But Jeff doesn’t notice. He’s still staring at me, two lines deeply creased between his dark brows, making a perfect number eleven above the bridge of his nose.
“Ok fine. I’ll tell it,” Kevin says when the silence stretches on too long. Jeff opens his mouth to say something, but Kevin rambles on. “So, Jeff is trying to dictate a post-op report in recovery last month when a woman starts rapping that song you love, Dev. What’s it called?”
“Bust a Move,” Jeff says softly.
I nod. I like this woman already. We like the same music. And though that song is cursed and I have sworn it off for life, I imagine my dance with Tara and smile until the image of me falling off of the stage wipes it away.
“Right,” Kevin continues. “The woman starts yelling about how cold she is and the nurses are all busy so Jeff has to be her savior. When he goes to help her, she decides that he’s Henry Cavill and starts to talk about her vagina—a lot.”
Weird. I’d had like seven sex dreams about Henry Cavill’s chin in the last month. That’s probably the average Cavill fantasy rate for most Americans. Oddly enough, I’d also had a few steamy dreams starring Satan. I blame that on bingeingLucifer.
“She proceeds to tell him that she hasn’t gotten laid in eons—paints a clear picture about how dusty her lady bits are?—”
Meredith is chuckling and shaking her head. Poor patient. I can totally relate to dusty bits. Finding good help is impossible these days.
“After propositioning him to end her drought, she decides that Jeff is actually Satan and enlists his help to get herself laid.”
For some reason, heat rushes to my face and my gaze lands on Jeff. His face is contorted like someone’s pulling off his fingernails, but Kevin doesn’t notice.
“Jeff, what did she call her vagina, again? Her love cushion?”
Jeff shakes his head, his eyes locked on mine, his shoulders slumped. The impossible starts to click in place. That song. Cavill. Satan. I’m fixating on the formula for the probability of mutually exclusive events—it’s approaching zero when Jeff sighs.
In a voice so soft it begs for forgiveness, he says, “Her box o’love.”
Oh God, no. No. No. No. NO!
Kevin and Meredith are laughing, completely unaware of my horror, and I stand to push back from the table. The metal chair screeches against the cement floor. I mumble something about the bathroom, and I stumble toward the front of the restaurant, my eyes blurry and burning as I haul my boot through the oblivious bar patrons. I’m overreacting. It’s just a coincidence. There is no way that I am that woman. I was halfway across the country. This is impossible.
But even as I push into the bathroom stall, breathless and dizzy, the image of “box o’love” scratched deep on the desk in thefront row of class flashes on my lids and I know without a doubt. The rapping, Cavill-loving, Satan-worshipping, dusty vagina is mine.
Chapter Six
Jeff
Lesson 7: What or who happens in residency should stay in residency.
On instinct, I follow her as she stumbles toward the front of the bar. Meredith watches Devon limp across the space as if the display is nothing out of the ordinary and Kevin stands, justly confused. I say something lame about having a sister as an excuse to try to help. Surprisingly, Kevin buys it and sits back down. And though my sister has prepared me for a lot of shit in life, I’d say running into a random patient who shared humiliating, drug-induced info is definitely not on that list. I stand against the wall across from the bathroom and wait. I should give her time. Let her process the impossible.
I don’t do any of that. I knock and push the door open.
“Devon. It’s Jeff. Can I talk to?—”
“No!” she yells. I hear her breathing hard. “No, thank you,” she says more softly.
I step into the space between the sinks and shut the door behind me. One yellow flat and her black, robotic boot are visible beneath the stall, the flat tapping against the black and white tile.
“I’m really sorry. This is—I had no idea?—”
“That you were spilling my subconscious onto the table for a few laughs,” she finishes.
I scrub at my face. “I had no idea I’d ever see you again and?—”
The door of the stall swings open and she steps out, her eyes narrowed on my chest.
“So, you thought, let me use this poor, defenseless patient as the punchline of my joke so I can join the male doctor fraternity at Jefferson. How refreshing. Just what the world needs. Another privileged white guy, throwing other people’s humiliation around to boost himself up. I’m shocked you didn’t tape the whole damn thing and add another viral video to my repertoire.”
Oh shit. She is pissed. I have no idea what she’s talking about with the video thing, but her finger is in my face and her chest is rising and falling so heavily beneath her “You Matter” t-shirt that my eyes wander for a fraction of a second and she laughs, a humorless, empty chuckle.
