Page 40 of Doctorshipped
“Higgenbottom?” I quirk my eyebrow.
“I’m working impromptu here like improv theater. Give me a break. Whatever your name is. The point is, we’ll use your last name to distinguish you from the other Grant.”
“How about referring to me as the Grant who is the town’s only doctor? That seems to work fine.”
“You know my last name. It was on my resume. Why don’t you want me to know your last name? It’s not like I’m going home to do a Google search on you. I do have a life—cobbled as it may be.”
She hasn’t dropped that cobbled life thing. I feel awful about it. I know it came out critically, and maybe I was being judgmental. I just wondered how a grown woman paid her bills with such a patchworked assortment of employment. But, I’ve seen Jayme in action now, she’s industrious, curious, and inventive, and she seems to make this conglomeration of involvements work for her.
“So, spill. What’s your last name? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just ask Fiona. She’s a veritable treasure trove of details.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“It’s not exactly blackmail, technically. It’s just an unveiled threat. So, give it over. Last name, Grant.”
“It’s ppprs.” I mutter.
“What?”
“Peppers. Okay?”
She smiles as the complete possibilities for ridicule obviously dawn on her.
“Wait! Wait. Wait. Wait. You’re Grant Peppers?”
“Go ahead.”
“Oh. I’m going. Trust me. You’re DOCTOR PEPPERS!”
“Har har.”
She’s rolling now.
“And … If you gain weight over the holidays …”
“Right. Go ahead.”
“You go on a DIET, DOCTOR PEPPERS!”
Jayme guffaws at her own joke, laughing freely. Her eyes scrunch up. She rocks in her chair. She even lightly snorts at one point.
I shuffle papers. She’s delirious with her own jokes.
“This display should give you some indication as to why I hesitated to reveal my full name.”
She ignores my comment and continues roasting me.
“So, like, when you were considering careers …” She’s merciless. And she’s still laughing. “Did you think, Hmmm. Should I be a doctor … PEPPERS … or, like, enter the army and work my way up to be …” She snorts. She can’t even finish her sentence.
I would roll my eyes. Worse, I feel a small smile threaten to cross my lips. I hate to admit it, but her joy is contagious. Like the flu or a plague, or a deadly rash.
“Wait,” she gasps, barely able to talk. “A SERGEANT! Sergeant Peppers! Oh my gosh!”
The Beatles reference isn’t new to me. I’ve had fajita jokes, salt and pepper jokes, yes, the Dr Pepper jokes, and of course, this one about the Fab Four hurled at me. Never with such lack of malice and sheer bliss as in Jayme’s case. But, teasing for my name isn’t new or original.
She laughs some more. “Are you in charge of the Lonely Hearts Club Band?”
When the words exit her lips, her hand flies over her mouth. “Sorry! I didn’t mean …”
