[English] Roomies

Author: Lindy Zart

This is to anyone who ever dialed 867-5309
and hoped to talk to Jenny.
SO HERE I am, at 8:26 in the AM, all smiles for the first victim—I mean, patient, of the day. For the record, I hate mornings. I don't know whose record that information is going on, but it's going on someone's. And consciously awake and functional? Not before 10:00.
She (the patient) is looking less than thrilled to be here, but I don’t let that deter me or cause my overly perky smile to falter. The air around us is cloaked in a medicinal smell that is astringent to the point of burning nostril hairs if you breathe too deeply, or making your eyes water if you stand in just the right spot. It's from all the many—healthy andpletely harmless, of course—chemicals and cleaning solutions used in the office. I'm used to it, so out of habit I take shallow breaths. I'm all about being shallow. Maybe that's the patient's problem—she isn't breathing properly and the fumes are getting to her. I decide that must be the reason for the nasty scowl upon her weathered face. Who wouldn’t want to be here?
I walk up to where she is sitting in the waiting room—a small area with white walls, five chairs, two large windows, and a wood floor. It also houses framed medical jargon on almost every inch of wall space. Oh, and a big red blow-up heart (the organ, not the pretty one that symbolizes love) that kids are forever trying to turn into a punching bag, much to the receptionist's frustration. Although, I mean,e on, I've even punched it a time or two while passing by. It just screams to be whacked.

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This is to anyone who ever dialed 867-5309

and hoped to talk to Jenny.

SO HERE I am, at 8:26 in the AM, all smiles for the first victim—I mean, patient, of the day. For the record, I hate mornings. I don't know whose record that information is going on, but it's going on someone's. And consciously awake and functional? Not before 10:00.

She (the patient) is looking less than thrilled to be here, but I don’t let that deter me or cause my overly perky smile to falter. The air around us is cloaked in a medicinal smell that is astringent to the point of burning nostril hairs if you breathe too deeply, or making your eyes water if you stand in just the right spot. It's from all the many—healthy and completely harmless, of course—chemicals and cleaning solutions used in the office. I'm used to it, so out of habit I take shallow breaths. I'm all about being shallow. Maybe that's the patient's problem—she isn't breathing properly and the fumes are getting to her. I decide that must be the reason for the nasty scowl upon her weathered face. Who wouldn’t want to be here?

I walk up to where she is sitting in the waiting room—a small area with white walls, five chairs, two large windows, and a wood floor. It also houses framed medical jargon on almost every inch of wall space. Oh, and a big red blow-up heart (the organ, not the pretty one that symbolizes love) that kids are forever trying to turn into a punching bag, much to the receptionist's frustration. Although, I mean, come on, I've even punched it a time or two while passing by. It just screams to be whacked.

Apparently healthy hearts equal healthy feet and the reverse can be said. Everything inside you, from your eyes to your teeth to your toes, is connected. I know, crazy.

I extend my already grotesquely large grin and announce, “We’re ready for you, Agnes.”

Agnes Magnus (yes, that’s really her name), a widow in her late eighties, suddenly has saucers for brown eyes and a twist to her red-lined lips. It appears that she may have even decided to throw caution to the wind and not use lipstick at all, going for the ‘lip-liner and nothing else’ look. Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it. The sudden belligerence in her eyes tells me that she may need some assistance down the hall. Not that I would drag her to the examination room or anything. (Insert chuckle here.) But I might give her a gentle shove in the right direction. Harmless.

“Well,” she says with a wheezing scoff, “maybe I’m not ready for you.”

Eyes narrowed, I have the semi-unpleasant thought, Trust me, lady, we don’t want you here anymore than you want to be here. But I just continue smiling, though maybe tightly at this point, and wait with raised eyebrows.

With an excessively drawn-out sigh, she struggles to her feet and mutters, “Come on. Let’s get this over with.” As if she is doing us a favor by gracing us with her presence because the office needs her and her money so much that we begged her to set up an appointment. Like we are glad she hasn’t taken care of her toenails to the point that they are now growing into her actual toes, and she has no other alternative but to have them surgically clipped. Yes…we have been waiting, years and years and years, for this monumental day.

Please.

I save my eye rolling for after I have my back to Agnes, because I am able to show restraint like that. The lone receptionist of the joint catches my eye as I pass by and smirks. We, the podiatrist and I, have our battles with patients, but Sally Flood, the receptionist, has hers as well up front. Agnes Magnus is not one of our favorite patients, to say the least. She’s not the worst, but definitely nowhere near the top of the list for patients we wouldn’t mind seeing more than once a decade.

With only minor grumbling on her part, I get Agnes into the operatory; a small, bright white room with shiny metal equipment and products galore seeping out of every crevice that we refer to as the ‘op’ because we’re verbally lazy, and motion to the single chair with the smile of an executioner. She doesn’t return the smile. But she does sit.

In her scratchy voice, she says, “I feel like I’m on death row and about to be lethally injected or electrocuted.”

I silently open up her chart on the computer.

“Are you going to strap me down too?” she wonders.

It can be arranged. “Of course not, Agnes.”

“Hmmph,” is her rebuttal.

“We’re going to numb up the skin around your toes before cutting the nails. We'll do the left foot today since that has been bothering you the most,” I say, meeting her eyes.

Her face pinches up. “Why are you smiling? Are you happy about this?”

My eyes go wide. “I’m not smiling.”

“I distinctly see the outline of a smile upon your face, though I’m sure you’re trying very hard to hide it. Do you enjoy other people’s discomfort?”

“No, of course not,” I say, turning away, and add with a mumble, “Maybe yours.”

Before I can worry about whether or not she heard that, my boss enters the room. Grant Olman is large. He has to be about six and a half feet tall and weighs anywhere from two hundred thirty to four hundred pounds. Okay, so he probably weighs more like two hundred sixty. His voice is deep and booming, making him seem closer to eight feet tall, and he’s perpetually clean-shaven. I’ve never even seen a hint of stubble upon his face. He’s got shaggy brown hair streaked in silver that always seems to be in need of a trim and gray eyes that are alight with humor most days.

“Agnes Magnus! How’s it going on this lovely morning?” he greets, then looks at me. “Great day for pizza, right?”

I hold in a sigh. My boss recently turned fifty and the office celebrated by having a pizza party at the local bowling alley. I showed off my athletic ability by routinely getting gutter balls and then I let my inner pig out by devouring most of a cheese pizza. Ever since then, he mentions pizza at least once a week. The guy needs new material.

“It’d be lovelier if I wasn’t here,” she replies.

For all of us.

My boss just laughs, complete with a snort at the end, and turns to me. “Ready, Freddy?”

“Who’s Freddy?” the sweet, sweet lady demands.

“She’s Freddy,” he says, pointing at me. “I can’t remember her name, so I just call her whatever.”

“As long as you don’t call her late for supper, eh?” Mrs. Magnus cackles.

I narrow my eyes on the back of her fluffy gray head. What was that? Was that a fat joke? I glance down at my average frame and frown. Does she think I'm fat?

Dr. Olman commences to widen his eyes and shake his head at me, motioning with his arms and mouthing, “No. No.”

I stick my tongue out at Agnes’ unsuspecting head and then smile at the readied needle.

