Alex:How are you 30? Where is your fountain ofyouth?
Riley:RhodeIsland.
Alex:Ha.
Riley:If you're nice, I'll show ittoyou.
Alex:I'mnotnice.
Riley:I've noticed. Idon'tmind.
Alex:Thank you? I think? I don't know what the appropriate response istothat.
Riley:It's you meeting me for dinner without trying to talk me down tocoffee.
Riley:The Seven Ales House. Thursday. 830 p.m. Get your life story down to bulletpoints.
* * *
Istaredat my sparkly red clogs and then back at my watch. I was due to meet Riley in fifteen minutes, and was still sitting in the attending surgeons' locker room, outfitted in scrubs, clogs, and my doctor's coat. It was my inside-the-hospital garb, and since the first days of internship, I'd made a practice of always leaving the hospital in street clothes. It had started at my mother's neurotic insistence that if I didn't, I'd be bringing all the communicable diseases home with me. It also saved me from walking straight back into the hospital when I saw an ambulance roll up at the end of my shift, or assessing every little old lady's strange bump or barky cough in the cereal aisle of the grocerystore.
But right now, I was thinking hard about breaking thistradition.
It wasn't a date if I was wearing scrubs, right? I wouldn't fixate on Riley's square, scruff-covered jaw if firmly in doctor-mode,right?
I shot another glance at my shoes, and caught sight of some blood splatter. Even if I didn't have a thing for ruby slippers andThe Wizard of Oz, I'd still wear red clogs. They were the best at hiding all matter of bodily fluids. Kicking them off while I slipped out of my coat, I kept telling myself it wasn't a date. It couldn't be a date, not when it was an arrangement. If anything, it was a contractualobligation.
Nothing sexy or square-jawed and scruffy aboutcontracts.
After depositing my scrubs in the hamper, I stepped into white jeans, a summery shirt, and sandals. Red flippies, of course. I had seven different pairs and no, it wasn't aproblem.
IfTown & CountryorVanity Fairhad a special summer feature about what to wear on midweek ale house non-dates in late August, this look would be their top recommendation. They'd add a straw bag or a watercolor-painted scarf, but I had the basics. I was feeling good and ready to roll when the toiletry kit on the top shelf of my locker startedtauntingme.
You'd be pretty if you'd put on a little mascara, Alex. A touch of lip color, too. Maybe some bronzer so you're not so washed out from all that timeindoors.
My toiletry kit had an uncanny ability to sound exactly like my mother. She was well-intentioned to the max, but had the habit of starting too many sentences with "You'd be prettyif." I knew now, after hearing some iteration of her critiques for thirty-three years, that she wasn't telling me I wasn't good enough in my raw form. It was that my mother worshipped at the altar of Miss Cover Girl. She didn't believe in stepping out of the house without a full face of makeup. Women who didn't put their faces on were as befuddling to my mother as suicidebombers.
"Maybe I don't want to look pretty tonight," I muttered to the empty room. I said this, but I unzipped the pouch and dug inside for the mascara. I swept some on but scowled at the lip colors and other products. I was sticking with untinted lip balm, even if I could hear my mother's fraught protests with every swipe ofBurt'sBees.
She'd have something to say about these jeans, too. I wasn't breaking theno white after Labor Dayrule, but that rule only applied to people who should wear white. According to Betty Mackay Emmerling, women with fuller hips weren't to accentuate those queen-sized curves. She'd throw herself out a window while wailing about her failings as a mother if she could seemenow.
But I didn't live to contradict my mother. There was nothing wonderful about gradually discovering that we had little in common, and then struggling through years of trying to bend each other to different angles. It was even harder to swallow when it was painfully obvious that my father and brother were the picture of bosom buddies. They shared the same interests, motivations, mannerisms. Adam was my father's Mini-Me. There were moments when I still had to force myself to appreciate what they had instead of resenting what Ididn't.
"Okay," I said to my toiletry kit. "A little lip color won'tkillme."
I made it out of the hospital without incident—an accomplishment, considering I couldn't usually walk out at this hour without getting roped into a consult or being slammed with questions from my residents—but I spent the walk down Charles Street ordering my hormones to behave. It was amazing that we'd come this far in human evolution but one grin from a virile man could still crank my ovaries intooverdrive.
At the tavern door, I took a deep breath and reminded myself this was necessary to pulling off a decent fauxmance, and that was necessary to getting out ofthiscity.
I spotted him immediately. He was kicked back in a booth with a half-empty pilsner glass in front of him, scowling at his phone. Perhapsscowlingwas the wrong sentiment. He didn't look angry so much as contemptuous, almostresentful.
"Hi," I said as I pulled the chair from the table. He hadn't noticed me approaching. "How's itgoing?"
Riley blinked up at me and set the phone on the table, face down. "I wasn't sure you were going to go through with this," he said, gesturing to me. "Do you like red in general, or is there something special about redshoes?"
I quirked aneyebrow. "What?"
He shook his head once and cleared his throat. "Both times I've seen you, you were wearing red shoes," he said, his words measured. "Last weekend you were wearing redshorts,too."
