Eye Contact Page 19

  A few seconds passed then it sounded like she said, “Pathetic.”

  “What?” I barked. “Did you just call me pathetic?”

  “Uh…yeah.” She sounded like an insolent child snapping at a parent who wouldn’t let her have her way. “You look pretty pathetic from where I’m sitting.”

  “What are you talking about?” I challenged defensively.

  “You’ve been moping around here for days, pouting, slamming doors, listening to whiney music that’s about to drive me to drink. I’m pretty sure this is the third day in a row you’ve worn that ratty black t-shirt. When’s the last time you bathed?”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Me? What’s your problem?” she yelled, shutting her laptop with a thud and rising from behind her table. “You’re miserable.”

  I scoffed. “I’m not miserable.”

  “Sorry, Vaughn. We’ve worked together for a couple years now and I’ve gotten pretty used to your moody demeanor, but this takes the cake. I’ve never seen you this bad.”

  “What are you even talking about?” I groaned. “I’m not acting any different than usual.”

  I was a horrible liar, feeling the sadness like a twenty-pound bag of lead in the pit of my stomach. She had gotten to me. I had become so consumed with the idea of being with Andie that even a week of not seeing her had put me into some sort of depressed state so severe it was even recognizable to my assistant.

  “You’re full of shit,” Angela scoffed.

  “I’m still your boss—is that any way to speak to your superior?”

  Throwing her head back, her chest shook with laughter. “My superior?” she mocked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  All I could do was stare blankly at her, shocked at her behavior. She had never spoken to me this way before, had always been respectful, professional. She was young, a little wet behind the ears, but had never been so flippant and rude. Perhaps it was my fault. Maybe pathetic was the most precisely accurate word for me. I was the one who’d taken our professional relationship to a completely different place by asking her to help me after my accident. Who’s so pathetic and friendless that they have no one to call but their personal assistant to gather a bag of clothes to bring to the hospital? She had gone through my underwear, for Christ’s sake.

  I was grateful, truly, but it most certainly crossed a line, something I couldn’t rewind and take back. She was no longer my colleague, but my friend. It was appropriate and necessary that she be the one to call me out on my woeful attitude. I was being pathetic—quite pitiful, actually.

  “I’m sorry,” I offered.

  “No!” she exclaimed, holding her hand up. “Don’t.” I cocked my head to the side, questioning without words. “Don’t be sorry. Fix it.”

  My eyes fell to the floor, desperate for some sort of clarity I was never going to find in the concrete surface I stood on. I finally looked up to see her pitying expression. “How?”

  A heavy sigh escaped her mouth as she exhaled and stormed past me. I stood still, watching her move across the room to collect the messenger bag she used as a purse, deposit her laptop into it, and turn back to me impatiently. “Go change your shirt and run some water through your hair. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

  Doing as she instructed, I came back out of my bedroom with a couple minutes to spare and inquired as to where we were going.

  “You have an appointment at the orthopedic surgeon in less than an hour,” she explained, frustration heavy in her tone. “Seriously, Vaughn? You’re getting your cast off today. How could you forget that?”

  Feeling stupid and embarrassed, I played it off as best I could. “That’s what I have you for.”

  I was beyond excited to get the dreadful plaster off of my leg. It was a stinky, heavy, anchor that was no longer welcome.

  “It’s a good damn thing you do. We’re going to your appointment and then you’re taking me to lunch. Once I’m fed, I’ll drive you to my favorite little flower shop and we’ll pick out something nice to send to your girl.”

  “Angela…” I began to object. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “BS. It’s a great idea. Everyone with a vagina likes flowers. Even if she has a raging allergy to pollen and immediately breaks out in hives, she’ll appreciate the gesture.”

  She walked toward the door to exit and I could do nothing but follow, hobbling behind her as quickly as I could manage.

