Page 96 of Pick-Up
He drags his eyes back up, finding mine. My heart flips, thenewest cast member of Cirque du Soleil. The Vegas show. And all that implies.
“Look,” he says, “can we have an actual honest conversation, or are you going to throw yourself headfirst into the coffee table?”
He is overestimating my maturity. Just saying an earnest thank-you was my idea of a big step. I can’t let him say the thing, whatever it is. Because I can’t handle it. Because I’m worried it won’t work out. Because I’m worried it will work out. Because, the truth is, I want him badly. Because I actually like him. Because I’ve been here before and it didn’t end well. Because I really need this job and I can’t let this crush cannibalize it.
I’m about to ask for a rain check or pretend to pass out from pain, when there’s a knock at the door.
Jimmy is back with the doctor, an older woman in a lab coat and daisy sundress who he introduces as Dr. Marie—and, surprisingly, his cousin. “Twice removed,” he explains.
She smiles warmly, then presses the back of her hand to my forehead with authority. I realize in that moment how much I want my mommy. But it’s not the sting making me feel vulnerable.
Why can’t I handle my life?
Jimmy leaves to make sure the abandoned film crew on the sandbar hasn’t been eaten by an eight-eyed sea monster, and Ethan slips on his flip-flops too.
“It looks like you’re in good hands.” He smiles at me and Dr. Marie, though there’s a kind of resignation in his eyes. “I’m going to go grab some food since I missed lunch and take care of a few work things, let you rest. I’ll be back later to check in. Do you want anything?”
I have too many answers, so I shake my head. “Just rest.”
And, with a sigh, he leaves.
Despite my misgivings, I realize I’m sad he’s gone. I like him around me as much as I fear my own impulses. In truth, I want him to sit down on the couch, so I can rest my head in his lap. My imagination is straying into dangerous hammock territory again, so I pinch my own leg to snap myself out of it.
“He’s handsome,” says Dr. Marie as soon as the door clicks shut. “Maybe he wants to meet my daughter.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Does she like to run?”
“Run? From what?”
“No, I mean like jog,” I say, miming with my hands.
“Oh! Like exercise? No. Not unless Costco on Provo is having a sale.”
Dr. Marie gives me an antihistamine to quell the swelling and Advil for the pain. Then, she swabs the red area with white vinegar. “It’s the best remedy to mitigate the venom.”
She leaves me with hydrocortisone cream to apply morning and night for the next few days.
Once she’s gone, I plod into my bedroom and lie down under a throw blanket for a few minutes while the medicine takes effect. I FaceTime Celeste to say hi to Nettie and Bart—there’s early dismissal today, so I figure I might reach them. But they’re at the Prospect Park Zoo—ambitious plan—and the sea lion show is about to begin. They wave to me though.
“We can’t wait to see you tomorrow!” Nettie says.
“It’s almost Halloween!” Bart tells me.
This I know. And I can’t wait to see them too. Tomorrow morning, we have one final outdoor shoot and then I’ll fly home in the early evening. I’ll have the following morning back in Brooklyn to decompress and shop for last-minute costume elements and treats for our small gathering, before the trick-or-treating begins.
Still, once we’ve hung up the phone, even the memory of my kids’ faces can’t distract me from my current obsession. The pain of the sting is basically gone. But adrenaline courses through me at the thought of what Ethan was about to say before Jimmy returned with the doctor. The can of worms he was about to open. What might have wriggled out.
There won’t always be a Dr. Marie to interrupt us. So, I just have to stay the course for one more night. Because I can’t sacrifice my plans for a guy—not again.
At home back in Brooklyn, Ethan can go back to being someone I nod to or chat briefly with at drop-off. Or, in an ideal world, if I get this job, maybe he’ll become my coworker, who I pass in the halls when I’m not working remotely. Who I see mostly at large meetings with the rest of the staff.
And, yet, I know delusion when I see it. Even my own. Because how am I ever going to stand in close proximity to that man and not feel tempted to run a hand down his chest? To graze his stubble with my fingertips? To stand on tiptoe and press my lips against his? Basically, I will always want to hump him.
Ugh! Lying here without other stimulation is not helping my cause. The book I’m reading can’t hold my focus. I can’t concentrate on the word games on my phone. I open my email, but there’s not even pressing work to steal my attention. Just a text from Jackie making sure I’m okay.
“I’m all better!” I write. But it’s a lie. I am far from fine.
What I need is a cold shower.
