"Hardly," she said. With a wave for Acevedo and Hartshorn, she added, "Good evening" and slipped past me into the hall.
What the actual fuck was that?
I turned and stared at the door as if that could explain why Sara skipped out on a perfectly good opportunity to put my jackassery on display for these guys to see. When the door failed to explain a goddamn thing to me, I retreated to my locker to get out of these scrubs.
"I'd love it if you didn't run Shapiro out of here," Hartshorn said as he strolled to his locker. "As far as gifts go for me this holiday season, that would be at the top of my list."
"I am not running anyone out of anywhere. We were just having a"—well, it had been another ridiculous fight about nothing but I wasn't going to tell these guys any of that—"conversation."
"You could try being pleasant to her. Wouldn't hurt," Acevedo said.
"It would. Not my blood type," I replied.
"We're getting a beer since our wives are traveling for work," Hartshorn said. "Come with?"
"No." I zipped up my coat and headed for the door. I really needed some cheerleading tonight. I didn't know what it was about all the glitter and high ponytails but it always chilled me out. Some people watched sitcom reruns or listened to podcasts. Others preferred wine and weed. I watched competitive cheerleading while sprawled on the sofa.
I took a shortcut through the hospital complex that let out a few blocks from my building, effectively avoiding the clusterfuck of traffic at the hospital's main exit. I toggled between texting O'Rourke and placing an order for that burrito bowl as I headed home. Every step was one closer to putting this fucking day to bed.
I was almost there. All I had to do was get in the building and up three flights of stairs, and I'd have all the solitude I wanted.
Except Sara was cursing at the door and I was presently unable to walk through walls without injuring myself. Oh, my fucking life.
"What," I called, stomping up the stone steps, "the fuck."
She sighed for ten minutes before saying, "My key is stuck."
"Move." When she went on screwing with the door, I tapped her upper arm, saying, "Move."
"I have it," she snapped.
"Obviously, you don't."
"If you'd just give me a minute—"
"You've had a minute," I said.
"Your reaction is excessive relative to this situation."
I shook my head and hoped some lightning would strike and put me out of my misery. "My reaction is not the problem."
"Your reaction is always the problem," she cried, abandoning the door to whirl around and step into my space. "Why do you always have to be right? Even when it doesn't matter?"
I'd assumed her eyes were brown but I was wrong about that. They were hazel—mostly golden amber with flecks of brown and green. They were lighter up close than they seemed at a polite distance. I wasn't polite.
"I don't give a good fuck about right. I just want to get upstairs and change into soft pants before my burrito bowl arrives."
She narrowed her hazel eyes at me and I could tell by the way her lips curled that she was about to gut me here on the stoop. "You are such a—"
"Oh hey, guys."
We turned at once to find Riley Walsh coming through the door. He spied Sara's keys hanging from the lock and freed them with one deft turn of the handle. Riley lived on the second floor with his wife Alex. He hated me on account of me attempting to flirt with Alex in front of him on several occasions before they were engaged. I hadn't in years but that didn't deter him from giving me death glares every time we crossed paths.
So, daily. Daily death glares. For years. Fun times for me here in the doctor dorm.
"Was this thing sticking again? It's the weather. Whenever it's damp like this, old hardware gets wonky." He pointed to the hinges and panel. "The wood swells too."
Sara grabbed her keys from him, saying, "Thanks. Maybe it's time to replace this door so it can function in all weather conditions."
