Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Devon
The new guy is staring at me like I have three breasts.
He’s still holding my hand in his firm grip and I lift a brow while I count the uncomfortable seconds.
I must look like an ex or something because his green eyes are wide and surprised.
I know it’s not because I look good. I’m a sweaty mess from cleaning and setting up my classroom all morning and I can still smell the Expo cleaner spray on my hands despite the way I scrubbed them.
The kids call it funky cheese spray. And they aren’t wrong.
“This is Jeff,” Kevin says. And the new guy finally snaps out of it and lets go of my hand. I hear Mer clear her throat and I pivot my body so she’s not behind me. I know better than to let Meredith stand behind me. Always keep danger right out in front.
We grab a table toward the back of the bar and Meredith and Kevin flank me while Jeff lags behind. I turn to find him staring back at the door like he might bolt, but then his broad shoulders deflate, and he rounds the table to take the chair across from me.
“How was school?” Kevin asks me.
“Empty. Thank the lord,” I say, realizing too late how that might sound to the new guy. “I had a rough year,” I tell Jeff with a small smile.
He lifts his hands. “No need to explain. My sister’s a teacher,” Jeff says.
I like him already. Teacher relatives are automatic brownie points in my book. But he’s still watching me with that look—faintly surprised and fully amused. There must be something in my teeth. I tighten my lips.
“Kevin, he has a sister,” Mer says, swirling her bourbon. “Maybe you could break your epic dry spell. It’s such a waste that your last name is Johnson and you never use your—"
“Meredith, try not to scare Jeff away,” I say, swatting her thigh.
“Too late,” Jeff says under his breath. Willing to engage in a pissing contest with Mer? I give him another brownie point.
“Speaking of dry spells,” Kevin starts, turning to Jeff, “tell the ladies that story you told me about that woman—from your residency.”
Jeff chokes on his beer. Sprays a little of it onto his scrubs. He shifts in his seat and looks everywhere but at me.
“I’m gonna grab some napkins,” Jeff says, retreating toward the bar.
Meredith immediately leans in, her voice low, but not low enough.
“Umm, is it just me or did Dr. Centerfold hold onto your handshake a little longer than socially acceptable?”
Kevin makes a sound and looks away.
“I’m just saying.” Mer lifts her brows. “Maybe someone’s hot for teacher.”
“Or maybe someone watches too much porn,” I respond. “Besides. He’s a doctor.”
“Right. Your rules. Do you have a rule that says ’I must die alone surrounded by felines’?” Mer asks.
Oooof. Can’t say that one doesn’t hit too close to home.
I have a recurring nightmare about sinking in kitty litter like it’s quicksand.
It’s the number one reason why I don’t get a cat.
I take a big sip of my beer to cover my shiver and spill a little in the process.
I already have a smear of red on my jeans from where a leaking pen attacked me while cleaning out a student’s forgotten pencil case.
I take another long swig, trying to forget how sad it was clearing out my room with none of my colleagues or kids around.
The school is so depressing when it’s empty—like a stuffed animal left behind on a playground.
And though I didn’t want to face my colleagues yet, I miss the energy of being in session. And the laughter.
Jeff comes back to the table with a shot and another beer instead of napkins.
He’s barely in his seat before Kevin tries again.
“Jeff, tell the girls that story,” Kevin says, leaning toward me. “You’ll love this.” He nudges my arm. “Devon loves funny medical antics.”
I so do. It’s probably not something to be proud of, but I can’t get enough of the dumb shit that happens in the hospital.
There’s something about the way the doctors take the most chaotic, ridiculous situations and create order and precision—my brain really likes that.
It’s the same way I feel when I plug a coordinate point into a linear equation and it comes out equivalent.
I wait for Jeff to entertain me, but the color has drained from his face. He shakes his head.
“No. I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to break patient confidentiality,” Jeff says, looking toward the exit again.
Kevin chuckles. “I think it’s a little late for that, man.”
Jeff lets out a long breath and looks up to the ceiling before giving me a sad look.
“It’s ok. Really. You don’t need to tell us,” I say. The guy looks miserable. “Kev, leave him alone. It must be a guy thing,” I say with my nose wrinkled in disgust.
“I promise, Jeff, you can’t offend Devon. And obviously, you can’t offend Meredith. They’ll love it,” Kevin insists.
“Do your best. I dare you,” Mer tells him. Her eyes glitter with the challenge.
But Jeff doesn’t notice. He’s still staring at me, two lines deeply creased between his dark brows, making a perfect number eleven above the bridge of his nose.
“Ok fine. I’ll tell it,” Kevin says when the silence stretches on too long. Jeff opens his mouth to say something, but Kevin rambles on. “So, Jeff is trying to dictate a post-op report in recovery last month when a woman starts rapping that song you love, Dev. What’s it called?”
“Bust a Move,” Jeff says softly.
I nod. I like this woman already. We like the same music. And though that song is cursed and I have sworn it off for life, I imagine my dance with Tara and smile until the image of me falling off of the stage wipes it away.
“Right,” Kevin continues. “The woman starts yelling about how cold she is and the nurses are all busy so Jeff has to be her savior. When he goes to help her, she decides that he’s Henry Cavill and starts to talk about her vagina—a lot.”
Weird. I’d had like seven sex dreams about Henry Cavill’s chin in the last month. That’s probably the average Cavill fantasy rate for most Americans. Oddly enough, I’d also had a few steamy dreams starring Satan. I blame that on bingeing Lucifer.
“She proceeds to tell him that she hasn’t gotten laid in eons—paints a clear picture about how dusty her lady bits are—”
Meredith is chuckling and shaking her head. Poor patient. I can totally relate to dusty bits. Finding good help is impossible these days.
“After propositioning him to end her drought, she decides that Jeff is actually Satan and enlists his help to get herself laid.”
For some reason, heat rushes to my face and my gaze lands on Jeff. His face is contorted like someone’s pulling off his fingernails, but Kevin doesn’t notice.
“Jeff, what did she call her vagina, again? Her love cushion?”
Jeff shakes his head, his eyes locked on mine, his shoulders slumped. The impossible starts to click in place. That song. Cavill. Satan. I’m fixating on the formula for the probability of mutually exclusive events—it’s approaching zero when Jeff sighs.
In a voice so soft it begs for forgiveness, he says, “Her box o’love.”
Oh God, no. No. No. No. NO!
Kevin and Meredith are laughing, completely unaware of my horror, and I stand to push back from the table.
The metal chair screeches against the cement floor.
I mumble something about the bathroom, and I stumble toward the front of the restaurant, my eyes blurry and burning as I haul my boot through the oblivious bar patrons.
I’m overreacting. It’s just a coincidence.
There is no way that I am that woman. I was halfway across the country. This is impossible.
But even as I push into the bathroom stall, breathless and dizzy, the image of “box o’love” scratched deep on the desk in the front row of class flashes on my lids and I know without a doubt. The rapping, Cavill-loving, Satan-worshipping, dusty vagina is mine.