  ***

  With my cast gone and the crutches broken down in the trunk of Angela’s car, I felt fifty pounds lighter as we drove away from the doctor’s office. It was strange to put weight on my leg. The orthopedic surgeon had suggested I take it easy and work my way up to walking normally, but I was so sick and tired of those crutches ruling my life that I decided to brave it on my own. Angela called me an idiot and rolled her eyes.

  We pulled up at some Indian restaurant for lunch, and she parked and shut off her vehicle without pause.

  “What if I don’t like Indian food?” I joked.

  “Too bad. This is what I want.”

  “Good thing I do—like Indian food, I mean.”

  She rolled her eyes and exited the car. “It wouldn’t have mattered if you didn’t.”

  “Why are you being so nasty to me? Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

  “Just come on,” she said exasperatedly. “I’m starving.”

  When we entered and waited at the hostess stand to be seated, I noticed that it was a buffet. The restaurant was small and packed, the incredible smell of spices pungent, and my mouth practically watered. I was nervous about not quite having my sea legs back after being dependent on crutches for so long but was determined to make it work.

  We sat opposite each other and she ordered us both ice water and a glass of milk, earning a confused look from me.

  “You won’t know what more than half of that stuff is up there, and a lot of it is spicier than it appears. Trust me, you’ll be thankful for the milk later.”

  With that, she left the booth to get her plate, prompting me to follow her.

  It was absolutely delicious, and my mind frequently drifted to thoughts of wanting to bring Andie to the restaurant later. I wondered if she liked Indian food. There was so much I didn’t know about her, so much she didn’t know about me.

  When we couldn’t possibly take another bite, I requested the check from our server, but Angela held up her hand to stop me.

  “Can we have an order of jalebis, please?” she asked.

  “What are those?” I questioned.

  “Jalebis,” she replied, sounding like ‘jail-aye-bees’. “It’s a dessert, like Indian funnel cake, sort of. If you don’t like them, I’ll eat them all.”

  They brought out the wormy, pretzel-looking squiggles a few minutes later and we devoured them. They were ridiculously good and I praised her choice in lunch destinations, thanking her for introducing me to my new favorite spot. I paid and we soon found ourselves at a hole-in-the-wall floral shop.

  Angela strolled in and approached the young girl behind the counter, immediately gathering her into a hug. She had bright purple hair, multiple facial piercings, and full sleeves of intricate tattoos—totally Angela’s people.

  “My friend here needs some help,” she explained. “He’s sweet on the doctor who saved his life but is kind of screwing it up already. What can you do for him?”

  “Oh, this is the one? Your boss that almost died?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “You didn’t tell me he was cute!” she teased.

  “Hello? I’m standing right here,” I interrupted, sporting a slightly embarrassed smile. “I can hear you.”

  They both looked over, rolling their eyes in contempt.

  “So, what’s she like?” her friend asked, looking at me for a response. I hesitated, thinking I had no idea how to answer that question. She’s like no other person I’ve ever met. She’s everything. I had no idea how to select flowers for som
eone as special as her. I hadn’t ever sent flowers to a girl before and was sure I’d mess this up royally without assistance.

  Thankfully, Angela chimed in without missing a beat. “She’s weird, but not weird like you and me,” she insisted, gesturing between herself and her florist friend. “Super brainy, nerdy, and socially awkward. Not too girlie, but feminine. Quiet, kind of shy, and beautiful.”

  It was interesting to hear Angela’s impression of Andie, and I couldn’t have agreed more with her assessment. I didn’t understand how her friend was going to interpret that description and render a bouquet of flowers perfect for her, but I had no choice but to trust the professional.

  “How serious are you about this girl?” her friend asked, looking to me for an answer.

  Angela spoke for me again. “They’ve only been on a few dates but he’s completely smitten. He wants to marry her and have lots of nerd babies and live happily ever after.”

  I couldn’t help the laughter that escaped in response.

  “Got it,” the florist replied. “Have you slept with her yet?”

  I stepped back in offense. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

  “So, no. It matters, man. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings.”

