“I still think you shouldn’t have to play nice with your former bully,” Maria says.
I laugh. “I mean, I’m not really playing nice. I’m having fun giving him hell.”
Driving him crazy is only fair, really. I can make sure he regrets all his life choices. Now that I’ve reframed my problem, it’s nearly orgasmic, this feeling of power I hold.
4
KENDALL
A few days later, I’m in a conference room with Grant as he talks about his ideas for his—our—project.
I scowl at my coffee as I listen to him. It’s five-thirty in the fucking morning—the only time that suits Grant, apparently—and I’m used to getting up early, but this is absurd. The full, bright moon gleamed in the sky on my way in this morning. I couldn’t even have my caffeine immediately because my meds need thirty minutes before I can eat or drink anything. Grant, for his part, looks fresh. He’s probably already been at the gym for two hours, contemplating his superiority as he lifts weights. As for me, I’m exhausted, though sometimes it’s hard to tell if that’s lack of sleep or my poor excuse for a thyroid talking.
His concepts for a project are fine. Hospital administration tends to be fond of efforts resulting in things like shorter hospital stays, fewer infections, and fewer falls. I bet Grant would side with the bean counters who sometimes dictate patient decisions. He’s talking about ways to reduce complications for patients after joint replacement.
“What do you think?” He glances at me, his eyes tracingover the planes of my face and flicking down my body for the tiniest fraction of a second.
Nowhere’san opportunity. Is he noticing me as a woman? There’s a teeny, tiny part of me that enjoys that idea, even if it’s a part of myself I hate. There’s something validating about it. More than validation, though, is the idea that I can exploit it, and revel in a bit of grim satisfaction that his former self would be horrified by it.
“I like the idea of improving on patient education before surgery.” I tap a pen against my chin, then let it trail down to my collarbone. His eyes follow the movement before returning to my face. “I give patients a packet of information, but we could do more than that. I have a PT friend we could ask who might be willing to give us some recommendations including an updated exercise list, how to make your home safer, how to navigate stairs. That sort of thing. If it works well we could start having patients do an appointment with PT prior to surgery. That’s not standard here yet.”
Grant pulls his mouth to one side. “So, you want to involve more disciplines?” Somehow, he makes the question sound like an accusation.
“I’m just thinking of things that drive readmission rates. Falls, infections, DVTs, uncontrolled pain.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Heart events, though that would be a different kind of preparation. I could have my friend help us come up with some expanded education.”
“The education idea feels on track to me. And you’re right, there are some facilities that do pre-op PT appointments as a rule, and we aren’t one of them. I think because we have patients who drive from far away, but that might just mean we have to develop some contacts with therapy clinics in smaller towns.” He frowns again. “How would we measure that?”
I sip my coffee, which still scalds my tongue, but I need thecaffeine hit. I take the lid off to let it cool. “What outcome are we actually aiming for here? We need to narrow that down.”
“I’m thinking thirty-day readmission rates. That should be easy enough to track.”
I nod and smile. “Perfect.”
His eyes widen. Have I never smiled at him? I guess not. His gaze turns wary. This could be fun, flirting with him, then going hot and cold. Maybe I can convince him he’s losing his mind.
“Dr. Fields was right,” he says carefully. “You would be suited for med school, I think. I’m glad you applied.”
Just like that, my back is up again. He thinks other medical careers are beneath him. Beyond that, he threatened my own aspirations, and now he has the gall to act like he’s supporting me?
I hate this man to my core. I’m not sure I can even pretend to flirt with him.
“What’s wrong with being a nurse?” I set my coffee on the table and scoot away. We’re sitting too close together at this huge table, anyway.
He lifts his hands. “Absolutely nothing. I just think you would make a good physician. You have the initiative and the brains for it. And it’s more money, besides.”
An inferno roils in my abdomen. He of course would think that anyone capable would just pursue med school instead of getting a lowly nursing degree. Never mind that many people have good reasons for pursuing those “lesser” vocations, not all of them based on lack of intellect.
“Well, some of us were too poor for med school. Sue me.”
“Woah.” He rests his hands on the table again and softens his voice like he might be approaching a feral animal. “I know that. Nursing is a great profession, and I respect it. You’re a brilliant nurse and that’s obvious from just the two weeks I’ve been here. I was only agreeing with Dr. Fields, that’s all.”
Silence hangs in the air. I don’t know what to do with thisversion of Grant, one who reminds me of the dick I went to school with, but who also has these moments where I’m not so sure he’s the same. If I’d just met him, I might think he’s a nice person.
He’s only being kind because of how I look now, I bet. I hate that the world works this way, that anyone would treat me so much differently when I’ve been the same person all along. I harden myself against Grant again. Fuck this guy. I was delightful when I was fatter and poorer, and I’m still delightful now.
“Can I ask you something?” Grant’s eyes search my face.
I offer a perfunctory nod.
