It's official. I have been dressed up like a Kim Kardashian doll and have ventured out into public. Thank goodness it's dark. Lacy and I enter another club. This time I'm positive the building we are in was once a morgue, because the plaque outside reads: The Morgue. And it is dated 1911. Don't get drunk and pass out in this joint. You might wake up to something far worse than a hangover. That being said, the clientele isn't scary. The women are actually on the classy side and the men are on the "damn, you hot" side. I say that in my head using my best Iggy Azaela voice, "gurrrl."
The music is pumping. The crowd is dancing. I'm reading the last page of an article in Neuroscience Today and leaning against the wall so I don't fall down in these stilettos that Lacy insisted I wear tonight.
"Would you put that away already!" Lacy yells.
"I just want to finish this so I can enjoy myself," I say, trying to defend an indefensible act at one of New York City's hottest clubs. I'm pretty confident that I am the only person out of a couple of thousand in here who is reading a scientific journal on her phone.
Lacy grabs the phone from my hand and tosses it into her tiny purse. It almost fits.
"I have a purse," I say, holding up my recently purchased pocketbook thing.
"It's called a clutch, and I will be in charge of your phone for the rest of tonight," Lacy says, as she tries shoving the remainder of my only lifeline to the outside world into what must be called a teeny, tiny clutch.
"Let's get a drink at the bar." Lacy grabs my hand and pulls me through the writhing bodies.
Did I mention I was wearing stilettos and leaning to stay up? Now, I'm walking a ridiculous distance toward the bar, which feels very far away, while using the people dancing around me to hold me up. Luckily for me, these people aren't fazed by a stranger grabbing their shoulder, elbow, boob, or, in one case, head.
We make it to the very long stainless steel bar. This is when Lacy shows me a side of her that I have never seen before. Lacy very casually knocks the drink of one of two unsuspecting young ladies onto them both. They instantly jump up from their bar stools, grab napkins and look around desperately for the ladies room. As I watch on, Lacy, without even a hint of an apology, points them to the restroom and steals their vacated seats. My instincts about my little sister are confirmed. She can be calculating and relentless when she knows what she wants.
Lacy signals to the bartender, who is dressed in a white lab coat giving the impression that, when he isn't serving drinks to the beautiful people like us, he is in a secret room performing autopsies.
"How do you feel?" she asks me, while ordering drinks in some kind of code I don't understand.
"Unstable," I answer, as I try to sit down on the very cold steel stool.
Our coroner-slash-bartender places two shots in front of us called Hit and Runs. We each throw back our shot and slide the glasses back toward him. Lacy gives the signal that we would like two more. I signal him that I'm good. He ignores me and makes two more.
"You do remember that I'm not going to have sex with any of these guys," I say loudly enough for the circling sharks to hear me.
"I remember. I just want you to get comfortable talking to men outside of work. Talking can lead to flirting, and flirting can lead to making out. Making out can lead to other things."
"So, all I have to do tonight is talk to a man or two and then you'll let me go home and go to bed?"
"If that's what talking leads to then, yes, you can go home and go to bed all alone."
The bartender slides the shots to us. I pull out my credit card, but he waves me off.
"Already paid for," he says. Then he nods his head in the direction of a man who looks oddly familiar.
"Hi ya, doc. I knew I'd get to thank you properly," says the guy who bought our drinks. "Yep, there she is, the gorgeous doctor who saved my uncle's life."
Oh my god, it's Chad . . . what is his last name?
"Chad Channing," he offers his hand to me. "What are the chances? Only in New York City."
Right, what are the chances? I offer him my hand to give him a hearty shake, but he kisses it.
"Hi, Chad," I say, a little taken aback by his kiss.
"And here I thought you looked amazing in your scrubs. Wow, you are the whole package, brains and beauty. It must be my lucky night," he says, smiling at Lacy and waiting for his introduction.
"It certainly is someone's lucky night," she says, slowly turning and walking away.