  I left the invasive question unanswered and she continued.

  “Does she have a cat? If so, avoid lilies. They smell divine but are poisonous to cats.” I had no idea if she had a cat; I had never asked her about pets. “Carnations are garbage. They’re hideous, cheap, and only appropriate for four-year-old girls or social outcast band geeks who can’t afford a decent corsage for prom.”

  With my palms growing clammier by the second and insecurities filling my every thought, I paced around throughout the shelves of the small shop, looking at the premade bouquets on display and thinking any one of them would be fine.

  Turning back to the two girls talking back and forth at the counter, I called out, “What about this one?”

  “Meh. Everyone thinks roses are the go-to but they scream, ‘I am boring and unoriginal and you mean no more to me than rerun sitcoms and a lukewarm TV dinner.’ And red roses? With baby’s breath? You’re still getting to know one another at this stage. Red roses say passion and commitment. It would make it look like you’re already thinking about what to name your kids, and it’s doubly true if you haven’t even had sex yet. We can do a lot better than that.”

  “What about these?” I pointed to a pretty arrangement labeled ‘assorted hydrangeas’.

  “Hydrangeas? Hard pass. Save those for the wedding.”

  “What about an orchid?” They looked exotic and unique.

  “Dude, she’s a doctor. She’ll never be able to keep that thing alive and then it will just depress her, or she might read into it and think it’s a sign that your budding relationship is doomed from the start—pun intended. Just let me do my job.”

  I got the sense I was embarrassing Angela, so I resigned myself to a bench at the front of the store, giving up on trying to help with the process in any way since I obviously had no clue what I was doing. Checking my phone for the eightieth time that day, I saw no texts or missed calls from Andie, making me feel discouraged and wary of sending flowers at all.

  About twenty minutes later, Angela and her friend, who she affectionately addressed as Six, stepped out from the back. She was carrying a large bouquet and set it down on the counter with a thud.

  “Here ya go, Romeo. All done.”

  Approaching them cautiously, I admired her work but had no idea what I was really looking at. “Is that…are those cactuses? Cacti? Whatever.”

  She scowled in offense and exhaled a defeated breath. Despite her frustration, she began describing her masterpiece to me.

  “What you have here is a mixed succulent bouquet. It’s warm, inviting, romantic, and sturdy. Six nearly fully bloomed roses, pale peach and pink with a few sprays of white mini rose buds just beginning to bloom.” Her hands waved and fingers pointed out each piece as she narrated their names, like a gothic Vana White. “White and pink caspia twigs sprinkled throughout with a few sprigs of eucalyptus. There are of course a few random mums and filler flowers to add volume and color, and these—these are peonies, my favorite flowers ever. They are full and flirty, smell amazing, and are the perfect addition to add femininity. She will swoon and you will get laid.”

  Scoffing at her last comment, I shrugged it off as innocent teasing and stood in awe of the bouquet. “It’s stunning. I could never have done this.”

  “No shit. That’s why I brought you here,” Angela retorted.

  “She…I think she’ll love it.” She’s got to love it.

  “She will, and if she doesn’t, you don’t want her anyway.”

  I paid for the bouquet, nearly choking at the cost of flowers, and opted to have them delivered to the hospital. It was risky, for sure, but I wanted to do it the right way, full-blown romantic overture. Plus, I cringed at the thought of rejection if she didn’t like them or wasn’t into the idea. I figured she could always stash them away in her call room if she didn’t want the attention.

  They would be delivered that afternoon, when I knew she was on shift. It was settled.

  I had never felt more nervous in my entire life.

  Chapter 32

  Andie

  Blood didn’t make me sick.

  Guts didn’t make me sick.

  Bones broken and jagged, poking through layers of muscle and sticking out of someone’s skin—not even that made me sick.

  Slicing into a patient’s flesh and seeing a flood of infected puss spill out—no nausea at all.