Let the fun begin.

“First I’m going to numb up the area and then let it sit for a few minutes before beginning.” The boss man looks at the patient. “Are you ready?”

“I can’t wait.”

With a smile, he pokes the gnarly flesh around her toes with the needle, pumping lidocaine into the skin. All the while Agnes is carrying on like he is slitting her throat. Although, if that was the case, we wouldn't have to listen to her go on and on with her moaning and groaning, so there is actually a certain appeal to it. Not that I would ever tell anyone that.

Once that feat is accomplished, I hurry from the room as quickly as I can move my tired butt, deciding to bother Sally. “Hey. What’s up?”

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Sally’s office isn’t really an office at all, but a partially enclosed cubical that’s about two feet by two feet. Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration, but really, it can’t be much bigger than that. There’s enough room for her desk, chair, computer equipment, and that’s about it. Oh, and her.

She looks up from the piles of paper scattered across her desk and gives me a woebegone look.

“That bad, huh?”

“Someone shoot me,” she pleads.

I laugh, not really sure if that was a comment you should laugh at or not, but hey, I'm all about improvising. Also, I may or may not be an inappropriate laugher.

She gets up from her chair and kicks at an offending piece of paper that had the audacity to fall to the floor, managing to kick the wall as well—which isn’t hard to do, considering the limited space.

“Or him. I'm not picky,” she continues, jabbing her thumb in the general direction of Dr. Olman’s office.

Sally’s a nice lady. She’s honest, maybe too honest, and when she’s ready to keel over from work-related stress, instead she goes on a verbal rampage until she feels better. It’s funny. For me anyway.

“Why do you want to shoot him?” I ask, leaning over the counter to better view her murderous facial expression.

She's closer to our boss’s age than mine, but you wouldn’t know it to talk to or look at her. With feathery blond hair and bright blue eyes reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett, along with a slim and tan frame, she’s attractive in an eighties sort of way. She could pass for early to mid-thirties, although I’m pretty sure she’s older than that. Not that I’d ever ask her or anything.

I want to live.

“You see this?” She gestures to the messy desk.

Nothing new there, so I shrug. “Yeah?”

“That, that…your boss,” she says with gritted teeth, “dumped all of these invoices, months and months of invoices, invoices I didn’t even know he had, on supplies I didn’t even know he ordered, on my desk this morning, and told me to have them filed by lunch. How?” she asks some unknown entity.

“How am I supposed to do that? And answer the phone, and get insurance payments into the computer, and schedule patients, and every other stupid thing I do around here? How? And I didn’t know about any of these bills, and now all the account books are going to be off, and we probably owe tons of money to these medical supply companies. I can’t work like this, I really can’t. I'm losing my mind.” She shakes her head and slumps back into her chair.

I wait for it.

“That man is an imbecile,” she announces firmly and loudly.

I dart a quick look down the hall, but Dr. Olman’s office door is shut, so there is a good chance he didn’t hear her angry litany. Although, I am pretty sure the patient did.

I’m not supposed to know, but Sally and the boss man have a thing going on. And okay, so as of yet, it’s unconfirmed, but I know it's true. One minute they hate each other, the next they’re shooting gaga eyes at one another when they think I don’t notice. It’s gross. I mean, they’re old. Not that old people shouldn’t have love and romance and *** and all that, but…I don’t want to know about it, ya know?

Sally pierces me with her eyes. “What am I doing here? Why do I do this to myself?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Um, I have to go now.” I scurry away, a mouse intent on escape from a broom.

“Kennedy Somers, get back here!”

I cringe, but keep going. My sanity depends on it. And anyway, it’s time to slice and dice the offending toenails of Mrs. Agnes Magnus. I fight the urge to rub my hands together in glee and meet my boss at the door to the op. He raises his eyebrows and looks toward the waiting room area.

“Don’t ask,” I tell him, and he doesn’t.

It is time to proceed.

Scrub top, check.

Facemask, check.

Protective eyewear, check.

Gloves, check.

Dr. Olman with his scrub top on…no check.

He holds up a finger and quickly leaves, returning with his scrub top on backwards.

I don’t say anything.

Three minutes into the procedure and I am ready to slap the patient. Every time the podiatrist comes near her, she flinches, even kicking her leg out once. Not a good thing to do with sharp instruments coming at your body. Just saying.

Dr. Olman steps back and looks at her. “Do you feel any of that?”

She pops open eyes she’s had squeezed shut for the last minute or so. “No.”

“Just try to hold still,” I say.

She turns her head to glare at me.

“Okay. Let’s try this again,” he says in a soothing voice.

Mrs. Magnus straightens her leg out, but keeps the toes of her left foot curled. I didn't even know you could do that under anesthesia. I mean, it's supposed to be numb. How do you move a numb appendage?

We wait; I with my hands ready to assist and Dr. Grant Olman with his surgical instrument.

“Mrs. Magnus?”

“What?” she snaps.

My boss and I exchange looks.

“You’ll have to uncurl your toes, Agnes,” he tells her.

She crosses her arms and sighs, but obliges.

After a minute of letting Dr. Olman dig at her rock hard nails, Agnes holds up a hand. I resist the urge to slap it.

He leans back. “Yes?”

“Are you done yet?” she asks, blood dripping from her big toe onto the towel beneath it and making my stomach squeamish. I know, what am I doing assisting something like this when the sight of blood makes me want to pass out? We may never know.

“No,” he says shortly, visibly impatient to continue.

Again with the sighing.

Once again, Dr. Olman has his hands on her feet; strategically slicing away at a layer of tough, protective protein scientifically known as keratin. In one smooth motion he gets it removed, which, in our line of work, is cause for celebration. I smile at my boss, realize he can’t see it through the facemask, and nod instead. The look on the upper part of his face is of pure relief before it shifts to determination, as there are still three more to go.

“Are you done?”

“No,” we say simultaneously, and maybe more forcefully than is warranted.

He clears his throat. “I have three left,” he says in a softer tone.

“Try to remain calm,” I tell her, which she ignores.

“You’re doing a good job, Agnes. We’re almost done,” he states.

That seems to pacify her, as she remains silent.

The last nail, on the pinky toe, no less, doesn’t want to be accommodating. As much as Dr. Olman tries to finesse a layer of it away from the toe, it will not budge. I am sweating; I am pretty sure the boss is sweating as well. In fact, I can see where his gloves cling to his hands in certain spots; like mine. It is getting hard to breathe behind the facemask and I want to rip it from my face.

After numerous minutes, whispered curses by my boss, and me perspiring profusely and wishing I am anywhere but here, he finally gets the last nail shaved down, leaving bloody toes in his wake. My stomach turns and I look away, pretending I am way savvier than I obviously am.

I love my job. I love it so much I think I should go home right now and celebrate the profound beauty of it with a bottle of wine. I glance at the clock and see it's not even ten in the morning. I scrunch my nose up and turn away.

Wine waits for no one.

I LOOK UP from the book I’m reading and roll my eyes. Seriously? Who screams when they have an orgasm? And crying after “making love”? Who writes these things? I toss the book over my shoulder, knowing my roommate is going to be annoyed when he finds it on the floor. He's disturbingly organized. Everything has its proper spot—my book on the floor does not fall into his realm of orderliness.