I watch my only safety net disappear into the crowd. And just like that, I'm floating off in the universe alone. I thought she was my coach. This is too soon. I need my life raft.
Chad holds his shot up to mine, "To destiny and letting whatever may come, come."
We toast and throw back our shots. Wow. That was a little stronger than the first one. As I put my shot glass down, Chad hands me another shot.
"Oh no, I couldn't," I say, waving him off. "I have to work very early tomorrow morning."
"On Sunday," he says with a lot of skepticism in his voice. "Come on, it's Saturday night. You look amazing. I'm buying the drinks. The music is grooving. Put Doc away for the night. I want to know you, the beautiful woman in front of me who is wearing theâ pardon my Frenchâthe shit out of that dress!"
Chad is good. He is standing so close to me now that I can smell his Axe deodorant, and it smells pretty damn good. His face comes dangerously close to mine and he starts dancing. I can feel his breath on my face now, it is minty fresh. He places his hand on the small of my back. My hips are moving with his now and I am dancing.
"Just one more drink," he whispers into my ear.
He looks me in the eye. I am swept up in his charm and good looks. I nod. He grabs the two shots already waiting and hands one to me. We toast and throw them back. With that, he takes the tips of my fingers in his and leads me into the crowd of people dancing. The music gets heavy and the lights begin to pulse. Chad puts his leg between mine and we dance. We dance the way I always thought I'd like to dance. Our bodies are pressed into each other moving like one. The crowd becomes this pulsing hum around us, and for the first time in my life I feel my mind letting go. All I feel is my body and Chad's body. Chad's eyes meet mine and he grins from ear to ear.
"You're having fun," he yells to me. I nod with excitement and we dance harder, letting everything and everyone else go.
After hours of dancing and one more shot for me and about six more for Chad, I help him get up to his apartment.
"You want to spend the night?" Chad casually asks me, as he stumbles to his kitchen and puts his mouth under the running faucet.
"Ah, nah," I say, "It's been fun, but I actually do have some work to do before Monday."
"Well, sit down," he insists. "It's still early and I don't feel like saying good night yet. You want water?"
"OK," I answer, looking around for any place to land.
Chad's place is nice for a bachelor pad. Truth be told, I've never been in the apartment of a single guy who has it together. The apartment is one fairly large room. The kitchen is separated by an island with one bar stool and the living room is basically the bedroom. This is obvious from the one massive chandelier hanging above what can only be described as a king-sized beanbag. That's it. I think there is a bathroom, but as I look around I'm stumped as to where. All I see is the door we came in through.
"You know, I think I'll just get out of your way," I tell him, looking around for a clock of any kind.
"It's early. Just stay for a few minutes," he slurs. "I feel like we didn't get to talk. The music was loud and you were dancing. Man, were you dancing!"
He's next to me now and hands me a glass of water. I try to take it from him, but he won't let it go.
"I like you," he says, his eyes twinkling in a sweet way that no man has ever looked at me before.
"Thanks, Chad," I say, "I like you too."
He drinks my water and places the glass on the floor. As he comes back to standing, he slides his hands up my legs and onto my hips. He slowly begins walking me backward through the space.
"That's good, because I really like you," he says, smiling and sliding his hands up to my face. He stops walking and kisses me full on the mouth. God, that feels good. He's really drunk, but he still knows how to kiss.
I gently pull away from his lips and tongue. "Chad, I need to go. But call me soon and maybe we can do this again."
I feel my foot bump onto something behind me and turn. We have made it to the beanbag bed. I feel my stiletto catch on the beanbag and I turn away from Chad so as not to fall down. It doesn't work. Instead of falling backward, I fall forward onto the beanbag, pulling Chad with me. He falls on top of me.
"Whoa!" I yell, trying not to panic. But I am panicking. I feel my breath quicken as I struggle to get out from beneath him. I stop for a moment, when I hear the sound of a man snoring. This can't be happening. I listen and my fears are confirmed. Chad has passed out on top of me and is dead asleep.