  I’ve smelled people who were literally rotting from the inside out, had bodily fluids squirt onto me and seep into my hair, been puked on, pooped on, and urinated on, and none of it even gave me a tingle of nausea.

  But rounding the corner of the hallway leading to the intake desk of my emergency room and catching sight of the enormous bouquet of flowers that sat on the countertop nearly brought me to my knees.

  I didn’t need to hear the triage nurse say, “Dr. Fine, you have a delivery,” to know they were for me. I knew the second I saw them. I just knew. They were totally and completely me. The types of flowers selected, the colors, the textures, the thick hearty succulents, the greenery used for garnish, even the square vase that housed the arrangement—it was all me, and I knew exactly who’d sent them.

  My palms grew hot and damp, my stance wavering and weak, and my stomach felt as if it was seconds away from expelling whatever contents it still had yet to digest from my lunch. Receiving flowers was supposed to feel good. It was a nice gesture, a thoughtful expression that was intended to make someone’s day.

  Instead, it terrified me. I hated that it terrified me.

  I signed the form the delivery guy handed over, signifying that I was assuming care of the flowers, and grabbed the vase off the counter, the weight of it heavy in my arms. Wanting to disappear, I bolted from the ER as fast as I could and sprinted to my call room—my dark, quiet, lonely call room.

  The bedside table—which was old and cheap with chips in the laminate covering the particle board—was the only surface to set the arrangement upon. I placed the vase down and retreated, slamming my back against the door I had just entered through. My breaths were short and erratic, and my heart was thumping out of my chest.

  They were beautiful.

  They smelled amazing.

  They were for me.

  Mine.

  My knees finally buckled, the weight of my quivering body too much for them to hold up any longer. I sank down to the floor, placed my face into my hands, and cried.

  Chapter 33

  Vaughn

  The flashing light on my phone alerting me of a message caught my eye and I almost dropped it fumbling to see what the notification was for. I had been sitting around for hours, not being productive, pacing the room aimlessly, waiting…wondering if she had gotten them, if she hated them or loved them, d
riving myself crazy with worry and nerves—and all that time my stupid phone was on vibrate.

  Idiot.

  I was an idiot.

  She had texted me over an hour prior to me noticing the blinking light.

  Andie: Got plans tonight?

  Andie: Vaughn?

  Andie: Come over.

  My face erupted into a goofy smile and my fingers couldn’t fly over the keyboard of my cell phone fast enough.

  Me: Sorry. My phone was on vibrate.

  Me: I would love to come over.

  Andie: Good. How soon can you get here?

  Me: I thought you were working today.

  A feeling of dread invaded my thoughts. Had I gotten confused? Had I sent her flowers on the wrong day? How was I such an idiot?

  Andie: I was. I left early.

  Me: Are you okay?

  Andie: I’m okay. I just need to see you.

  Andie: I would like to see you.

  I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I didn’t want to risk not having the chance to find out.

  Me: What’s your address?

  Andie: 814 N. Pearl St.

  Me: Should I bring dinner?

  Andie: No. I have dinner covered.

  Andie: Maybe a bottle of wine?

  Me: See you in an hour.

  Andie: Looking forward to it.

  I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and threw on jeans and a dress shirt as quickly as possible, never having gotten ready so speedily before. Unfortunately, I didn’t end up having any wine in the house, so I had to stop on the way. She hadn’t specified red or white, so I got one of each then hightailed it over to her side of town. I hadn’t realized she lived so close to the hospital. She could walk to work, and I wondered if she ever did, an uneasy feeling emerging within me since it wasn’t exactly the safest of neighborhoods.

  When I pulled up to her house in old Springfield, however, I was pleasantly surprised. Like most of the houses on her street, hers was updated, completely remodeled and restored. It was a gorgeous two-story craftsman, still full of the original character but newer and quite pretty. Her yard was nicely landscaped and her front porch was a beautiful dark wooden deck, even adorned with two rocking chairs.