Page 3 of Doctorshipped
“No. That is most certainly not what I will say when you are stranded. And do you know why? For one, you are brilliant and you will never be stranded. And for two, I will be here for you forever.” Or as long as I have breath.
“What if she doesn’t have a dad like you? What if she doesn’t have anyone?”
“Not our business. We can’t go around saving the world, Fee.”
“You could.”
She beams at me now. I don’t hate it—the way she looks at me like I am her everything. I’m well aware that a time will come when she’ll look at some other man the way she’s looking at me right now—like he’s her world and can do no wrong. But that will be when she’s thirty or forty, at the earliest, if I have anything to say about it.
The flabbergasted young woman chuckles into the phone. “I promise, Shannon. I’d tell you if I were freaking out.”
Um. no. She would not, Shannon. She was just freaking out enough to be a five o’clock feature on the local news. But, I guess it’s thoughtful that she’s trying to quell her friend, or relative, or whoever is obviously worried over whatever predicament she’s in.
“Yes. I promise. I’ll call you when I land. Okay. Or if I have to stay. … K. Bye.”
She hangs up, takes a long, deep, loud breath and returns her attention to the supervisor who has been standing still during her call, his arms folded, waiting for her to focus on whatever he’s there to deal with.
Fiona and I inch forward. We’ll be next in line to the ticketing agent.
The befuddled woman looks around, her brown hair springing across her shoulders as she surveys the crowd. Her eyes catch mine. Why don’t I look away? I don’t generally make eye contact with complete strangers. I don’t always even look my patients in the eyes, despite my training and my father’s urgings to improve my approachability by practicing eye contact.
But, when this woman looks at me, her warm brown eyes lingering, I can’t seem to look away. She’s … magnetic. No. She’s just intriguing. And I’m only really curious what her situation is. That’s all. A small smile dawns across her face and then she looks at Fiona, and then the smile becomes a full halogen headlight aiming at me so brightly I have to look away or be blinded.
I glance down at Fiona and she’s smiling back at this half-crazed woman as if she’s seen an old friend. Strange. The ticketing agent calls us forward. I tap Fiona on the shoulder and we walk up to place our bags on the scale, scan my ID, and gather our boarding passes. Then we leave that bewildering calamity of a woman behind us.
2
JAYME
“Miss?” the man behind the counter calls out to me as I watch the tall, handsome stranger and his daughter walk toward the TSA line.
“Um. Yes?”
“As I told you, no one saw your driver’s license here. Where did you go after you got your boarding pass?”
I tilt my head toward the vaulted ceiling. I’ve read that looking up helps trigger recollection.
With my head still aimed at the ceiling, I recount the past half hour as I remember it. “I shuffled my stuff around while I stood right here,” I say, tilting my head down and pointing to the spot where I had been less than thirty minutes ago.
I look up again. “Then I started to head to the TSA lines, but I had to empty my water bottle.” I look the senior agent in the eye. “You know. They have that three ounce rule for liquids, but I was thirsty anyway. So I drank the whole sixteen ounces, and then I was looking for a recycling bin …”
Supervisor man tightens his crossed arms even more firmly across his chest, and his lips go into an even thinner line. He’s the one who asked me to retrace my steps. And it’s a good idea—one I would have thought of if I weren’t so rattled by the loss of my driver’s license. They won’t let me through TSA without it. I can’t even rent a car if I don’t find it. I’ll be stuck in the St. Louis airport with only my purse and rolling carry-on which has my laptop, iPad, and notebook, but not even one pair of underwear, not even my granny ones that Shannon keeps telling me I need to throw out and replace with something more age-appropriate.
Why should I care about sexy underwear? It’s not like anyone will see what I’ve got on besides me, my housemate, and my cats. My granny panties are comfortable. And they are currently boarding an aircraft about to head to Ohio. A plane I might never even see, let alone fly in, if I don’t find my license.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and think. After recycling the water bottle, what did I do? Oh! Yeah. I look back at the airline employee. “Then I needed to use the restroom. Because, you know, I drank all my water too fast.”
The supervisor nods like he doesn’t have all day. Maybe he doesn’t.
“Have you checked the restroom, ma’am?”
“No. I didn’t!”
I’m already running away from the ticketing counter, hoping against hope my license still somehow stayed right where I left it. I’m wheeling my bag behind me, clutching the strap of my purse and repeatedly arranging it on my shoulder as I run faster than a contestant in the Great American Race, only with less strategy, and zero chance of winning anything.
“Thank you!” I turn and shout over my shoulder toward the ticketing counter. With my head looking back where I came from, I nearly plow through someone who shouts, “Watch out!” I whip my head in the direction of the warning voice at the last minute and dodge around her.
People are staring. I’m sure I’m a sight. I feel myself starting to sweat, and I’m definitely out of breath.