"Um, Chad? I'm kind of . . . could you just wake the hell up?"
No, he can't. He's out cold. I could not feel more gross right now. I mean, what the hell am I doing here? I'm lucky that all this guy did was pass out on top of me. I know better than this. What has gotten into me? Apparently a little dancing and flattery go a long way. Not to mention a couple of Hit and Runs. Note to self: ten waters do not cancel out the effect of three Hit and Runs.
I am trying to wiggle my way out from under his dead weight when I feel the universal calling card of an aroused male.
"Um, Chad," I say meekly. What am I afraid of? Waking him up? "Chad!" I yell into his ear.
He doesn't even flinch. Then suddenly I feel movement. His hips begin to rock back and forth and he begins kissing my neck and licking me.
"No, no, no! Chad wake up! Get off of me," I command him, as he sleep-humps my butt.
If I were on my back then at least I could push him off, but I haven't done a full push up since third grade and I'm fairly positive that was a girl push up on my knees. And this beanbag thing is not giving me anything to work with here. I may as well be trapped under him in a ball pit.
"Is the room spinning?" he mutters in my ear. "I'm not feeling great."
Oh no, he is not going to throw up on the back of my head. I will not have my first almost sexual experience end with vomit in my hair.
Using every ounce of energy and strength I have left, I begin doing the only thing I can think of to get him to wake up. I begin kicking my stiletto heels hard and fast into his back side. If these heels were going to be of any use, this would be the moment for them to shine. As I kick, I find some room in the beanbag beneath me and pull my knees up. From there, I kick some more. The last kick must have been a doozy, because Chad's head and body stiffen like he's been electrocuted, and he rolls off of me and onto the floor.
"Mother of all that is holy," he gasps.
Thank God, I can breathe. Thank you, uncomfortable shoes. I will never doubt your relevance again.
I roll onto my back and look down at Chad, who is holding onto his nut sack with both hands.
"Shit! Doc, you racked me!" he yells, gasping for a breath between each word. "Hard! My whole body . . . I think I'm . . . dying!"
I watch him fight through his tears, pull open his jeans, and look inside his underwear. I've seen this same expression on other people before, but it is usually after I tell them they need brain surgery and their chances of living are fifty/fifty.
"Holy shit! They're broken! They're blue, Doc," he says, sobbing uncontrollably.
"No," I say to him, unimpressed. "No way, they can't be. It was just a little kick or two."
"Yes, they are! Look!"
With that, he pulls down his jeans and points dramatically at his exposed genitals. At least that's what I think he does, because I look away.
"You're kidding me with this! You're a doctor! Look at my balls, woman," he barks, like some kind of medieval king.
"I'm a neurosurgeon! We don't look at balls. We look at brains. Two very distinctly different subjects," I say, trying hard to save face.
And then it happens. He goes to the edge and decides to check out rather than deal. This happens a lot with people who are suffering shock. Apparently, Chad is having a much harder time dealing than I thought. Or he is actually really hurt. Maybe it's both.
"I think I'm going to pass out," he says, his voice weakening.
It is time to get clinical. I take a breath and kneel down beside him.
"OK. Let me see."
That is all he needs to check out.
"No! Wake up," I say, shaking him. Nothing.
"Stay with me, Chad. Chad?"
I check his pulse. Not great. There is only one thing left for me to do in this situation. I look in my purse for my phone. Damn it, Lacy still has it. I suddenly realize that this is the longest I've been without a pager in years. What if the hospital needs me? What if people are hurt and I'm not available to save them?
Chad groans. Right: Chad. He needs me. Focus up, Matthews. I search his pockets and find his cell phone. Here goes nothing.
I think about bailing when the paramedics arrive, but they know me from my ER shifts back when I was interning at Memorial, so they insist I ride along and we catch up. When they ask me what happened, I simply tell them I found him this way and we are old friends. The looks on their faces tell me they don't believe me, but they are willing to go along with my story, at least in front of my face, which I appreciate. My only relief is in knowing that Memorial Hospital is closer to Chad's apartment than Mercy is, so I won't have to run into anyone I know.