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“What the hell?”

I frown and lift my head to peer behind the couch. “Oh. Sorry. It fell from my hand,” I tell my roommate, who was clearly put on this earth for my visual enjoyment.

“Sure it did.”

I sit up and twist around to face him. I relish looking at Graham; it is one of my favorite pastimes—right up there with consuming large quantities of wine. He’s over six feet tall with an impressive physique and his skin is a perfect shade of golden brown. With messy blond hair and spectacularly green eyes, he is a ten on a scale of one to ten for hotness. I have yet to see him look bad and we‘ve been roommates for over a year now. I just don’t think he has it in him.

“I’m disappointed in you.”

He plops down in the matching cream recliner, a curious look on his exasperatingly perfect features. “Why?”

“You’re wearing clothes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Good one, Ken.”

“I thought so, Barbie.” I smile sweetly as he scowls. I’ve told him countless times to quit with the Ken nickname, but he insists, and so, I insist on calling him Barbie.

“Really, what’s with the book?” He begins to thumb through it.

“It’s stupid.”

“Why is it stupid?” Pausing, his eyes become riveted to a page I can only assume is one of many graphic love scenes.

I wait. And as I wait, I admire the way strands of golden hair fall over his forehead, the frown between his brows that’s terribly adorable, and how he bites his lower lip in concentration.

I can give him something to bite.

“People really read this stuff?” he asks, sounding offended.

I straighten and ban indecent thoughts from my mind. “I told you.” Do I sound smug?

Still looking at the pages of the pornographic romance novel, he says, “I mean, I could see you reading it, but other people?”

“Hey.”

He looks up, a smirk on his face. “Just kidding.”

“No, you’re not,” I retort, but I can’t keep a smile from my face.

“How was work?”

I roll onto my back. “Ugh.”

“That good, huh?”

“You don’t want to know,” I mumble.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I do want to know, hence my asking.”

I grab a pillow and smother my face. The pillow is striped in blue and white and scratches my nose. “I’m a bad person.”

“What?”

I yank the pillow down. “I’m a bad person.”

“I suppose that could be true, depending on who you ask.”

I turn my head to stare at him.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” he hastily adds.

“Who does?” I ask suspiciously, temporarily forgetting that I stated exactly this a mere minute ago.

“No one.”

“You have to say that; I help pay the bills.”

“What happened at work?” he asks, redirecting me. He's good at that. Probably why I keep him around. Never mind that his name is on the lease and not mine.

I blow out a noisy breath and sit up, tossing the pillow aside. “Do you want the long version or the short?”

“Short.”

I’m trying not to smile, which just proves how vile I am. “Okay, so this old bag was our first patient of the day.” I pause and he motions for me to continue.

I rub my forehead and look at a framed painting on the wall above his head. It's a watercolor of yellow and blue flowers. Decorating the apartment is all on Graham because I have no interior design sense at all. The walls of the apartment are white, as designated by the owners, but my roommate has managed to make our living room inviting with paintings, framed sayings on the wall (My favorite is: When the world says give up, hope whispers, try one more time.), and the pale colors of the ocean visible in the variations of blues and greens throughout the room. My contribution is to admire it all.

“She was awful, Graham, she really was,” I say earnestly.

“What’d you do?”

A good thing about being so close to someone is that they know you so well. A bad thing about being so close to someone is that they know you so well.

“That sounds like resignation in your tone.”

He just looks at me.

“Okay, well, as soon as she walked through the door she had a bad attitude.”

“And?”

“She accused me of smiling when I told her what we were going to do today.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“Naturally.”

“So, uh, later, during the appointment, after she’d been mean countless times, I might have told her I was smiling.”

He doesn’t speak while he digests this.

I twine my fingers together and whistle.

“Maybe you should be more specific,” he says slowly.

I know my face is red because it feels really warm. “All right.”

Two tawny eyebrows lift in anticipation.

With a deep breath of courage, I say in a rush, “She was acting like we'd severed all of her limbs, saying her toes were stumps and that she was going *****e us, and really, it was a totally regular appointment. I mean, yeah, there was some bleeding, but that's normal when you shave off a layer of nail.” He groans, and I ignore that, continuing with, “So, then, you know, by that time I was getting really pissed. And when the doctor was out of the room, I leaned toward her and said very softly, ‘Now I’m smiling.’ Her eyes went wide and she almost looked scared and I felt a little guilty, but not completely.”

Graham laughs, but it has an incredulous ring to it. “Wow.”

My shoulders slump.

“Sorry, but that wasn’t nice.”

“I know!” I groan. “That’s what I’m saying. I’m a bad, bad girl.” I grin. “You should spank me.”

With a shake of his head, he states, “You’re just full of ***ual innuendoes today, aren’t you?”

I shrug, admiring his biceps. “Must have been that book.”

“Must have been and quit looking at me like that.”

Our eyes meet. A jolt goes through parts of me, all of which shall remain unnamed. “Like what?” I ask innocently.

“Like you want to eat me for lunch.”

I just smile.

He sighs. “Your obsession is getting out of hand. Am I going to have to get a restraining order?”

“Psssh, whatever,” I say with a laugh. “How are you going to do that when I’m your roommate?”

He scratches his head, disrupting the shaggy locks even more. “Dunno. I’ll have you confined to your bedroom until I leave the premises every morning and night.”

“You’d miss my unfailing adoration.”

He laughs and looks down at the book in his long-fingered hands. “'Midnight Rogue'?”

“The book is stupid. This chick is screaming from an orgasm the first time she has ***, mind you, and then, after they, quote unquote, make love, she cries from the beauty of it all. It’s ridiculous. All you need is the man crying as well to make the idiocy of it complete.”

With a rueful grin on his full lips, he glances at me before returning his gaze to the paperback. “You’re such a snot. Maybe some women do those things.”

“Maybe not,” I scoff.

He tosses the book toward me and I catch it. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“Eh,” is my well thought-out response.

“All right. Guess I'll pick. I've got some chicken in the fridge. I’ll grill that up. Can you make a salad?”

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I nod and grudgingly remove myself from the couch. I follow him into the kitchen, where he’s pulling marinated chicken breasts out of the fridge. The kitchen is small, just big enough for the table and chairs that are in it, and decked out with simple white appliances. The theme is red and black accents with coffee and wine references—favorite things for each of us. Me, I prefer the wine. Graham prefers the coffee.

I lean over him as he’s bent down and sniff. “Mmm. Smells good.”

“It’s Italian dressing and pineapple chunks. Thought I’d try something different.”

“I meant you.”

“What is with you today?” he questions, sounding more thoughtful than irritated, as he shuts the refrigerator door with his elbow.

I sigh and place my chin in my hand, bracing my elbow on the counter. “Do you think stuff like that really happens?”

“Stuff like what?”

I gesture with my hand. “You know. Women and men who love each other so much they cry after having ***? Having orgasms the first time they have ***? I mean, I know guys do, but girls? And they actually call it making love? Does that kind of stuff really happen?”

Graham stares at me.

“What?”

“I don’t really know,” he says carefully and carries the plate of chicken through the patio door opening to the deck.

