“I’d like to tell you I’m so sorry you caught him cheating and that you had to dump him, but I’m not.” Priya’s blunt honesty is not always welcome, but she has a good point here. “Some of the senior surgeons were taking bets on how long it would take you to figure out what a sleazy bastard Kevin is.”
“That’s just rude!” I say, feeling a hot flush of shame. I’m sure all the surgeons - the men, at least - believe my ex. After I ended our engagement, he spun the story thathebowed out because I was sounstableand jealous.
“I shut that down in a hurry,” Priya assures me, finishing her sandwich and taking the untouched half of mine. “Gossipy bitches.” She may be one of the youngest general surgeons at Bellevue, but they’re all scared of her. When Dr. Priya Singh starts shouting, everyone scatters like cockroaches when the kitchen light turns on.
Hunching my shoulders, I take a quick look around. Gordi’s Sandwich Paradise is too close to Bellevue for us to be the only ones here from the hospital. It’s a charmingly retro space with red vinyl booths and a black and white checkered floor. Gordi still presides over the meat section of the sandwich assembly line with a cleaver sharp enough to conduct an appendectomy.
“Relax, I did make sure there was no one within earshot,” Priya says. “Though the thing about that varicocele on the patient’s left testicle? When I cut into it, the blood shot up like ageyser.Kevin jumped back so fast that he knocked over the monitor, and-”
There’s a choked noise from the table next to us and I notice the burly construction workers sitting there are both decidedly green.
“Sorry,” I offer a weak smile. Their smiles in return are even weaker.
“Anyway, it was hilarious to watch,” Priya finishes the story and my sandwich.
“I’ll be honest, do you know the only thing I miss about that assface?” I say, toying with my straw. “His apartment. It was so spacious. All those lovely windows and from the living room, you could see the sunrise over the water and it was magical. Did I mention that I woke up this morning to yet another one of Carla’s naked conquests in the living room?”
“You really should get that girl into the clinic for a full STD panel,” she says wisely. “Just keep reminding yourself that while Kevin’s apartment is nice, you’d still have to share it withhim.”We both shudder. “I have to go to the bathroom. Wait for me?”
“Of course.”
It is true. The only thing I miss about Kevin - may that cheating bastard rot in hell - was his place. I had been so excited to move into his apartment after the wedding and leaving my roommates behind to negotiate takeout theft and random naked guys without me.
I should have kept his engagement ring and pawned it.
“I enjoyed watching those tough men in hard hats racing for the door when your friend got down and dirty with the details.” The comment comes from the woman sitting on my right side, she’s wearing a mischievous smile and a polished red suit. A stockbroker, maybe, or real estate.
“If we ruined your meal, I’m sorry,” I chuckle.
“Not at all,” she shrugs. “I don’t have testicles.” We both giggle a bit. “I feel for you about the apartment dilemma, though.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t- I should learn to keep my mouth shut in public.”
“The Manhattan real estate scene is terrible,” she says sympathetically. “I’ve known people in desperately unhappy marriages who refuse to get divorced because neither one wants to give up the apartment. At least you had the emotional wherewithal to move past that temptation.”
“If you knew my ex, you would totally understand,” I say, gloomy again.
“I might be able to help,” she says, pulling a red card out of her purse. “I’m a real estate agent.”
Ah, here we go. A pitch on an apartment I will never be able to afford.
“I’m on the team selling a new luxury apartment complex on Broad Street,” she continues, smiling as she notes my pained, polite expression. “I know medical personnel never get paid what they’re worth. But you may be aware that all new construction downtown has to have a percentage of lower-income housing in order to get the building permits.”
“I heard that,” I nod. “It’s a great idea.”
Six years of college and another two years of near-slave-labor wages to get my Physician’s Assistant degree, and yet I’m still in the “lower income” bracket. I can’t even be offended by her assessment.
“The project is sweetening the deal with even lower rates for first responders,” she says. “Of course,we’re getting another tax cut from the city for it, but I’msurea small portion of the deal is from the kindness of the builder’s hearts.”
“Of course,” I agree gravely, fighting a smile.
“Anyway, if you want to email me, I can send you an application. We’re just opening this phase, so you’d be getting your request in early.”
Taking the card, I read her name, Cynthia Watkins. “It’s nice to meet you, Cynthia. I’m-”
“Ava Blue,” she nods at my hospital ID. “Unless you’re impersonating an overworked PA.”
“That would be me,” I laugh. Cynthia’s got a nice smile, she’s older, maybe mid-fifties with straight, dark hair and dark brown eyes. Her suit is expensive, and so is her haircut.