At least that's what I think. We stop, and the doors of the ambulance open. I take one look at the familiar signage and doors and grab one of the paramedic's arms.
"What are we doing here? Why not Memorial?" I thought the ride was awfully long.
"He's not dying, so we figured we'd take the extra ten minutes and admit him where you could keep an eye on him," the paramedic says, pulling away from me and unloading Chad, whose left testicle has now swollen to the size of a small cantaloupe.
"Thanks," I say, following him out. I search the sidewalk and spot an empty cab. This is my chance. I can bolt to the cab, jump in, and pretend this never happened. I'm ready to take off my shoes and make a mad dash for it when Chad grabs my hand from his gurney.
"Don't leave me," he begs.
I look down at him, and without thinking it through, I immediately cave.
"Of course I won't leave you. I'm right here."
When it comes down to it, I'm a doctor, and whatever shame I take on from walking into my place of work dressed like someone at the VMAs is not enough for me to abandon someone who is hurt. And I don't care who you are or what your condition may be, being wheeled into an ER on a gurney is terrifying. The fact that Chad felt he could ask me to stay, well, that was one more point for Chad.
We hurry into the hospital ER and move right past the staff on graveyard. I'm desperately searching for a bay to put him in when I hear a familiar voice.
"Chad? Chad Channing? Dude, what happened?"
Mark is on night shift tonight. Why? Why tonight? Stop, Kate. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he doesn't see you. I quickly turn around and pretend to be part of the wall.
"This one," Chad says. I can feel their eyes on me.
"Nice, very nice. Too much for you, tough guy," Mark says, clearly objectifying my body in the same way I see him do to countless other women who come and go through this place on a daily basis.
"Just put him over there," I hear Mark bark at the paramedic. I listen to the gurney wheels moving away and then feel the presence of someone behind me, standing way too close.
"Excuse me, are you lost? Because I can help you find the nearest exit, and from there we can have a drink and talk about what Chad did to deserve what you gave him."
I've heard Mark use some pretty bad pick up lines, but this one takes the cake.
I turn around and stare at him dead in the eye. It's funny when someone who knows you pretty well doesn't recognize you at first. Like running into your parents at the movies in the middle of the day when you're supposed to by studying and they're supposed to be at work. At first it doesn't register that it's really them, but if you give it a moment it hits you, and it hits hard. This is what happened to Mark.
"Oh my God!" he yells at the very top of his lungs. "Kate? Wow. What, what happened to you?"
"Nothing, just go. Help the poor guy. I think I ruptured his testicles."
"Did he . . . ?" Mark asks, concern filling his voice and rage filling his body.
"No," I groan. "He was a perfect gentleman."
"Then . . . why . . . what . . . were you two?" Mark asks, his eyes brightening the faster his imagination turns.
"None of whatever you are imagining happened," I say, matter-of-factly.
"OK," he says, smiling as he backs away. "Whatever you say, Doc-tah."
Why did I ever agree to go out with Lacy? And where the hell is she anyway? She's probably in my home, asleep on my couch, while I'm dealing with the spoils of a night gone wrong.
"Holy goddess of all that is good," I hear a deep voice say, moving toward me. I turn and make eye contact with Bodhi.
"Kate?"
Be professional, Kate. Dial it down, dial it way down.
"Oh hi, Dr. Wells," I say, perking up like I'm handing out the doughnuts at church on Sunday.
"Call me Bodhi, please."
"Right," I quip back, like everything about this is normal.
Oh, it's you. No big deal. Here we are in our place of work. You're wearing a pair of trousers, a button-up shirt, and a lab coat, while I've chosen to wear a dress resembling a hair scrunchie and a pair of heels normally worn by a highly-paid escort or, in my case, my absent sister. Nothing about this situation should feel exposing or make one of us feel more vulnerable than the other. Perhaps you'd like to smell my hair now. I've gone for the cigarette, sweat, and alcohol aroma this evening.