I follow him. “Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“If you’re not sure, then you haven’t.” Me—who has only had a few boyfriends and only one even close to a serious relationship—the expert on love and dating. It’s safe to say I am a virgin.

I am a virgin. There, I said it.

“I suppose.”

I sit in a patio chair, watching Graham as he fires up the grill. He has a thing about grilling out as often as possible during the summer. I don't know why. I guess he likes it. I tip my head back. Summers in Wisconsin can be pretty humid, but today the sun is shining and there’s a gentle breeze with no sign of dampness. The smoky scent of the heating grill tantalizes my senses as I inhale.

“So—”

“Kennedy.”

“Yes?”

“I really don’t want to be having this conversation with you.”

“I’m just curious.”

“Wrong person to be asking.” He pierces the chicken with a fork and slaps it on the grill.

“Why?” I demand.

He checks the temperature on the grill and straightens. “Because I’m not comfortable talking about orgasms with you, that’s why.”

“But Graham—”

“No buts.”

“No butts,” I snort.

“Not what I meant.” He walks to the patio door, stops, and looks at me accusingly. “And you know it.”

“You’re such a girl,” I call after him.

“And you’re such a guy.” He slams the door shut, leaving me outside.

I frown. What’s his problem? I can usually tease Graham all day long, but every once in a while, something I mention makes him clam up, like now. Then he gets all huffy and stiff-lipped and I have to make nice, which I’m not very good at. But with him, I make an effort because I love him and not in that way, but actually, yes, in that way. It’s complicated. Or not.

I can be mostly upfront about things with him, because even though I wish it were otherwise, my roommate does not look at me as being potential girlfriend material. From the start, I was designated to the friend zone. On the one hand, this is good, because I don't have to try to impress him or anything, so I can say and do whatever. Or maybe that's because I have no tact. Irrelevant! But sometimes, like now, he turns into a stodgy old man and I feel funny, like maybe I shouldn’t be so blunt about certain things, or be so much of a buddy. If any of that makes sense and I don’t think it does, but whatever.

I trudge back into the apartment to find him mutilating a salad with his back to me. “What’d it ever do to you?” I ask.

He doesn't respond.

“Ah, come on, Graham, let's kiss and make up.”

Without waiting for him to respond—or not respond, as he seems prone to do at the moment, I wrap my arms around his waist. I would be completely okay with just kissing, even if we weren't making up. Luckily for me, Graham can never stay mad at me for long. I guess I'm too likable. I smell faint cologne and something fruity, like he got splashed with pineapple juice while preparing the chicken. It smells wonderful. He smells wonderful, like always.

He goes still beneath my touch and it takes him a moment to answer. “It brought up the subject of orgasms.”

I rest my cheek on the hardness of his back and close my eyes. It feels like he relaxes into me, but probably he’s just resigned himself to my PG fondling. Either is fine with me as I enjoy the nearness of him—his smell, the feel of him, for just a moment.

“So did you,” I counter, pulling away.

“I did not,” he says, all haughty.

“You just did.”

“Really?” All the exasperation in that one word says paragraphs about his discontent with me.

“I didn’t know it was a taboo subject between us. I won't bring it up again.” I push him out of the way and rescue the salad.

“There are certain things I can’t talk about with you, because, well, aside from how you act, you are a woman.”

“Like I need reminding.”

“Obviously you do.”

I give him a look. “Go check the chicken.”

He salutes me. I notice his middle finger is saluting me the most. I pretend I didn’t see that and turn my attention back to our vegetables. My phone rings and I wipe my hands on a towel before fetching it from the end table in the living room.

I grimace as I answer. “Hello?”

“Your mom burned peas. How do you burn peas?”

My dad has this thing about calling me. All the time. About random things. Graham says it's his way of reaching out to me, but I sort of doubt that.

“You cook them too long?”

“They're already cooked. All you do is heat them up.”

“I guess if you heat them up for too long, they burn,” is my awesome reply.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to eat supper.”

He grunts.

I wait, about to tell him I have to go, when he says, “Guess I'll go eat some burned peas.”

“Have fun.”

He grunts again before hanging up.

I shake my head and finish preparing the salad.

Within the hour, all is well once more in world of Grennedy as we sit on the patio, eating poultry and lettuce. I cut my chicken into microscopic pieces so I can taste it but not think too much about what I'm eating.

Don't ask.

“Mmm, this is good.” I point my fork at the plate and smile at Graham. It is too; sweet and tangy, like citrus fruit bursting on my tongue with enough sweetness to keep it from being sour.

He grins back. “Thanks. The salad’s not too bad either.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m gifted in the kitchen.”

“Yes, you are. Remember the last time you baked?”

“Did anything exciting happen to you at work today?” I hurriedly ask, scowling at him. We don't need to talk about the time I almost burned the whole apartment building down by testing my culinary skills—and let's be honest, I don't have any.

He squints through the sunshine and shakes his head. “Nah. Just the usual.”

“Not even one person threw a golf club or beaned someone on the head with a ball?”

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“That is the usual.”

Graham’s a golf instructor at the local golf course. A lot of his students are women, and I think they’re there more to gawk at him than anything else. He’s just way too easy on the eyes. And he's nice. He’s like a magnificent work of art you can’t look away from. When God put Graham Malone together, He had beauty in mind, I’m sure, but that isn't even the appeal, not really. The appeal is him—the way he laughs, the sound of his voice, and his sweet, sweet nature. Yes, he is beautiful, but what makes him even more beautiful is that he has no idea.

He has his quirks; his little bits of crazy, but even they endear him to others.

I know men think they need to be tough and hide their true selves, and society tells them they need to as well, but the fact that he isn't like that, in no way deflects from his attractiveness. In fact, it enhances it. How can you not admire, respect, and covet a men who is perfectly okay with the way he is, even if the world says it's not the way he should be? He's definitely not a badass, but he doesn't need to be.

He's just...he makes your heart fill with something like joy and all of you turns warm when you're near him. You respond to him with not just your mind and your body, but all of you. At least, that's how it is for me. I sort of wish it was that way only for me, but I've seen how women act around him. I know—it's so not just me.

Yep. He's that guy.

“Did Mrs. Strang hit on you again?” I try to sound innocent as I ask this, but I have a hard time unclenching my jaw to get the words out.

“She does not hit on me. She’s married. She merely flirts.”

“Outrageously.”

He gives me a look that clearly states, And you don't? But all he says is, “She doesn’t have lessons today, remember? Only Fridays.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I perk up. “How about Janice and Melanie? I’m sure they embarrassed themselves somehow in their attempts to woo you.”

“Uh-uh.”

I purse my lips. “Something exciting had to have happened.”

“Nothing at all,” he says quite cheerfully.

“How very dull.”

“Well,” Graham comments, pouring us each a second glass of wine, “we can’t all be such badasses like you. Giving the grannies the what for and all that.”

I sigh. “I am pretty terrible, aren’t I?”

He leans toward me with a grin on his face. “You’re not bad, you’re not terrible, you’re not even evil. You’re just you.” And he kisses my nose.

OKAY, SO I shouldn’t have had the third, or even fourth, glass of wine. I’m staring at my ceiling, but it’s dark, so everything’s blurry and fuzzy, and of course, dark. I feel kind of woozy. Like too much wine kind of woozy. It doesn’t take much to get me happy. I distinctly remember Graham telling me to slow down on the alcohol and I may or may not have growled at him and snatched the bottle out of his hand. I can’t be sure 'cause the details are hazy.

