Page 71 of Doctorshipped
The cantankerous grump who somehow makes me smile lately.
We’re only a third of the way through our meal when my Dad broaches topic number two in the routine two-point conversation between me and my parents.
Men. Dating. Settling Down.
“So, Jayme, are you meeting any interesting men in that small town? Dating anyone? Any prospects?”
My dad bites a green bean in half like he’s decapitating someone. His eyes meet mine over the tines of his fork. He’s concerned, but also disappointed. I’m off schedule at my age. How on earth will I pop out exactly two point five children and collect enough aprons to qualify as a homemaker in the meager years I have left to procreate?
I sigh and then the stream of words that flows out of my mouth cascades forward obviously as a result of some subconscious defense mechanism meant for self-preservation. I’m sure that’s what it is. What else would make me say this?
“I’ve actually started dating someone.”
“Ohhh?” My mom looks nearly giddy, but also has that expression she gets when she forgets to set the oven timer and wonders how long something’s actually been cooking.
And, do I stop myself once the heinous lie has made its way through my brain, bypassing all reasoning, and flying out my lips? You only wish.
“Yes. He’s a doctor.”
Yep. I did. I said it. And whyyyyy? Why did I saythatof all things? The man I spend the most time with these days is a doctor, but dating him? What am I thinking?
I know exactly what I’m thinking. I’m thinking it’s all too much. I’m tired of my profession and my singleness being the two targets at the end of a shooting range. I’m tired of not measuring up. I’m tired of watching my friends find bliss while I don my darling third-wheel shirt and make my way through life essentially alone.
I am? Well. I guess it took dinner with my parents to see that truth. I tuck all my thoughts away for a later time when I’m securely nestled in solitude with my journal. For now, I have to weasel my way through this pack of lies.
“A doctor?” Dad gives an impressive nod.
My parents exchange a look. Who knows what it’s about, but it’s loaded.
“Yep. Family medicine. Just moved into town. He’s a little older, but hey, that makes him established, right?”
What in the ever-living name of Elvis am I saying?
“And what’s this doctor’s name?”
A name? Of course they want a name. And what do I do? I take a shovel and dig myself a shallow grave.
“Grant.”
Saying his name gives me a feeling like goosebumps, but also hives. I just dragged Grant’s name into my dysfunctional, people-pleasing meltdown. I picture him here at supper, meeting my parents. Hoo-boy wouldn’t that be a party? Then I picture his scowly-growly face when I say we’re dating. Yeah. That’s not a pretty thought at all. His face is pretty. His reaction to me lying and dragging him into it by name is so not pretty. And why would it be?
I need to nip this conversation and then create a breakup in about, say, five days. That would be good. Not right at the wedding, but shortly after. We just figured we weren’t going to work out. Understatement, right? I’d drive him nuts with my constant positivity and he’d … well, I’m sure he’d drive me nuts too. That’s what I’ll do, though. No harm, no foul. We’ll break up within a week. My parents never visit. They’ll never even meet Grant. This is a blip.
Blip blip blippity blip.
If only I had blurted Brooks’ name. Grant would be a horrible boyfriend, all pouty and grouchy. But, then again, there’s that soft, protective side of him too. To be the owner and recipient of that part of his heart would be like being the only person to have the top secret recipe to Dollywood’s cinnamon bread. But, that’s all irrelevant.
What matters is that I just lied to my parents. A bold-faced, direct lie. Not even a white lie or a fib or something excusable. I made up a whole scenario and then I dragged another real, living person into it.
I never was good at lying. Not that I ever wanted to master a vice. And now, both my parents are staring at me, waiting for me to say something.
Thankfully by some random mercy, the doorbell rings.
“Are you expecting anyone?” I ask.
Mom and dad share a poignant look. Then mom stands and walks to the door. I hear voices in the entryway and mom returns with a man my age at her side.
“Jayme, you remember Nelson.”