"Is there a particularly attractive patient or surgeon you're trying to impress?" he asks, with seeming sincerity.
Here we go. He's actually going to try to take me seriously in this get-up.
"No, I was out."
"You were called in on your night off? What's the case? I didn't catch wind of an emergency surgery."
"No, there was no emergency surgery. I was . . . it's my friend who had the emergency. We were out."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Is she alright?"
Chad screams from behind the pulled curtain where they must have begun their examination of his balls.
"Oh, is he going to be alright?" he asks, again. I watch his eyes take me in: my dress, my hair, my make-up, and my ridiculous heels. Clearly this was a date situation.
"I think he'll make a full recovery," I say, feeling a kind of rush at the mere idea that Bodhi Wells knows I was on a date.
"Lucky guy," Bodhi says, smiling at me.
Wow, what a smile this guy has. We stare into each other's eyes for a brief moment and then Chad screams again, "What did she do to my balls?"
Bodhi lets out a nervous laugh.
Hey, he's laughing. That's a good sign. I feel a slight giggle escape my mouth, just as a gurney rushes past us.
Mark stops in front of me, "Critical patient, intracranial hemorrhage. You scrubbing in?"
"Right," I say, looking at the clock; it's three in the morning now. I turn to Bodhi. "You coming?"
"Just tell me where you need me," he says, nodding.
I rush down the hallway behind the gurney. Bodhi is on my heels. This is a good sign, I think, as we scrub in next to each other. He knows when he's on other people's turf. This isn't our team surgery yet. This is my operating room and he is here to assist me. We nod to each other as our nurses place masks across our faces. It's time to work.
Two hours later, Bodhi and I walk out of surgery. I tell the patient's family that we have a few hours of waiting to do, but that their loved one is stable and was fortunate to have two of the best neurosurgeons in the world in the operating room this morning.
I head to the nurses' station where Bodhi is waiting. I grab the patient file and begin signing off on my documents, hoping he's too tired to flirt.
"Great job in there. You really are the best," he says, leaning on the counter and trying to make eye contact.
"I think that spot is reserved for you," I say, trying to avoid those eyes of his.
"You want to go out?"
"What?" I ask, nearly throwing up as my stomach does a back flip twist. "Now?"
"Dinner? Tomorrow night?"
"Sorry. Sister stuff."
"Monday? We go out early, talk shop?"
I have a feeling he will keep moving through the week if I don't just agree to Monday. Plus, I honestly can't think of anything hotter than having dinner with Bodhi Wells and talking surgery. I'm a nerd, but I'm pretty sure he is, too. He's just trapped in that sexy body of his, which has to be his biggest obstacle in life. How can anyone just listen to him? I watch his mouth moving as he talks and all I want to do is lick him all over. That's weird. I need sleep. Alright, I must think of an excuse.
Mark leans across the counter of the nurses' station, "Monday is team building day, but if you guys left right from that, then an early dinner wouldn't be hard to pull off." He has been listening to us flirt the entire time.
"Thanks, Mark," I say, giving him a sideways growl.
"Yeah, great idea, Mark," Bodhi says. "I'm sure we'll be ravenous by then. Alright, so it's a date."
"Not a date," I interject. "We're going to eat while we work."
"Right," Bodhi says, shooting Mark a "thanks for the assist" smile. "Work and eat. Two out of three ain't bad. I'll take it."
Bodhi turns and nearly runs into Chad, who is being wheeled past us post surgery. Apparently, those heels are quite the weapons if used improperly.
Chad passes and points his finger directly at me, "Ball buster! I'll be lucky if I can have kids!"
Alright, I don't mean to be petty, but damn it, he fell on top of me and passed out. What was I going to do? Lie there until he woke up? Until he drunk-urinated on me?
"It was an accident," I say full-voiced, so Chad and anyone in the vicinity could hear. "I did not attack him."