I sigh. Why’s he always gotta be right about everything?

I keep replaying his words in my head. It was only like a whole sentence, but still, it had meaning behind it. You’re not bad¸ you’re not terrible, you’re not even evil, you’re just you.

It’s funny how just the right words, or maybe it’s not the words at all, but the person saying them, can make all the difference between self-loathing and understanding of oneself. Graham has a way of making me realize certain things about myself. He makes me feel like I’m worth knowing, bad traits and all. Possibly redeemable even. If I wanted to be—which I don’t.

I think about this as I stare at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom that I can't really see. I also think of Graham kissing my nose. He kissed my nose. He kissed my nose. Which really shouldn’t be all that significant and maybe it isn’t even to him, but to me, it is. I absolutely hate my nose, revile it, detest it, wish it wasn’t mine, etc. etc. It’s much too long and not pretty at all. It’s like, on the whole, my face isn’t too bad, but once you focus on that particular part of my face (the proboscis), it’s not so great. (And I only know what that word means ’cause I looked it up once, for research. Don’t ask me why I was researching noses.)

I mean, I’ve been complimented on the deep brown of my eyes and the way they tilt up at the corners. They have even been referenced to as being almond-shaped. Which...score! Because almonds are awesome. Who doesn't like almonds? Even the slenderness of my neck received praise from one boyfriend. He might have had issues, so I’m thinking I really should disqualify that observation (but I won’t because a compliment is a compliment). And my lips. They are small, but full, and yes, an ex said he liked them (not the same one). Even women like the silvery blond shade of my hair and the way it hangs down my back in a semi-straight sheet.

But have I ever received one positive word about my nose? No. Or had my nose kissed? Negative.

So it makes me feel, I don’t know, happy or something, that Graham would do that, to a part of me I think is repulsive. And he must not, or he wouldn’t have been able to do that. I groan. Why can’t he be awful, horribly deformed, cruel, smelly, missing teeth, gay, something? Then I wouldn’t be so stupidly in love with him. And I know I am, even though I deny it every other thought. It is so very pointless to be.

Graham is older than me, and even if he wasn’t, I’m smart enough to realize he’s more mature than me, probably more than I’ll ever be. He’s twenty-seven, so he’s been around five whole years longer than me. But like I said, I don’t think it’s the age gap that’s the problem; it’s just the gap. Something indiscernible that says no to us ever being together. Maybe it's my lack of maturity? Pffft. Yeah right. I can't really be that immature. And anyone who says otherwise can kiss my butt. But not really, because that would be weird.

It’s ridiculous how fast it happened. I answered an ad for a roommate in the local newspaper, met him, fell in love. He grinned—his eyes crinkling at the corners, the striking green of them slamming right into my heart—and I was done for. I shove the pillow over my head and scream. Thankfully the sound is muffled. At least I think it is until there’s a knock at the door. It has to be Graham, because, well, he’s the only other person living here.

I fling the pillow across the room and sit up. “Yeah?” I hurriedly try to smooth my hair and adjust my breasts in my tank top 'cause I'm currently bra-less. I arrange the blanket around my hips just as the door opens a crack.

“Ken?”

“Yes, Barbie?”

The door opens wider, revealing half of his body, the other half remaining in shadow, which is just plain disappointing. He’s got on dark pajama pants and nothing else. My mouth goes dry. A streak of light spotlights me and I know I don't look nearly as good as he does. I make a face. Oh well—not much I can do about it.

“You okay?”

“Yep. Mmm-hmm. Why?”

His feet softly pad into the room and he sits at the foot of the bed. Like, right by my pinky toe. If I move it less than an inch it’ll be touching him through the blanket. Hot dog!

“I thought I heard something.” I can feel his eyes on me, but can’t really see them. They maybe glow, which could be spooky, but I’m really not sure about anything I’m seeing or not seeing in my possibly inebriated state.

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“Nope. Nothing from here.”

“Huh.” His head turns. “Why is your pillow on top of your dresser?”

“Psssh,” is my clever response.

Even in the shadows I can feel the intensity of his eyes on my face and body. Okay, so, on my body, I wish. “You feel okay?”

“Wonderful!” I giggle. I’m not sure why. What I said wasn’t funny.

“I told you not to have those last two drinks. You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I am no such thing!” I declare—and hiccup. “Hey! Listen to this, I just thought it up.” I pause dramatically. “Here today, wine tomorrow. Good, right?”

“Bra off, wine on.”

“Risqué, especially for you.” I think, or try to think, as my brain is submerged in alcohol. “What the world needs now, is wine, sweet wine.”

“Got wine?”

“Lame!” We have this thing with thinking up catchy wine phrases. I don't know why or how it even started—probably during one of our wine drinking nights, and there have been many.

He scoots up by me and gives me a shove. I almost hit the wall with my head, but catch myself in time. “Move over.”

“Easy with the outstanding merchandise.”

“Learn to handle your booze.”

“Oh ho! It’s going to be like that now, is it?”

He laughs. “Fo sho.”

“Do not start with the gangster talk. My ears can’t take it.”

“Yo, you know what happens when you get ****-faced. Gangster Graham comes out,” he says in a horrible imitation of street talk that has me laughing and groaning at the same time.

About seven months ago, I stumbled home from a party with all kinds of wisdom to impart. Apparently, I hung out with some faux rappers or thugs at the party ‘cause by the time I got to the apartment, I was a wannabe of a wannabe and put on quite a show for Graham and his then girlfriend. For my big finale I puked—on his girlfriend.

Needless to say, he’s never let the incident go, and every time I become intoxicated, as my penance, I guess, he does this. You’d think one of us would learn by now. Oh yeah, and his girlfriend dumped him. On the plus side, he wasn’t too beat up about that. Or maybe the plus side was that she dumped him—plus side for me, that is.

With the side of his body against mine and his warmth seeping into me, I have a hard time playing along and keeping it PG. I want to jump on him and attack him and practice all kinds of sordid things I’ve read about in my smut books.

“Yo yo yo, check this out.” He does some weird hand movements that look like he’s trying to make shadow puppets—or mime.

“Graham, stop. No more,” I plead, holding my aching sides.

He goes still. “If you puke, I’m not holding your hair for you.”

“That’s so not nice. I would hold your hair for you.”

“And if you’re hung over tomorrow, I’m going to bang pots around and hide all the pain meds,” he threatens.

“You’re so mean to me.”

He gets up and I instantly miss his warmth. But all he does is grab the pillow off my dresser and comes back to the bed. “Sit up,” he commands.

So I sit up.

He plumps the pillow up and places it on the bed. “Lie down.”

“Are you going to tie me up too?”

“Not quite.”

“Your loss.”

Graham is quiet. I look up at him. He stares down at me.

What would you do if he kissed you right now? And on the lips?

Kiss him back.

Kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

But he doesn’t. He does get back in the bed to stretch out beside me. Which is enough, because it has to be enough. We lie beside one another in quiet camaraderie. Although, I am tempted to jump his bones, so it’s not exactly peaceful on my part. My head touches his shoulder and I have to fight the urge not to rest it there. And then, I do anyway. Graham doesn’t move away or tense up.

