Page 32 of The Devil You Know
The patient looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because she’s mygirlfriend.”
“Oh,” I say, although I’m still completely confused. “I thought you said you might be pregnant?”
She nods. “Yeah. I’m bisexual. I’ve had three different partners in the last six weeks.”
“Oh,” I say again.
“I should probably just tell doctors right away so that we can avoid awkward conversations.” She adds, “Like this.”
The truth is, I’ve gotten so used to treating old men that have been with the same woman for fifty years (if they can be with a woman at all) that treating a bisexual woman makes me feel like I’ve gotMadonnafor a patient. (Am I dating myself with that reference? Should I have said Miley Cyrus? One of the Kardashians? I’m so out of touch.)
“No problem.” I try to sound all casual and breezy. “We can do that.” I glance down at my primary care checklist. “Do you do self breast examination?”
Ms. Engstrom snorts. “Are you kidding me? Look at my breasts! It would take me half the day to examine one of them.”
Admittedly, she does have fairly large breasts.
“I could do it,” she says, “if I had small breasts like yours.”
Gee, thanks. Actually, I don’t do self breast examination either, despite the ease with which I could apparently do them. Examining her own breasts is something that women might tell their doctors they do, but rarely actually do. Like flossing.
“So are we doing this or not?” Ms. Engstrom asks impatiently.
Time to dive in.
_____
It’s my job to bring the samples from Ms. Engstrom’s pap smear and STD cultures down to the lab on the first floor. Or at least, it isn’t anyone else’s job. It isn’t Barbara’s job, that’s for sure. She made that very clear.
I don’t mind making a trip down to the lab when I have a short break in my schedule. I’m able to avoid George’s elevator, at least. The only thing that concerns me is that the operating rooms are on the first floor. You have to pass by them to get to the lab. Which means there’s a chance of running into Ryan.
I’ve been avoiding Ryan for the last week, ever since our emotionally-charged tissue paper roll moment. I only saw him once in the lobby and I quickly turned and hurried the other way before he could see me. There’s no good that could come out of spending time with Ryan Reilly.
Unfortunately, the second the elevator doors open, I see him. I recognize him immediately, even though he’s got a surgical cap covering his only slightly graying blond hair. He’s standing in front of the entrance to the ORs, wearing his usual green scrubs and talking to a woman dressed similarly.
Damn, I have to walk past him. It’s the only way.
I square my shoulders and look straight ahead as I stride forward. As I walk closer, I catch a better look at the woman that Ryan is talking to. She’s probably ten years younger than me with ash blond hair pulled into a smooth ponytail. She’s too young to be an attending surgeon. A resident? A nurse?
Either way, she’s gorgeous.
She’s exactly the sort of woman I’d always imagined Ryan might end up with. Beautiful yet intelligent enough to work in the OR. And unlike me, she’s young enough to have a bunch of his babies. And it’s really obvious from observing them for even a few moments that there’s some serious flirtation going on. At one point, she smacks him in the arm and says in a mock scolding voice, “Dr. Reilly!”
Making excuses to touch him. She’s so into him. Not that I blame her.
Well, good for him. I’m actually thrilled that Ryan seems to have forgotten about me and is cozying up to the surgical staff. I want him to be happy. I hope he marries some cute nurse and they live happily ever together. I really do.
As I pass by Ryan, our eyes meet. Even though the other woman is still talking to him, I can’t help but notice the way a smile curls across his lips and his blue eyes continue to follow me as I walk past. I try to keep looking straight ahead.
It isn’t until I get to the door of the lab that I dare turn back to look at Ryan. He isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s actually got his phone out and is fiddling with it. Good.
Then I feel my own phone buzz inside my pocket. A text message.
There are only two people who text message me regularly: Lisa and Ben. Lisa texts me whatever pops into her head during the day—sometimes I worry she texts me while she’s with patients. Ben used to text me all the time when we were first dating, but much less now. He still sends me interesting links he finds, but at least half our communications generally involve some sort of errand one of us has to do. For example, his last text message to me was:I have a headache. Could you pick up Leah today?The text message before that was a link to a story about a cheeseburger where the bun is made out of macaroni and cheese.
So chances are, the text I just got is from Ben or Lisa. Except I’m not at all surprised when I see Ryan’s name at the top of the screen.
Is this still your number?
