Dr. Neurotic(7)

"You know he can probably hear you, right?" I tried not to smile, but I couldn't drum up even an ounce of austerity.

"Pshh, duh," she agreed. "What's the point in insulting someone if they can't hear you?"

I'd never thought of it that way, but the more I considered it, the more  I reckoned she had a point. "Okay, fair enough. But we should probably  go. I'm sure you have work in the morning, and I know I do."

"You're so responsible," she teased. My chest tightened with the insult,  but she turned it around pretty quickly. "That's good though. I should  probably be more like you."

"I haven't always been," I offered. "I messed up a fuck of a lot when I was younger."

Why the hell am I telling her this?

"Yeah?" She leaned close and put her hand to my arm. "Really?"

"Really." A cold chill ran down my spine at how much I hated some of  what I'd done. "Jesus, you'd probably lose all respect for me if you  knew."

She shook her head nearly immediately, her long blond hair swinging at  the ends and tickling at the skin just above each breast. "No way. I'm  sure I messed up worse."

"Definitely not," I challenged. I'd left Winnie alone to raise our  daughter despite knowing how much it'd affect her. I'd known. I'd  watched her cry and listened as she'd told me what she needed, and  still, I hadn't given it to her.         

     



 

I couldn't find a way not to hate myself for that.

But at the same time, I'd thought I was doing what was best. I was  making something of myself, giving them financial support. I'd never  have been able to even imagine what would have happened if I'd stayed  here and given up the job opportunity in California.

The problem was with how late I was to realize that money wasn't everything-seven very important years.

Determination lined the entirety of Charlotte's body as she closed her  eyes briefly, blew out a breath, and opened them again. "I left my  fiancé the night before our wedding."

Her one imperfect tooth carved a worried pit into the flesh of her lip  as she waited for me to respond. She expected rejection, but I felt no  condemnation. Instead, I felt shame in the fact that I really was, as I  suspected all along, the biggest asshole.

My stomach churned as I considered what to say. Whether I should tell  her what I'd done-perhaps driving her away for good-or if letting her  flounder out there all alone was something I could live with.

Nervousness hummed through the surface of my skin as the words crawled up my throat and prepared for admission.

But when they hit the tip of my tongue, the rolling note of the first  letter already a signal in my brain, fear and "rational" cowardice  changed my mind. I didn't really know this woman.

Was I inexplicably drawn to her? Yes. I was.

But she was a headhunter and I was a doctor, and that was about all that  I knew for sure. I couldn't share something so vulnerable about my  past-about my daughter's past-without knowing her better.

"I … well, that's not so bad," I comforted lamely.

She took it well, thank God. Laughing loud and wild like a hyena before  shoving my shoulder playfully. "Oh yeah. It makes me a real peach."

"I'm assuming you were young. People make mistakes when they're young."

She pushed the glass forward before taking the stem between her fingers  and twisting it back and forth thoughtfully. The following shake of her  head was self-deprecating. "Yeah. And leaving wasn't wrong. We weren't  right for each other. But the way I did it was." She shrugged  helplessly. "Enough about my failures, though. The only ones that matter  now are your absolutely terrible attempt at trivia and refusal to take a  perfectly good job."

"I told you, I have a daughter here."

She rolled her eyes. "Right, right. So noble."

I nearly fucking scoffed. Fuck, if she only knew. You could have told  her, my subconscious poked. But I hadn't. I guess I'm still a real  asshole.

"Come on," I said. "Let me get you a cab."

Her eyes narrowed, and the tip of her tongue peeked out just enough to  wet the seam of her lips. "Okay. But at least give me your direct  number. Trivia partners don't have to go through the main line at the  hospital, right?"

I smiled and pulled my phone from my pocket. As she spotted it, she dug hers out from her briefcase.

We exchanged quickly and typed our numbers in each other's phones as the  bartender started turning out lights behind us. Literally. It was like  an approaching total solar eclipse as the darkness made a run toward us.

Charlotte scoffed. "Totally needs to get slapped by a dick."

I couldn't say I disagreed.

But then again, so did I.