“Are you sobering off at all?”

“Yeah. Party pooper.”

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

I’d thank you in the morning if you didn’t leave my bed all night. “We’ll see in the morning, I guess, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“You sound so pompous when you say that.”

“Indeed.”

“Stop it,” I tell him, a grin curving my lips.

“Indeed.”

“Graham, I swear…”

He turns his head and looks down at me, dislodging my head from his shoulder in the process. “You swear what?”

My face feels hot. “I don’t know. Something bad.”

“In—” He laughs when I groan. “Just kidding.”

I slap his chest and then immediately rub the spot in apology.

“Kennedy?”

The seriousness of his tone has me frozen. “Yes?” I ask, not really sure I’m going to want to hear what he has to say.

“There’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“Do you really?”

He chuckles softly. “I really do.”

I grab the blanket from the foot of the bed and clutch it near my waist like it is literally my security blanket. It’s a fluffy silver and plum comforter I’ve had for ages. Oh no, what’s he going to say? He’s moving out, he wants me to move out, he's in love, he’s getting married, he’s dying, what?

“Hey. You okay? You’re all tense.”

I release my death grip on the blanket and smooth it over my stomach. “Mmm-hmm. Yep. Wonderful.”

“Do you remember me telling you about my brother?”

I frown and search my brain. Younger brother with mental issues, suicidal tendencies, not close with Graham, hasn’t seen him in years. Ca-razy.

“Yeah. Sort of. What about him?”

He rubs his face. “This is really hard to say.”

“Did he die?”

“What? No. Nothing like that.”

I'm an impatient person, so I urge a little forcefully, “Spit it out already.”

“He wants to stay here. For the rest of the summer.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because he’s on summer vacation from school and he hasn’t seen me in years and I guess he wants to spend some time together. I got him a job. He’s going to help out at the country club.”

I sit up and face him. “Wait. So this is already all planned out? You didn’t even ask me if it was okay for some person, some stranger I don't even know, to temporarily live here?” Well, of course I don't know him if he's a stranger. I frown, hoping he didn't catch that.

Graham sits up too. “I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what you would think of it and I did intentionally wait until the last minute to tell you. But really, you’ll hardly ever see him. I’ll keep him busy so he’s not pestering you. We'll try to make ourselves scarce.”

My mind wraps around something. “What do you mean, waited until the last minute? When’s he showing up?”

I can see him wince. “Tomorrow.”

“What?” I shriek. “You're ****ting me! Tell me you’re just doing this for the ultimate payback to that time I puked on your girlfriend. Or you’re sobering me up the rest of the way. Something.”

“I’m right here. Please stop yelling.”

“I’ll yell if I want to yell!” I yell and jump to my feet. Not a good thing to do on a mattress 'cause all I manage to accomplish is the unknown ability to land on the floor with my face. Now that takes talent. The jolt jars another thought into my way too-sober brain. I sit up and give him a woebegone look. Graham can’t see my face, but I’m sure he can feel the sorrow in my gaze.

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“So you won’t be around much the next couple of months?” My voice sounds so pitiful I could slap myself. But I don’t want to, because that would hurt.

He sighs. “I don’t want him to be a burden, so yeah, I’ll keep him out of your hair. I don’t even know what he’s like anymore. It’ll be like having a stranger around.”

I roll my eyes. “Duh.”

“I’m sorry for springing this on you at the last minute. I really am. But I couldn’t say no. He’s my brother.” He sounds sad and in return I feel bad for him.

“You owe me,” I tell him without a shred of guilt.

“I so owe you.”

“Where’s he going to sleep?”

“With you.”

“Ha ha. Very funny,” I say and grab his offered hand. He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around me and it feels so wonderful I almost sigh. But I don’t. I’m way reserved.

“Good night.”

“Suck it,” I tell him saccharinely.

His laughter follows him out the door.

A POUNDING HAS me bolting upright in my bed. I look around the room, sleepily thinking there’s an earthquake presently going on, even if we do live in Wisconsin. There’s a gray cast to the room so I know it’s before six. And I don’t like to be awake before six, earthquake or not. I slump against the headboard of the bed and blink at the clock on the nightstand. The evil red numbers glow 6:12. Close enough to before six to be irate.

“Kennedy?” comes through the door.

“What?” I growl, flipping my hair out of my eyes to better glare at the door.

It opens, revealing a freshly cleaned head of messy blond hair and eyes that dazzle green even in the dullness of the morning light. My heart does a dippy thing into my stomach at the sight and smell of him, but I’m supposed to be annoyed, so I do my best to look…annoyed. Graham saunters into the room with a coffee mug in each hand. He’s got on a pale pink polo shirt only a man with infinite self-confidence can pull off and khaki cargo shorts. I glance at his feet, unsurprised to find them in worn tennis shoes. His standard country club ensemble, although the color of the shirts and shorts changes daily. He’s even got a purple and lime green-striped polo he pulls out of his closet on his really flamboyant days.

“It’s 6:12,” I announce, my voice gravelly and unhappy.

His eyes flicker to the clock. “6:14.”

I don’t have to try hard to put the scowl on my face this time.

“I brought you coffee.” He carefully places a black mug that reads ‘You’ll always be my best friend; you know too much’ on the stand beside my bed. Graham fits his lanky frame into the lone chair in the room, a flimsy rocker I picked up at a garage sale and am to this day stupefied is still in one piece, and gazes at me.

I shift uncomfortably, knowing I have eye boogers and my hair is a ratted mess. It’s hard to look your absolute best at all times when you live with the guy you most want to impress, and it’s downright impossible when the guy bombards your bedroom at all hours of the day and night. I want to seethe at the injustice of it all, but the coffee smells heavenly, and honestly, I’ve puked in front of him, so…who cares?

“Thank you,” I tell him grudgingly, lifting the steaming liquid ambrosia to my mouth. I sigh in pleasure as the first drop of bold, black coffee touches my sleep-gunked tongue. I totally forgot to brush my teeth last night. Shame on me and gross. I redeem my poor opinion of myself when I remember I did floss.

“You're welcome,” he murmurs in his deep voice.

We sip our coffee in silence. I start to feel semi-human.

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful. No hangover.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“You’re glad I don’t have a hangover? You care so much whether I’m miserable or not?” I’m grinning. We both know he really does.

“Well, I just don’t want you to be unkind to the elderly folks that go to the foot doctor today.”

“Oh, yeah, bring that up.” I add, “And I don’t need to have a hangover to be mean.”

“Sadly, I know this.”

I give him a curious look. “Why the coffee and early wake up?”

He then does something so out of character that I’m stunned. Like, mouth hanging open stunned. He fidgets and hesitates and finally stumbles out, “Well, my brother’s coming today, remember?” Actually, I had forgotten. Why’d he have to remind me? “I want to make sure you’ll be decent to him.” What does he think I’m going to do, traumatize the poor kid? I can be nice. Sometimes. “You know, that you won’t hold a grudge against him because of me, waiting till the last minute and all to tell you. I'm sorry about that.”

“Why would I take my anger at your stupi***y out on your innocent brother?”

