I don’t mention that I saw her smoking in the parking lot when I ran home yesterday. She’s right, I probably shouldn’t be consuming five or more hot chocolates a night, but I need something enjoyable, something I can look forward to, something to distract me.
I smile, nodding along as if I agree, and let Rose lecture about the dangers of sugar while I keep walking toward the family room at the end of the hall.
They call it the‘family room,’but it’s really just a nook with a couch, a television, and a kitchenette. The only truly notable thing about it is the free coffee andhot chocolate. When I enter, there’s a small group sitting around the table, speaking in rapid Spanish. I wonder who they’re here for—a parent, a grandparent, a friend?
Their conversation bursts into laughter, and I feel a bitter tinge of jealousy. The last time I laughed so freely was before Mom’s diagnosis. Before my ex-boyfriend, Kane, told me he couldn’t handle me anymore. What does that even mean? He said it as if he’d been unhappy for a millennium, but we were only together for six months, and he had no problem asking me tohandlehim every single day during that time. But when I needed an emotional release, I was too much.
A bitter laugh escapes my tight lips before I clamp them back down, letting the anger silently burn through me. He left after Mom was diagnosed, kicking me out two weeks after we moved in together. Even a year later, it still stings. Not because I particularly miss him, but because it confirmed what I’d always suspected. I’m too difficult to love.
Which is why I need chocolate. All the chocolate. And I refuse to feel shame about it… mostly.
A man at the table stands up, waving his hands as if exasperated over something. Keeping my head down to avoid being addressed by any of them, I grab a mug, dump in three packets of hot chocolate, and fill it halfway with water from the already hot kettle. Then, I top it off with coffee.
I have that nauseous feeling you get from jet lag, or staying up all night studying, and I’m certain I’msporting some serious raccoon eyes, but I can’t sleep. When I try to sleep, I stare at the ceiling and think thoughts I don’t want to think. If I fall asleep, I dream dreams I don’t want to dream.
Better to have caffeine and work on my novel for my master’s thesis. New pages are due in just a few days, and I haven’t written anything all week. It’s like the story skips town the moment I start typing. The idea for this book is solid, and after reading the first draft, Dr. Paatel said it has a real shot at getting published, but every time I try to work on it, all I feel is numb panic.
That’s normal, though. Art isn’t supposed to be easy, right? Self-doubt and struggle are part of the process. All I need to do is push through and keep writing.
I stir the hot chocolate and hurry back into the hall before anyone in the family room talks to me. Rose is still leaning against the nurses’ station, but she’s not alone anymore. Mom’s nurse—young, pretty, wearing pink scrubs, with a name so difficult to pronounce I promptly forgot it—is sitting in front of the computer smiling up at Dr. Obnoxiously Hot from a few days ago. He’s standing on the other side of the counter, telling them a story with his hands as much as his words.
His movements are fluid and almost rhythmic. “So, we cut the guy open to see what’s going on, but it’s not a tumor like we thought.”
“What was it?” Mom’s nurse is breathless and clearly crushing hard. She keeps tucking her hairbehind her ear and batting her eyelashes, but Dr. Obnoxiously Hot seems completely oblivious.
“Let me guess,” Rose says. “I’ve heard of tennis balls, rocks, the eight ball from someone’s pool table.”
“A hairball. An actual hairball. He’d been eating his own hair for so long it built up in his stomach.” Dr. Obnoxiously Hot shudders, and both Rose and the other nurse laugh.
“You should call him Cat Man,” I say, walking up.
They all look at me, clearly surprised by the interruption. None, as surprised as I am. I wouldn’t normally jump into someone else’s conversation, and the fact that I did mortifies me. I smile as casually as I can and keep my eyes off the sexy resident, who’s probably giving me a pitying look for my lame attempt at a joke.
“Get your chocolate fix alright, doll?” Rose asks.
I hold up my mug in an awkward salute and keep walking. I really don’t want to hear another lecture on the dangers of sugar, and I definitely don’t want to be pulled into a conversation with Dr. Obnoxiously Hot. Just looking at him makes me anxious and tingly.
Thankfully, Pink Scrubs is eager to draw attention back to herself. “My friend, who works in urology, told me about a woman who came in complaining of trouble urinating. They thought it was a typical UTI, but it didn’t respond to treatment. So, they finally did a scan and found a sex toy stuck up in her…” She waves a hand around between her legs. “Funny thing was, the last time she’d used one was over?—”
I steal a glance at Dr. Obnoxiously Hot, and oureyes catch over the heads of the nurses. Pink Scrubs stops talking mid-sentence. Both nurses freeze in place. The quiet buzz of the computer monitor silences. Everything stops. As if someone pressed pause on the world. Everything except me and Dr. Obnoxiously Hot.
He tilts his head, staring at me with wide eyes. My stomach drops, and my head spins. I must be hallucinating. I’m so tired I’ve finally lost it completely.
Dr. Obnoxious closes his eyes. Someone in a nearby room coughs.
Pink Scrubs finishes her sentence, “—a decade before.”
Dr. Obnoxious opens his eyes, and we’re back to staring. The world stands still again.
“What…?” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to make sense of something. Like he experienced the same thing I did. Impossible.
The nurses are inordinately still. Could it be a prank? They got bored during the long hours and decided to entertain themselves by pranking the messy girl in room 4178. It doesn’t seem like the type of thing Rose would do.
I shift my eyes to look at Rose.
“That’s nothing,” she says, talking again as if nothing happened. “I once had a man on my floor recovering from surgery where they found a mayonnaise bottle with a live fish up his rectum.”
“Fuck.” The expletive slips out before I can think better of it. I rub my eyes with my free hand. I don’t want to hear about the gross things people put in theirbodies. And I don’t want to think about whatever just happened with Dr. Obnoxious. Pranks and fatigue and gross surgical stories. I can’t handle any of it. I just want to get back to the room and drink my hot chocolate in peace.
