Page 5 of Bad at Love

I huff out an annoyed sound. “Fine. But I swear I will use my spare key to your house at any hour of the night if needed.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Oh, I already prepared myself for that.” She pats my cheek. “Come on, before we’re late.”

We walk down the hallway together, making our way to the emergency department, which is where we both work. Marta is a doctor here, while I’m a lab tech. It’s how we met and so conveniently became friends. She’s been there for me through this entire mess with Tara, and I appreciate her for it. As much as we get on each other’s nerves, me more so than her, I enjoy her company and respect her advice—even if I don’t take it often.

“Are we meeting for lunch?” I ask when we reach the hallway where we go our separate ways.

“As long as I don’t get another ten-car pile-up.”

I shake my head. “You’re so morbid.”

“Well, when you’re in the throw of things on the daily, it happens,” she mutters before taking a drink of her coffee.

“Which is why I’m happy sitting in my little glass office, playing with my samples.”

She frowns and shakes her head. “You strange little man.” She turns on her heel and goes down the hallway.

“I’m not little!” I call out.

I’m not.

I’m slightly above average, according to the statistics. Average height for a man is 5’9—even Marta is taller than that! And the average weight sits right under two hundred pounds, while I’m just over that. See, not little. Above average.

A young guy in scrubs walks past me, giving me a curious look, but then smiles. My chest does a little flutter, and I hurry down my side of the hallway and into the lab. Why do people have to smile at me like that?

“Good morning, Gabriel,” Wendy chirps from her spot behind the computer.

“Good morning,” I answer, dropping my messenger bag from my shoulder. “How was your shift?”

“Same old stuff. Lots of urine and blood tests.” She gets up, putting her hands on her hips. Her curly blond hair is pulledinto a high ponytail that always swishes around when she talks. “Why do people choose three am to come into the ER for UTI symptoms?”

“I understand nothing about people, so I couldn’t begin to answer that.”

She smiles, watching me for a moment. “Are you busy tonight?”

“I have plans with Marta.”

She nods once, then shrugs. “Another day?”

“Uh, yeah. Maybe.” I force a smile and put my bag on the floor beside the desk.

Wendy and I do this dance often. She doesn’t seem to get the hint that I’m not interested in going out with her. Not only because I have no interest in her, but because I ended things with my fiancée less than six months ago. Give a man some time to figure things out.

Me being me, I have a Rolodex of excuses to use when people ask me to do things. And I’m quick with responses, so they always seem legit. Marta said maybe I’m a pathological liar, but I don’t get enjoyment out of it. I just don’t want to do things, and people can never take the truth. Lying is easier. They don’t want to hear that I have no interest in hanging out with them—they get offended, even if there’s no reason to. I’m not a people-person, and it’s really that simple. I never would have found Tara to marry if our parents hadn’t set us up. When I was a kid, I was sure I’d be single my entire life. Now, I’m pretty sure I will be and that’s okay.

When it comes to Wendy, I tell her I have plans with Marta, who, to her, is like a Pit Bull. Wendy is more like a Cocker Spaniel. She’s pretty, with curly blonde hair and hazel eyes. Harmless and no sense of a real personality. Certainly not aggressive, but also not afraid to ask for attention.

I’m not a dog guy. Not a pet guy at all. They make messes. Pee on your floor. Leave hair everywhere. They smell and drool and make too much noise. I like things a certain way, and animals are unpredictable. They’re not for me.

“If you change your mind, just call me.” She wiggles her phone in the air. “I’ll be sleeping until about four.”

I force another smile and sit at the desk to log in and go through the requests.

Wendy should have updated me on where we’re at with tests, but she never does, and I stopped asking when she got offended over it. Why would I want to talk about work instead of her?

Why wouldn’t I? I’matwork.

People, I swear. They’re so strange.

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