Graham sighs. “I apologized! I do really feel bad. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t want to give you an extended amount of time to think about it, and dwell on it, and plan all kinds of mischievous ways to get back at me.”

“Silly boy.” I chuckle. “I only need a couple hours to do that.”

The morning light is changing from steel to shades of sherbert and I can see him better now—I can also see the disaster that is my room. He looks nervous. This visit with his brother must mean a lot to him.

“I just wanted to touch base with you before I leave for work. Sorry for waking you up early. I know how much you hate the unsleeping state of life.”

I give him a glare for that comment. A girl needs her beauty rest; all ten to twelve to fourteen hours of it. On a good night, that is.

“I thought the coffee would help. Be a salve to the morning monster’s grumbly attitude.”

He is so not getting a Christmas present.

He stands and the light through the window seems to illuminate his good looks all the more, casting a golden glow to his already golden physique. “I’m going to go hit some balls while I wait for my first lesson.”

“Who is it today?”

Something like jealousy shoots through me when I think of a few of his younger, perkier, prettier students—the ones that wear skimpy clothes, and bat their eyelashes at him, and sigh as they gaze at his handsomeness. Oh, and make obvious ***ual innuendos, which is counterproductive. If you’re trying to be inconspicuous, you don’t grab at a guy’s arm and press your breasts against him, telling him your husband is out of town for the weekend. And that’s just one of the times I saw it firsthand; I’m sure it happens all the time in all kinds of interesting ways.

All of my advances are much more subtle. Okay, so they aren't. But that isn't the point!

“It’s Friday. Mrs. Strang.”

I make a grrr sound through clenched teeth. She’s the exact married woman I witnessed hitting on Graham in a not-too-subtle way.

He laughs. He always laughs it off. “She promised she’d behave.”

My face scrunches up. “I’m sure she did.”

“Kennedy.”

“What?” I snap.

“Quit acting like my mother.”

I sit back. That completely wakes me up and not in a good way. His mother? Seriously? “Get out,” I hiss and point a finger at the door.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I have to get ready for work and you need to go flirt with your student and I am not acting like your mother!”

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He hurries to the door, casting an anxious look over his shoulder. “Remind me never to wake you up early again.” He pauses. “And I don't flirt. You know that.”

I menacingly scoot off the bed. Yes, it is possible to scoot off a bed in a menacing way. It's all about the expression on your face. Mine is schooled for murder.

He disappears like magic, popping his head back into the room to say, “And remember to behave around my brother.”

The look of fury on my face hurries him along, luckily for Graham.

I’M JAMMING ALONG to Avril Lavigne on my short, five minute commute; give or take a couple seconds, to work. I cut someone off at a four-way stop, apparently going when it wasn’t my turn (and that’s saying something in a small town like Lancaster. Like, I’m a bad driver) and give them a one finger salute when they honk and wave their fist at me.

Besides, I have stuff on my mind—Graham and Younger Brother stuff. Okay, so I’m slightly irritated that he didn’t mention this whole two month visit to me before the day before his brother is supposed to show up. It’s not like he’s staying for a couple days; it’s a couple months.

Most likely this kid is going to sleep on the couch and want to stay up all night playing video games and be a nuisance. He’s probably like sixteen or seventeen and thinks he’s all cool. I’m sure he’s not. He also probably won’t work like he’s supposed to, after Graham got him the job and everything, and he’ll just be a slacker. A smelly slacker. ‘Cause there’s no way two Malones can be so perfect. The younger one definitely has to be the outcast. I realize I already know he is, based on what Graham's told me of his troubled past. Wonderful. I’ll probably say the wrong thing and he’ll slice his wrists open, which...not cool.

What if he sees me in my undies or opens the bathroom door while I’m in there going pee? And yeah, the door does lock, but still, that’s not the point. If he’s observant in any kind of way, I’m sure he’ll realize in about two seconds that I have the hots for his older brother. What if he tells him? Graham would be mortified to know such a thing. He really would. Everything would be ruined between us.

My shoulders slump. This is going to be a horrible two months, I can tell already.

I hit the brakes at the last possible second and whip into a right turn, tires squealing. Cripes, I almost drove past my workplace. I slam the shifter thing (I don’t know the technical term for it so that’s what I call it. Lay off.) into park and twist the key in the ignition (I do know the name of this one. That R. Kelly song helped with that. Even though he’s a perv, he did have that one good song. Not the flying one—that one was just strange.) to off.

With a loud sigh and a sense of foreboding, I grab my hot pink purse, lock the car doors, and head for the gray building. At the door, I impulsively fumble around in my purse for my cell phone and hit Graham's number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you busy?”

“Well, I’m working.”

“Yeah, so, are you busy?”

He sighs. “What’s up?”

I nibble my lip. “So this brother of yours? He’s not going to, like, freak out and kill himself during his visit here, is he?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, because, remember, you said he had problems? Or something? Like, he’s depressed and suicidal and ****. So is he, like, going to off himself if I say or do the wrong thing?”

There's silence for an extended amount of time and then, “Only if you mention the color red.”

I go still. “What?”

“Yeah, something really traumatic happened to him when he was a kid and it involved the color red. So whatever you do, don’t say that word.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and narrow my eyes at it. “Are you funning with me?”

“Jesus, I thought you said something else,” he says faintly.

I grin when it dawns on me what he thought he heard me say. “Don’t swear.”

My parents may be whacked, but they did teach me some things you never say, and anything in relation to biblical terms spoken in a negative way was one of them.

“I didn’t…oh…yeah…sorry.”

“So you’re telling the truth?”

“Definitely.”

I don’t know if I really believe him or if I think he’s just saying this to get back at me for me being me—like, calling to ask if I have to worry about his brother ending his life in my apartment. Which isn’t very fair 'cause I can’t help the way I am. Maybe I’m a little callous, a little insensitive, a little self-centered, but hey, that’s how I roll.

“Okay. Well. 'Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

I don’t hang up. Neither does Graham.

“The word red, huh?” I just want to make sure I’m getting this straight.

A pause. “Yes.”

“What if he sees the color red? Same thing?”

Another pause. “No.”

“Oh, good, 'cause we have lots of red in our apartment.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that would get tedious if whenever he went somewhere, there was the possibility he’d see the color red and attempt suicide. Like, if I grabbed the bottle of ketchup out of the fridge and he went berserk and hung himself. That would be a bummer.”

“Yes, it would,” he says evenly.

“What if it’s already in a word? Like…” I search my brain. Not easy to do this early in the morning. “Redwing. Or something.”

It sounds like snickering from his end of the phone. “That’s…fine,” he says, his voice sounding strained.

I purse my lips, feeling pretty suspicious. “Really, you’re not messing with me?”

“Really.”

I hesitate. “Okay then. 'Bye.”

“’Bye.” His second farewell may have sounded curt, but I’m sure I imagined it.

I unlock the door and scoot inside, willing the day to start fast and end faster. I’m always the first of the crew to show. Me, the doc, Sally, and a part-time massage therapist make up the glamorous team of foot care pros. We’re open four days a week, with Tuesdays off. Phoebe Kuntz, the massage therapist, makes bucket loads of money and only works Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Must be nice. She makes in an hour what I make in five. Although, she did go to college for two years, and ya know, she has to massage feet.