The metal subway car I was aboard screeched to a stop at union  Station. Several riders climbed to their feet, including me, and  shuffled out of the doors like a herd of sheep until the light of day  peeked down the stairs to the outside world. I pushed past the unhurried  walkers, the pedestrian version of slow assholes daydreaming through  their drive in the left-hand lane, and climbed up from the abyss.  Droplets of rain painted the material of my khaki trench coat as soon as  I left the tunnel's cover.

Rainy. Cloudy. Surly, thick air that clung to your lungs as you tried to breathe.

Mother Nature might have been depressed, but the otherworld that was NYC bloomed and flourished anyway.

Prepared for perhaps the first time in my life, I pulled the polka dot  umbrella from my purse and popped it open toward the sky a moment later.

I was generally a chronic forgetter of all things that kept my life from  devolving into some kind of rain-soaked hell, but every once in a  while, I managed to act like a real adult. It probably had more to do  with my extreme excitement over visiting Strand Bookstore, one of my  favorite bookstores in the entire world, than anything else, though. The  life of a book was important. I'd survive being waterlogged-a vintage  copy of Pride and Prejudice would not.         

     



 

As a long-term bibliophile, I found nothing excited me more than rows  and rows of book-filled shelves and the oh so perfect vanilla musk of  the ones that had lived a good, long life.

That made Strand Bookstore's Rare Books Room my favorite place. A little  gem with plush seats and the most eclectic and wonderful collection of  all things vintage books, when I'd last visited, twelve long years ago,  I'd managed to find an old cassette tape of Ernest Hemingway reading an  excerpt from For Whom the Bell Tolls.



Tell me you didn't just get chills.



Mystery, romance, women's fiction, autobiographies, paperbacks, e-books,  audio, I was a reader through and through. And anytime I could get my  hands on something rare and vintage, one page of my book heart grew its  wings.

My heels smacked against the pavement as I crossed the street, and a  taxi turning right impatiently honked his horn. Pedestrian crosswalks be  damned, apparently, this taxi driver was way more important than anyone  else in the world.

I laughed to myself and ignored his frustration. Some people just  weren't worth the time or energy it took to get angry over something so  small. Now, if he'd have run over me with this cab, I would have risen  from the grave to stab the motherfucker. But sitting there, honking his  horn, and most likely shouting profanities at me from the inside of his  cab, wasn't worth my ire.

My phone began to ring inside my purse, thankfully after I'd safely  stepped onto the concrete and month-old gum of the sidewalk, and I  bobbled my umbrella into my left hand as I snagged my cell with my  right. After a quick glance at the screen, I answered by the third ring.

"Hello, Conrad," I greeted the CEO of Kennedy Medical Center. "I was hoping to hear from you today."

"Hey, Charlotte," he responded. "Sorry it took me a bit to get back to you. I had to attend a last-minute conference in Denver."

The smartass in me yelled, and they don't have phones in Denver? But the  woman who wanted to keep working and paying her bills and stuff kept  her mouth shut and excused the inconvenience as if it were nothing.  Plus, realistically, it'd only been about a day. As much as I wanted  people to, they didn't live on Charlotte Hollis time.

"No worries. I figured you were busy. Did you happen to read my email?"

He sighed. "Unfortunately, I did."

I'd been expecting this phone call, and this very reaction, since the  second I'd clicked send on my carefully crafted email explaining that  Dr. Raines had declined the position. Kennedy Medical Center really  wanted Nick Raines. And fucking hell, how could I blame them?

I wanted the good-looking bastard too.

But I'd eventually make them realize Dr. Sylvia Morris would also be a  perfect fit. Sure, she was a woman-something that factored into company  decisions enough to make me want to gag-and she didn't have Nick's  chocolate-brown eyes, but she wanted to relocate.

"I understand your preference was Dr. Raines, but I can assure you that I  have an exceptional candidate that will meet and exceed your  expectations," I explained. "Dr. Sylvia Morris is a more than viable  option for your hospital. She is a pioneer in her field and has over ten  years of experience as the Chief of Neurosurgery at Cedars Ridge."