Page 11 of The Bitter Rival

To this day, I don’t know which is worse. The years of unapologetic cheating by my father or the fact that my mother stayed in spite of it to ensure she had access to the largest amount of cash possible. I’m assuming my grandfather was smart enough to place legal stipulations on what they can and cannot do with the vineyard, or they would’ve run that place into the ground with their greed years ago.

While Sam has remained part of the family business, I couldn’t stomach the thought of staying in that miserable environment. Sam’s a different breed than I. He’s always seemed to be happy to live off of the family money and settle for whatever the vineyard could provide. He’s a smart guy, though. If he kept our parents out of the business, he could probably turn the place into a real success story. Yet, he seems to be happy to live every day like a party.

My brother and I haven’t been close in some time. He’s more family to me than my parents will ever be yet, I always feel like he’s hiding something. Maybe it’s just suspicion on my part. Yet, he tends to live life by the seat of his pants most of the time, and his choices are often suspect. Plus, there’s that whole spending time with my girlfriend when I was away at college thing. They both claim it was innocent. They were just friends. But I can’t help but wonder. Particularly when I came home from school unannounced to anot so happy to see megirlfriend of over two years. A girlfriend who proceeded to dump me and move away without a look back.

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Sure, another scotch,” I answer the bartender. I’m sure he’s starting to question why a thirty-six-year-old has been spending every weekend at this club full of young people—probably looking like quite the perv in here with all of these sorority girls living thegirls gone wildlife on the dance floor behind me. I’m starting to question my own sanity.

The first few weeks after meeting my mystery girl, I was living off the high that night gave me. My work was on par, my stress level the best it’s been in years. Yet, her disappearing act was starting to really bother me. Correction. It was the fact that it bothered me what was causing me anxiety. She’d left with no note or number. I didn’t even know her name. That’s usually how I liked it. Hell, I was bordering on having a panic attack about bringing the woman home to my place at all. Now, I can’t get her out of my damn head.

I’ve become obsessed. I’ve returned to the scene of the crime every Friday as of late. All on the off chance I might see her again. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, the sex was incredible. But I had to admit, it was more than that. There was simply something about that spunky, secretive, sex kitten that had me tied up in knots. As if the way her tight little body responded to me wasn’t enough, that dreamy smile she gave before she fell asleep has tortured me.

“You mind if I ask you something?” The bartender’s question breaks through my mental torture.

“I’m sorry, what?” I respond, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly.

“You’ve been here every weekend I can recall recently. But all you do is drink at the bar. You know there are quieter places for a drink than this place. Plus, there are these things called liquor stores.”

I glare back at him, unhappy with being called out. And here I was afraid he was going to accuse me of wanting to pick up girls almost half my age.

“It’s just…” he leans in closer, dropping his volume.

Here it comes.

“You must be blind, man.”

Confused at the direction of this conversation, I watch as he points his chin to my left. I turn to take in a beautiful young blonde, sipping her cocktail through a bright red drink stirrer. She’s smiling at me playfully over her glass. Flicking my gaze back to the bartender, I can’t help but shake my head.

“Every week, it’s the same thing. They all swim up to the bar, trying to get your attention. But you’re lost to your glass. They aren’t your average girls. These chicks are smokin’. What gives?”

“I’m not an alcoholic. And I haven’t come to drown my sorrows or anything.” I defend, giving him a quick glance before spilling the truth. “I don’t know. I met a girl here a few weeks ago. I’m not usually one for collecting personal info. More interested in one night and moving on. But I can’t get her out of my head. I don’t even know her name. Guess I figured this was as good a place as any to grab a drink, on the off chance she strolled back in.” Taking a sip of my scotch, I continue, “No one else has really held my attention.” I’ve officially lost my mind. I’ve turned into Norm from Cheers, spending my free evenings saddled up to the bar, spilling my private life to a bartender.What the fuck? I’m a God-damned middle-aged stereotype.

“Ah, I get it,” he consoles, leaning onto the bar in my direction. “I met this girl here awhile back. She came in a few times with her friends. I tried flirting with her at the bar whenever I could. I’m sure she thought I was bucking for a bigger tip. It’s harder than you think to meet women working here. Anyway, I look around the bar for her almost every night. Maybe one day she’ll stroll back in here, and I can get my shot. I won’t make the mistake of waiting for next time again.”

I nod, mulling over his words. I know full well that if that little minx came strolling in, I’d do the same. I’d admit I want to get to know her better. Is she married? Or was she rushing home to a live-in boyfriend? I admit the latter was more appealing, but for the first time, I didn’t like either scenario. I’ve never cared who the women I slept with had waiting on them. They were big girls. So long as neither the women nor the scorned lover came looking for me, we were good. But I was irritated by the notion some other man had a committed relationship with the woman I’ve been fantasizing about, when I didn’t even know her name.

“Thanks, man.” I wave to the bartender after closing out my tab. This weekly venture has proven worthless. Yet I know I’ll be back. It is my only link to her. I have no idea what my intentions are. I just want more. I want her name, details about her living situation. I want to know what makes this good girl tick. Fuck, I want her. I want her riding me, my name on her lips. I want her underneath me, her name on mine. I want her to belt out my real name as she shudders all over me. I’m not looking for a relationship. I just want more.

I await my driver at the curb and recall I need to sober up quickly. The conversation with the bartender got me halfway there, not to mention limiting any further alcohol intake. I’m on call starting at six a.m. With covering both hospitals, my days are getting more tiring and demanding. This has contributed to more stressful experiences in the operating room. Sadly, this seems to be happening more as of late. Perhaps I need another sojourn.

Over the last few years, I’ve noted that as my schedule became more hectic or the surgery I was involved in was particularly nerve-wracking, more mistakes seemed to occur. I’d always had a steady hand and clear head once I stepped foot in the OR, yet, my circumstances were affecting my precision. These complex patients come to me because I have a reputation for taking cases others won’t touch. I have a duty to follow through.

I stay physically fit. I work out daily and run several times a week. I’ve never over-indulged in vices. Only women. Yet, I’d never embraced meditation or yoga until these little errors started to transpire during surgery. Grabbing surgical instruments too quickly, sending them to the floor. Straining to suture a tendon where this was commonplace years before. I’m sure part of this is to be expected with age, but I’m thirty-six, not sixty-six. It dawned on me I needed to consider offering my mind and soul a similar workout routine that I gave my body.

I’ve started to meditate and include yoga into my workout regimen. This is usually all I need. Yet when the stressors mount, taxing my mental fortitude, I’ve found stepping back to recharge works best. I’ve made a habit of feeding my love of travel with my need to detox my brain. Several times a year, I pull back from work and find somewhere new to trek. It has to be a peaceful environment, with options for the utmost in self-care. I indulge in massage, meditation, relaxation and will often explore the religions of the culture I’m temporarily residing. Whatever it takes to center me before I return to the high-stakes environment of reconstructive surgery.

Charlie pulls to the curb, and I immediately grab the door and gain entrance. There’s little conversation, as he has become used to my routine as of late. Drop me off and return to find me alone and disappointed. Jesus. Why didn’t I just give that little blonde sorority chick a ride she’d never forget? Hell. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone this long without sex. I need to get laid before I leave the country.

This thought has me scrolling through my phone, wondering where my journey will take me. I haven’t been to Bali. That would be a great place to embrace my Zen. The trip to Costa Rica a few months back was exactly what I needed. Pulling the phone away, I open the calendar app, trying to calculate the timing of these trips. They seem to be occurring more often than the twice-a-year voyages I’d taken in the past.But times have become more stressful.At least that’s what I’m telling myself. Where were the days of centering myself within the tight, warm walls of a woman? I guess we all have to grow up sometime.

Walking into my home, I feel unsettled. I need to get to bed as I have an early morning with rounds and a few clinic patients before my scheduled surgeries begin in the OR at St. Luke’s. Any elective surgeries Dr. Morgan will perform upon his return. But there were two patients who I treated in the ER that required surgical intervention that shouldn’t wait another week. Neither needed to be admitted to the hospital. Their preoperative tests have been completed and they’ve been cleared by their primary care providers for surgery.

Walking into my immaculate white marble kitchen, I put on a kettle of hot water. Growing up, my favorite nanny would always have a cup of herbal tea and cookies before bed. She’d pour apple juice into teacups, and Sam and I would join her in the nightly routine. Leaning against the counter, my mind wanders to years past. Sam and I knew our lives were different from our friends. Their parents would accompany them to their activities, cheer them on after piano recitals. Instead, we had Cheryl. She was the comfort we ran to when my parents’ arguing became frightening to young ears. I was never having children. I’d never be so selfish as to put my needs above theirs. Thus, it was best to leave happy families to people like my friend, Nick, and his wife, Katarina. They have a daughter through an open adoption with the child’s biological mother, but I know they’d love to have more. Then there’s me, who won’t look at a naked woman without a condom in my pocket.

Jumping, startled by the sound of the kettle’s whistle, I pour the boiling water over the jasmine tea in my mug. I’ll take a quick shower, grab my book, and hopefully retire at a decent hour. Bringing my steaming cup to the master suite, I carry the hot beverage to the wing-back chair and reach for the novel I’ve been enjoying, A Gentleman in Moscow. As I grab the spine, I look up from the shelf it was occupying and notice an unfamiliar title.I didn’t know I had a copy of this.Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.How the hell did that- Suddenly, I recall receiving a box of books from Cheryl’s family after her passing. She had bequeathed a similar box to Sam. I remember as if it was yesterday, the pride I had in that gift. That her reading to us had meant so much, she’d want to share her treasured books with us.

Placing A Gentleman in Moscow back where I’d found it, I reach instead for the Jane Austen classic. I’d faintly remembered reading it in high school, but not enough to tell you much detail about Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. Attempting to take a sip, I place my still scalding cup of tea and the novel down to revisit after my shower. Hell, I have no idea why I’m entertaining this read, but maybe I could learn what not to do… if I should get the chance to see my mystery girl again.

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