Page 5 of The Love Dose
The ladies all focus their attention on me.
When I don’t offer up any juicy bits, Sam asks, “Any word from Dr. Handsome?”
No one even bothers using his name anymore. It’s actually Dr. Calvin Sinclair, MD. Doctor of Emergency Medicine. The physician who treated me when I broke my leg.
“Nope.”
I hide my disappointment by perusing the dessert menu but these women know me too well. I order something gooey from a passing waiter.
“He’s not good enough for you,” Sam says. The irony isn’t lost on me that she is the one to say so.
I have no answer for that. The episode with Calvin was confusing and not worth one more brain cell’s worth of attention.
After my accident last October, Calvin was extremely attentive to my needs, even after my discharge. When he’d call, asking to stop by my apartment, it was with questions about my rehab. Once we shared a glass of wine and another time he stayed extra late, claiming he was about to start the late shift. Things were casual and easy but never romantic.
When I flew out for Evie and Adam’s wedding, Calvin started texting me jokes and funny memes. When I returned, our time together expanded beyond the walls of my apartment. A film at the Tribeca festival, drinks at the pier, a walk in the park. Weeks, even months, went by between our get-togethers, timed mostly around his hectic schedule but we stayed in touch by messaging.
For a while, I bought into the club’s unanimous opinion that Calvin’s house calls were personal rather than professional, that he was looking for an excuse to spend more time with me. Well, that proved wrong.
Seems he just felt sorry for a sad, lonely widow.
And I foolishly became attached.
Dessert arrives—a singular chocolate mousse with five spoons which we all share, each taking a spoonful. Evie leans in asking if I’m okay.
I’m sure she doesn’t buy my dispassionate, “Yep.”
Exactly ninety minutes after we convened, the bill arrives. Roger knows our deal.
Barbie, Sam and Mo have to get back to work. We all stand, preparing to disperse as we always do into different directions, different lives.
We’ve talked about switching our club meetings to dinnertime to allow us to linger longer but Sam still has kids at home and she wants to be with them.
Evie’s phone buzzes and she smiles at the screen.
“See you next month,” she says to all, saving the cheek pecking for me alone.
I want more time with her but I can feel her itching to go.
“Can’t wait,” I say, meaning it profoundly. “Say hi to Adam.”
We exchange kisses once more and I leave the restaurant, stepping back into the frozen tundra, deeply grateful for the amazing friends I have.
I walk to the corner of Forty-sixth and Sixth and lift my gloved hand high, regretting not wearing my fur. It’s become increasingly unpopular to walk around town wrapped in beaver but even a PETA activist would be tempted in five below.
I’m not one for Ubering. Actually, I never downloaded the app. I’m also not much of a taxi rider but I can’t bring myself to call Paul when he’s on borrowed time. Thankfully, it's onlya couple of minutes before a yellow cab with its roof light on pulls over. I enter the backseat, trying not to look at the grubby interior.
“The Dakota, please."
Thanks to snarled gridlock, the taxi inches toward my street. Still, it’s worth it to have the hot air vent blowing on me. I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk, enter the lobby, and wave to Larry, the doorman.
“Good evening, Mrs. Page. How’s your day going?”
I don’t have it in me to fib.
“Eh,” I reply, trying to recall if I have any good red wine left in the apartment. I’ve been going through it faster these days. Especially since Calvin stopped coming by.
Dr. Handsome, as the Fab Fifty ladies refer to him, hasn't been seen or heard from in a long while. It’s called ghosting, apparently. An apropos word for vanishing into thin air.