Cringe.

I was hired right after I graduated from high school and was trained by Dr. Olman. The ad read ‘Willing to train the right individual’, and of course, that was me. Four years now I’ve been a foot doctor assistant. Amazingly, I find it fascinating. For the most part. The least part is blood and bad smells and procedures that don’t go as planned and running behind in the schedule and people that don’t clean between their toes—ever.

I glance at the schedule and can’t quite hold in a moan. Of course, the first procedure is multiple bunion removal. Yay. Talk about party in the office.

I'm just putting the final items on the surgical tray when Dr. Olman and Sally show up. Together. I narrow my eyes as I watch them walk through the back door. It's possible they just arrived at the same time, but came in different vehicles from different houses. Then again, I’m thinking not. Call it the blush on Sally’s face or the way Dr. Olman isn’t meeting my eyes.

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I smile—a really big smile.

He clears his throat, and in his thunderous voice, asks, “What are we doing on the first patient?”

Oh, so it’s going to be like that, is it? All business. Okay. Fine. I can be business-like. I'm profoundly versatile.

“Multiple bunion removal on both feet. Here's the x-ray.” I slap it against his palm.

He holds the x-ray up to the light, grimaces, and nods. “Could be extensive.”

“Yes! I love extensive procedures.” I punch the air in mock enthusiasm.

“Should be exciting.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Excuse me,” Sally says and slithers by. She glances at me as she passes. She blushes even redder when I left an eyebrow at her and hurries to her area.

“Have you seen Phoebe yet?”

I look at my boss. He never asks about Phoebe. Could be he's trying to deflect the attention from him and Sally. And...no. That's not happening. “Uh, no. Her first patient is at 8:30, so she should be here soon.”

He brusquely nods his head. “Good. I’m just going to…” he trails off, practically running to get to Sally.

I hold in a laugh and go about my duties.

Two hours later, Dr. Olman bandages up two feet, wishes Richard Hermsen a good day, and exits left.

“You have to come back one more time. We didn't get as far as we'd hoped to today,” I tell the patient.

Richard is in his sixties, has two hearing aids, and mumbles a lot. I don’t know if it’s on purpose or something he has no control over. But how can you not be able to control such a thing? I always want to yell at him, “Enunciate! Enunciate!”, but of course I don’t.

He runs a hand over his gray head, mutters something, and gets out of the chair.

“What?”

Mr. Hermsen blinks his brown eyes at me. “Huh?”

“What did you say?”

He leans his hands on the chair and slowly straightens to his full height of about five feet three, three inches shorter than me. “What?” He looks confused.

I let out a helpless sigh. I know I have a soft voice, but really, he has his hearing aids in so he should be able to understand me. I almost want to ask him if they're turned on, but I do have enough sense to realize that could be interpreted as rude.

“You have to come back one more time and Dr. Olman will finish working on the last bunion .”

He stares at me. I stare back. I don’t know if he comprehends a thing I’m saying. I’m about ready to shove him from the room and let someone else deal with him when he nods. I let out a deep breath and follow him from the room. I tell Sally what’s going on and quickly escape back to the op, but not before I give her a wink. Have fun, that wink says.

I remove the dirty instruments from the room, toss them in the ultrasonic unit (which basically vibrates germs and other gross stuff from the instruments) in the lab, return to wipe down the room, and go back to the lab. I take the dirty instruments out of the ultrasonic unit and put some of them in the heat sterilizer, the rest of the instruments that can’t be cleaned with heat in the cold sterile container, and head back to the op to set up the room once more. I finish typing my notes in Richard’s computerized chart, and click out of it just as the office door chimes, most likely signaling the arrival of the next victim—patient. There I go again.

Phoebe pops her head in the doorway. “Hey, Kennedy. How’s your morning going so far?”

My co-worker’s lucky, and not just because she’s almost too skinny, tan, blond, and blue-eyed; although none of those things hurt, but because her patients actually want to see her. When my boss tells someone they need treatment, it’s not exactly something they want to hear. Let’s just say, it doesn’t make their day; it even infuriates some of them. People seriously look at him sometimes like he’s lying about their podiatric health. It would be humorous if, well, if it was.

“Oh, you know. Like butter.” I grin at her.

She smiles back, showing off her straight, whitened teeth that appear to glow. I tried whitening my teeth once, but they got so dang sensitive, I had to stop.

She hovers somewhere in the above average height and below average weight category. She’s got her fine blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, which just accentuates her facial beauty all the more. Her eyes are large and she has a small chin and dainty ears. Phoebe’s just so cute even I can’t hate her. And believe me, when I first met her, I tried. She even looks good in her pale blue scrubs, whereas I feel like a scrub in my dark purple ones. And yeah, I got my hair pulled back in a ponytail as well, but my hair is thick and probably weighs twice as much as hers, so it just doesn’t look nice pulled back. It looks heavy.

“I think your patient’s here,” she tells me, nodding in the direction of the waiting room.

“The suspense is killing me.”

She blinks. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but I don’t know why. It’s Nathan Mezera,” she whispers, leaning close to me.

Her one flaw: she smokes. Therefore, she smells like a big butt most of the time. Cigarette butt, that is. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried smoking a couple times, but I just didn’t have the talent to make it a habit. I know—I am such a disappointment. And sometimes, when I drink, I feel the urge to smoke, but otherwise, I’m not a smoker. It’s sad, really. I can’t even be an overachiever at that.

“So?” I know why she’s looking at me the way she is, but I’m going to play dumb. Nathan Mezera is a construction worker, which isn’t to say he’s naturally buff and hot, but he is.

She closes her eyes and counts. I know this 'cause even though she’s not speaking, her lips are moving—in the form of numbers. Phoebe pops her eyes open and states, quite loudly, “He is hot! On fire hot. So hot he sizzles when he moves. Do you not see this?” She widens her already slightly too large eyes and makes a sweeping motion with her hand.

“So hot you could catch a fever?”

“Yes!” She nods her head up and down so fast I fear she may get whiplash.

“So hot he’s smoking?”

“Yes, yes!”

This is getting to be fun. I try to think of another analogy, but Dr. Olman ruins my good time.

“Hey!” He snaps his fingers in front of our faces. “Stop drooling over the next patient and get the next patient. You, Phoebe, Sally has a question for you. Move it, move it,” he commands, sounding like a drill sergeant.

Phoebe sprints from the room, but I just stand there and look at my boss. He returns my stare until I raise an eyebrow. He sighs and leaves the room, mumbling something about good help being hard to find. Then I snap to it and hurry for the next patient. I don’t want to appear too eager, like Phoebe. I wouldn’t want my employer to actually think I listen to him.

NATHAN MEZERA IS twenty-four years old. I know this because I looked at the date of birth on his chart. He’s probably about five feet ten inches of all muscle. He’s got light brown hair that curls on the nape of his neck and over his ears, and it looks so soft, like silk. Of course, his brown eyes are dreamy and always have a sleepy look to them, like he just got out of bed or had great ***. His skin is tanned dark brown from being outside in the sun most days. He always wears these straight-legged jeans that mold to his thighs and butt, and stretchy t-shirts that show off his awesome physique. Phoebe’s right—he is hot. Definitely drool-worthy.