Page 17 of Exes and O's

Jeff (frosh week fling)

Zion (campus bookstore cutie)

Brandon (world traveler—the one that got away)

Linus (Brandon rebound)

Mark (book club intellectual)

Seth (ex-fiancé)

chapter seven

I MANAGE TO MAKEit back to my day shift just in time for the all-staff meeting. It starts off like any other. The doctors and nurses hash out their pent-up grievances against each other, blaming the other party for all that is wrong in the NICU. Tensions are particularly heightened ever since last week, when someone broke the $5,000 coffee machine in the exclusive doctors’ lounge. The perpetrator remains at large, and now us nurses are stuck sharing our basic-bitch Keurig with the doctors, who have been hoarding all the best pod flavors.

Another fifteen minutes go by as people pose miscellaneous questions they should be asking their direct supervisors in a one-on-one meeting.

“Don’t forget, the charity gala is coming up on Valentine’s Day,” Jordan, the head nurse, reminds us. “Tickets are on sale starting Friday for those who can make it. We’re actively accepting items for the auction.”

Mention of the gala in three months fills me with dread. After my date with Segway Jeff, I’m no closer to a plus-one. In fact, I feel further away from that prospect than ever. Him calling meclingyandcrazydoesn’t sit right with my spirit, especially considering he never communicated how he felt about me until now. Years later.

The only positive takeaway was the closure. Come to think of it, a postmortem analysis on where it went sideways for all my exes would be nice before attempting to rekindle the flame.

Lucky or unlucky for me (not quite sure which), the one ex I don’t have to social-media-stalk is right here in the room. Seth, my ex-fiancé, happens to be a doctor in the NICU. Perhaps he’ll have some extra insight I could use to my advantage with the remaining prospects.

“Hey, Seth?” I call out, poking him in the back as everyone filters out of the meeting room.

He spins on his heel as if in slow motion, delaying his fate. This is how it’s been since our breakup. In the rare event that I have to interact with him, he regards me like a chore, like that one drawer in your house piled with junk that you’d rather not deal with.

“What’s up, T?” he asks impatiently, hands on hips, chest puffed out like God can’t touch him.

“Can we talk?” I whisper. “In your office,” I add, eyeing our coworkers, who are huddled behind the nurses’ station, buttered popcorn at the ready, pretending not to eavesdrop. That’s the thing about workplace romances. The initial dating makes for juicy gossip. But the breakups, no matter how civil, are gold mines of scandal.

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