, and the air smells faintly of exhaust fumes when I step outside.
My elbow is wrapped in a compression bandage, and the attending gave me a sling I probably won’t wear after today, but it’s still throbbing.
That’s just going to be life for a while, unfortunately.
“How many ways are there for me to say no? If he doesn’t sit down and shut the fuck up, I will bench him for the entire season opener,” Mark snaps and then pauses, listening.
“I would rather we lose. Tell him that so he knows I’m serious.
” He turns on his heel and sees me watching.
“I have to go,” he says, abruptly ending the call.
“Don’t let me stop you,” I remark when he comes closer.
“How’s your arm?” he asks, eyeing the sling as he changes the subject from his very dramatic work life once more. His very dramatic work life, which I intend to make exponentially more dramatic.
“Not broken. Exactly like I said.”
“Well, at least there’s some good news,” he mutters. “Are you hungry?”
“If you’re trying to get me to come back to your place with you, the answer is no.”
“I wasn’t. I was trying to figure out if you’d be interested in going out for pizza with me.”
“Oh. I guess I could eat.”
“So, you’re a psychiatrist?” Mark asks, sitting across from me.
“Yes. I thought we’d established that fact. Are you asking if I’m psychoanalyzing you?”
He shrugs as his eyes scan the menu.
“You’re a hockey coach, right?”
As expected, Mark says, “Yes. I thought we’d established that fact. Are you asking if I’m evaluating your on-the-ice potential?”
“No. But you probably looked at me and immediately made some assessment of how coordinated I am—falling off step stools notwithstanding—right? Chances are you subconsciously do that every time you meet someone.”
“So you’re psychoanalyzing me.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “Only a little. Why? Are you worried I manipulated you into asking me out for pizza and whatever you have in mind for Friday?” I’m actually interested in his response.
“No.”
“Okay. You’re worried about something else then,” I say innocently.
“You want to tell me, or you want me to guess?” There’s a bit of a dare to my words.
I don’t think he’ll tell me. But he is right.
I have been psychoanalyzing him the entire time.
He thrives on conflict, and he values competence.
He doesn’t like easy, and he probably grew up in a somewhat abusive household.
Most likely, he feels that love—like respect—isn’t something that’s given, but something that’s earned.
If someone shows him love or affection without what he deems to be a valid, worthwhile reason, he is suspicious of it by default.
But when he falls for someone, he falls hard.
He doesn’t do anything halfway. He’s driven, and even though he coaches a team sport, he prefers to succeed or fail on his own merits.
It’s probably why he coaches rather than plays. He likes to run the show.
“Go ahead and shock me with your insightful nature,” he says, setting the menu aside and focusing on me.
I raise my eyebrows and wait, but he doesn’t take it back.
And like it or not, I need Mark to continue to be fascinated with me.
“You like that I argue with you. You like that I’m not impressed by whatever it is that you do.
It turns you on. You’re probably wondering what I’m like in the bedroom.
Will I turn soft and pliant and let you call the shots?
Or will I fight back there too? You’re wondering if I’m this mouthy when I’m naked. I bet…”
I consider my next words, but the slight forward lean to his torso and his eyes locked intently upon mine—pupils blown wide—tell me to keep talking.
“I bet that if I stretched out a foot beneath this table, I wouldn’t need to ask if you’re happy to see me.
I bet that you’re wondering if I was serious when I said earlier that I wouldn’t go home with you tonight.
I bet you’re desperately wishing that you were wearing pants that were just a little bit looser right now. ”
I fall silent, and after several moments, he clears his throat and shifts his weight. I smirk knowingly. “For the record, I was serious.”
“About?” he asks, evidently so distracted he’s already lost the finer points of what I said.
“Going home with you tonight. I won’t.”
“Why not? If you don’t mind me asking. You’re clearly as interested in me as I am in you. Arguing is obviously foreplay for you as well.”
“For one, I don’t know you. For another, my elbow might not be broken, but it does really hurt. Mostly, I’m not in the mood to screw someone who may as well have pushed me off a step stool today.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the server asking if we’ve decided.
Mark glances at me, and I shrug. He takes that as permission to choose for the both of us and orders a large pepperoni and pineapple pizza.
He would. He likes being contentious. Luckily, I also agree that pineapple belongs on pizza.
“You know I wasn’t intending for you to fall,” Mark tells me when the server has left.
“I know. You’re just a dick.”
He scowls.
“What? Are you going to tell me I’m wrong? You are, and you know it. You enjoy it. Tell me I’m wrong.” I wait a moment, but he says nothing. “That’s what I thought. So. What are we doing on Friday?”
“How do you feel about concerts?”