10. Overindulgence
Chapter ten
Overindulgence
Drake
That same night…
The break last weekend definitely gave me the out I needed to refine my thoughts and remember why I was doing what I did in the first place.
Being a perfectionist about it, however, is killing me, slowly and painfully.
I need to learn how to let go and let someone else take the reins when I’m too burned out to do it myself.
I need to learn that there’s nothing wrong with asking for help.
It’s not a sign of weakness. I don’t have to carry the burden all by myself.
I thought I would have been able to share that with Maria, to divulge all these concerns I’ve been keeping wrapped up under my cloak of secrecy for so long. But with just her name and no phone number, following up from our last meeting quickly ended before it could even begin.
Maybe the others were right and I shouldn’t have pursued it in the first place. But she was the one who initiated it that night, and it’s been on my mind ever since.
She hasn’t been back to the hospital either, not that I know of. And if she had, I’m pretty sure neither of my friends would tell me either. I don’t need them teasing me any more for looking like a lovesick puppy.
I shed my white coat and throw it into the backseat of my car, glad to be rid of it for the time being. Drake the Person, no longer Drake the Doctor for a few hours. Stan and Ed are both still on shift, though, which means I’m going to have to spend those hours either alone or doing something else.
When’s the last time I went out for a stiff drink?
My mind blooms merrily with the idea. Just one to unwind; anything more, and I’ll have to abandon my car there and call a cab.
Thankfully, traffic is never busy this late into the night, which is surprising for a Friday. That doesn’t make finding a parking spot any easier. But either it’s good luck or Fate is smiling down on me today because I find one right in front of the door, practically begging me to park there.
The joy leaves me just as quickly after I park and reach for the handle on the door. When I see her inside.
Laughing with some guy I’ve never seen before.
Having the time of her life.
I feel the sudden need to vomit, my hand falling from the handle. All I can do is stare. Stare and wonder: “Why not me?”
“Hey, buddy. In or out?”
How long have I been standing here?
“Oh, sorry,” I manage to mumble before stepping out of the way of a pair of guys going in.
Still, my gaze is fixed on her. Maybe I’m waiting for her to see me so that she can give me an explanation.
Maybe I want her to see how heartbroken I am, standing here in the middle of the sidewalk on a late Friday night.
Maybe I just want her to look my way so I can pretend that smile is for me.
But the longer I watch, the more I realize that I mean nothing to her. I’m not even the last thought in her mind at this point.
A few heads turn to look at me, many with a raised brow. If I stand here any longer, they’re probably going to think I’m some kind of stalker.
I can drink at home anyway.
I get back in my car and head home. I don’t remember any of the drive or taking the elevator up to my apartment. The first thing I find after I finally snap out of it is a short glass in my hand, filled with something, and the TV being on.
From the smell of the liquid in my glass, it’s gin.
How much of this have I drank already?
None yet, by my best guess, since I don’t have flavor burning my tongue. I down the two fingers of gin and wince at the heat filling my throat and belly.
I don’t think I’ve eaten dinner yet...
But that would mean getting out of my seat, and I just can’t get my legs to move.
Looks like a liquid diet tonight.
I refill the glass and pull out a small orange container from under the seat cushion. The codeine I’d “prescribed to a patient.” I roll it around in my hand, the pills rattling together like a maraca.
I remove the child-proof cap expertly with just one hand and flip it off onto the nightstand. I shake one pill into my palm, questioning how one little thing is capable of making my life a little more bearable.
I toss it back and take another swallow of gin to get it where it needs to go.
The doctor part of my brain is screaming at me that I’m making a shitty decision.
If any patient were to do this, I would have them committed for a psych eval and detox.
But you know what they say: doctors make the worst patients.
I stare at the orange pill bottle one more time and roll another pill into my hand.