"Tell you what," Bodhi says as he heads out. "Accidents can be prevented if wearing the proper head gear. On Monday, I'll wear a cup, just in case."
Mark holds his hand up for Bodhi to high-five, but is met only with air.
"Good night, Dr. Matthews," Bodhi says with a satisfied smile.
Yes, you are very clever, Dr. Wells. Even at my expense, I can't help but be pleased that he has a sense of humor.
"What's this? What was that whole get up you had on?" Mark asks, drawing an invisible circle around my body. "I've known you a long time and I've never seen the kind of display you trotted in here wearing."
"It wasn't a display. My sister made me wear it."
"Whoa," Mark says, straightening up, "Little sister, Lacy? The one I'm not allowed to meet? Is she in town, and are those her clothes you're wearing?"
"Don't, Mark," I say turning to leave. "Good night."
I turn and inconveniently run smack dab into Grace, who has just arrived from, no doubt, a long night of blood sucking.
"I heard about this one. All dressed up and pretending to be something she's not," she says, running her fingers through my hair, still heavy with product.
"Grace, always a pleasure to hear your personal running commentary of my life, but I need to get home."
I move to leave, but apparently Grace is just getting started. She steps directly in my path.
"Some of us are the real deal, and if you think you can just jump on base and hit a home run your first time up to bat in the big leagues, you're dead wrong. The big leagues take years of practice and Bodhi Wells is a big-money player. You're still working your way through the farm team. And from what you brought in here tonight, I'd say your skills are in need of polishing."
"Aren't you married?"
Yes, that was the best I could come up with. Thank you very much.
"You are such a child, with so much to learn. Too bad Bodhi will have come and gone before your boobies come in," she says, grabbing my small breasts. "Thank goodness I've got more than enough to satisfy him with," she says, releasing her hold on me and hiking up her perfectly surgically-enhanced breasts.
As she sashays into the elevator I fill with realityâmy reality. She's right; I'm out of my league. A woman doesn't get involved with a guy like Bodhi unless she can back up what she's selling. And I'm clearly selling something that I'm not proficient enough in to back up. I take off my heels and place them onto the counter next to my purse.
"Just for the record, I don't think you have to dress up like someone you're not just to get a date," Mark says.
"Thanks, Mark."
"So, when do I get to meet your sister?" he asks.
I grab my heels and turn to go, "Good night, Mark."
I wait on the filthy New York City sidewalk, barefoot and defeated, trying to hail a cab. My first dateâOK, hook upâlanded me right back where I wasn't supposed to be, at my place of work. I'm not superstitious, but that can't be a good sign of things to come.
Finally, a cab pulls over. I crawl in and immediately lie down in the back seat. My body, heart, and ego feel the cuts and bruises of a night gone terribly wrong. Hit and Run is about right. I've been hit with the realization that I may be in way over my head with this particular goal, and if I could run away from it I would. But I'm just getting older, and with every passing year it gets easier to mentally shut down my yearnings and replace them with more work.
The skyline above me emerges with the sunrise and I feel tears dripping down my cheeks. I've never felt so alone. What if this doesn't happen? And not just before I turn thirty. I mean, what if it never happens? I'm full-on sobbing now, releasing all the stress and fear of the past twenty-four hours. Between gulps of air and cries, I can hear the faint sound of the cab driver softly singing. Is he singing to me or just trying to drown out the noise I'm making?
I take a couple of breaths and listen, as the driver sings a little louder.
Just what makes that little old ant
Think he'll move that rubber tree plant?
Anyone knows an ant can't
Move a rubber tree plant.
He's serenading me, giving me hope that I'm not a lost cause.
But he's got high hopes, he's got high hopes
He's got high apple pie, in the sky hopes.
I quietly join in with him, letting out faint cries in between short breaths, feeling just a little less alone.
So any time you're gettin' low,
'Stead of lettin' go
Just remember that ant.
Oops there goes another rubber tree,
Oops there goes another rubber tree,
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant.