Page 127 of Love Sick

I mean it as a joke—some commiserating camaraderie—but she turns her mouselike face in my direction and screws it into something resembling a sneer. “Weren’t you asked not to speak to us? You’re distracting me.”

I sigh and turn away. On March 1st, my first day in the office, John asked me not to speak with any of them during the day, so asnot to distract them from their duties.

Sit down and shut up. That’s what MFM is about.

I follow Mandy to her next ultrasound. She adopts her usual falsetto voice to hide her malevolence from the patient. Reviewing my mental flashcards allays the annoying niggle in my brain every time she insists on calling the tibia and fibula the “tibia and fibia” while taking pictures of the baby’s legs.

Afterward, I head to Hoffman’s office to review the images before his consultation with the patient. Unlike John, Hoffman has too much personality and talks through his nose. Gossip is his favorite food, and he drools at the juiciest morsels. Today, his primary complaint is that he can no longer afford to buy the saltwater fish tank he’s been eyeing because recent storm damage has forced him to re-stucco his house.

Hoffman is the king of first-world problems.

He spins in his chair toward me when I enter, nasal voice on high power. “You know, I’ve got some beef to pick with you.”

That’s not the expression, you nitwit.

I perch on the sofa beside his desk, back straight. “Yes?”

“I’m a little ticked off you didn’t tell me you’re dating, Sapphire.” He crosses his arms. “I told you about my affair with my attending when I was a resident.”

He’d volunteered that information against my will, actually, but my stomach drops. “What?”

“I had to hear it from another resident.”

“Who?”

He waves a hand. “It slips my mind.”

Uh-huh. Sure.

“She said you’re dating a couple who are both radiology residents. Said you were caught in one of the call rooms.”

My mind goes still, followed swiftly by my body. Radiology? Acouple?

He grins and readjusts the glasses on his nose—glasses I’m in factnotattracted to. “Now that I know you’re into thrupples, I have a lot more stories to tell you.”

“I’m not.” I clear my raspy voice. “I’m not into thrupples.”

He snorts. “That’s not what I heard, and let me tell you, she wasveryexplicit—”

“Stop.” My tone is honed to a sharp edge.

He jerks his head. “What?”

“None of these rumors are true. They’ve never been true.”

His demeanor closes off. His eyes shutter, and he flings his arm toward the door. “Fine. Go get me a Starbucks, will you?”

I hold out my hand for money to pay for his ridiculous drink—tall decaf Americano with one inch of nonfat foam.

He sneers at my hand. “Don’t you have money left on your meal card?”

Because we’re poor, each resident receives $150 on a meal card to pay for the myriad meals we have to eat when working at Vincent. Hoffman’s drink is $5 and he wants at least one per day. Three weeks into my month at MFM, and he still has yet to pay for a drink.

Half my money for food has gone to his Starbucks habit, but tears build behind my eyes and I don’t have the energy to argue with him. I flee his office and head to the sky bridge that leads to the cafeteria.

Another rumor.

Why does this keep happening?

---