Page 6 of Off the Wall

Her name and apartment number were on it, so I tried to deliver it, but she didn’t answer her door. I had this weird sense she was watching me from the peephole, so I tried again later with no luck. The third time, I gave up and left the invitation sticking out from under her welcome mat.

The one with the big yellow smiley face on it.

That was two months ago, so we either have the worst timing in the history of clocks, or she’s avoiding me on purpose. But that’s fine. We don’t have to be friends just because we live in the same building, share the same courtyard, and have apartments on the same floor.

If Eleanor Sinclair is getting invited to potlucks for singles, she’s probably looking for a relationship, and I barely have time to see my family these days, let alone the bandwidth to date. Besides, I gave my heart to a woman once, and I’m not looking to get burned.

Ever again.

Maybe if my job weren’t so stressful, things would be different. But I’m a medical device salesman for Powell MedTech. Specifically in our company’s spine department. I sell instruments and implants to surgeons and offer them equipment support in the OR. I assist the scrub techs. The physicians assistants. Circulating nurses.

Everyone involved in the case.

That’s why I moved to Serendipity Springs in the first place. I needed to be closer to Springs Memorial to cover all our cases there. Meanwhile, my partner, Alex, was supposed to focus on the doctors at Mercy General in Worcester. We were dominating the entire region. Until he jumped ship for a position with our biggest competitor. Vortex.

Now I’m one person with a two-person caseload.

If I succeed, my manager, Jason, says he’ll recommend me for a premier spot in Los Angeles. If my numbers drop, though, my West Coast dreams will go up in smoke. Not to mention, Jason will probably move another rep in to share my territory.

To be clear, I’m not a workaholic or greedy about the percentages I earn as a solo rep. I’ve just never found anyone else who cares about the job as much as I do. We’re talking about people’s spines here. Not just paralysis versus the ability to walk. Success or failure in the OR can influence a patient’s future mobility and their need for follow-up procedures, not to mention day-to-day pain management.

I know from personal experience.

That’s why I don’t blame other reps in the business for not being as obsessive as I am. They haven’t broken their backs. Literally.

And after three years in the industry, I’m convinced every case goes more smoothly with me in the OR.

I’m not trying to sound cocky, but you want Powell MedTech in your spine. And you want me in your surgery. Is that a lot of pressure? Yeah, it is. Do I have much of a social life?

Nope.

But that’s okay. Because the look my neighbor’s giving me right now doesn’t exactly scream “let’s be friends.”

“I guess that napkinismine,” she mumbles. When she plucks the cloth from my hand, something small and dark drops out, landing on the carpet. She darts her gaze back up to me, and her eyes go wide. I’m dying to see what she was hiding in the napkin, but, hey. I’m a team player. I can be discreet for my neighbor’s sake. And she looks so vulnerable, I just want to support her. So I clear my throat in a tacit message that I won’t blow her cover.

Unfortunately, the doctor I’m with doesn’t get the memo.

“What’s this?” Dr. Margaret Hanson, an orthopedic surgeon at Springs Memorial, bends over to examine what fell out of the napkin. “Ugh. Is that a?—?”

“It’s nothing!” Eleanor squawks.

“Ewww.” Dr. Hanson groans. “I’m sorry. I just really hate snails.”

The man across from Eleanor blurts, “Is that one of my escargots?” When I walked up, I overheard him say he’s dating Eleanor, but now he’s openly ogling Dr. Hanson.

Meanwhile, Eleanor scoops the brown blob into the napkin and lays the balled-up mess on the table. “I have no idea how that got there.”

“Yo, waitress!” The man with her snaps his fingers at a server walking by. “The lady dropped her napkin.” He points at Eleanor. “She needs a new one.” The guy is snapping and pointing, and he doesn’t bother to say please. He’s also drooling over Dr. Hanson right in front of his date. Not that his behavior would be better behind Eleanor’s back. I’ve barely met my neighbor, and I know she deserves better than this.

All women deserve better.

As the server hands her a fresh napkin, Eleanor says, “Thank you.” Her face is bright red now, but she casts a small smile up at the server.

She’s still trying to smile.

“Try to keep this one in your lap,” her date smirks, his eyes still devouring Dr. Hanson. He runs a meaty hand over his head like he’s some kind of oversized, slick-haired cat.

He’s hairy enough to be feline, I’ll give him that.

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