Page 9 of Delayed Intention
Way to walk right into the spider’s web, Lily Shoshana.
“Of course, everyone knew but you. I told them all to keep it from you.”
Bitch—and even though it was in my head, I cover my mouth with my free hand, immediately shocked by the audacity I have, to call her a name. Externally, I stay silent and don’t react, digging my nails into my palm, hard enough to hurt.
Ellen, it seems, is not done. “Do you have any idea how hard this has been for me? Honestly, Lily, I don’t know why Roselyn indulges you, the way you try to rewrite history with your labels and nonsense.” She went on to attack my diagnosis of anxiety disorder since, according to my mother, you can pay enough money, and they will tell you whatever you want to hear. But I stopped listening because this was all too far below the belt.
Ros knew. And kept it secret.
The one sibling I had a narrow, rickety bridge with. My throat burns, and my eyes fill with tears. My mother is still talking about the poor family of Ed’s fiancée—how they had to be indoctrinated into this scheme of my mother’s and what a burden it was for all of them to keep this secret from me. How embarrassing for her to have a daughter like me. This means that she can pretend this is about protecting my feelings for the crowd while simultaneously putting salt in an old wound about my being the outsider in this family. She is still going on about how all of this was so hard on everyone when I can’t help myself and blurt out a question that has plagued me for years.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
She took the one fragile connection I had with one of my siblings and broke it just like that.
“My God, Lily, get over yourself. Why does everything have to be about you?”
Andthatwas the last straw. I know I will pay for it later, but I can’t take it anymore, so with that last rhetorical question tossed my way, I hung up on my mother.
A Well Respected Man
Josh, Somewhere in Colorado, September 2024
“And you know what, Josh?!” Lara’s voice is shrill as I play her last voicemail through the speakers in my truck. I turn down the volume, which doesn’t seem to help much. “It does not matter!” She hisses into the recording, “I’ll leave you guessing. Let’s just say I’ll get my revenge on something you actually care about! Asshole!!!”
With that, the message ends.
Damn it.This won’t be the first time I’ve had an ex who fanned the flames of drama. The‘somethingI care about’that she’s referring to is my career. I would’ve thought being faithful to a person is enough, but that hasn’t been my experience. It’s the same story every time. They love that I’m a doctor, and they admire my dedication to my profession. But give it enough time, and they spin out—jealous of my commitment to my job. At first, Lara said everything I wanted to hear. She swore she didn’t want anything serious, and claimed she thought it was cool that I traveled between three states for work. She said it was no problem that I wouldn’t always be in Wyoming, where she lives. She smiled and said she understood.Bullshit. Our last fight was because she had assumed that after a few months of dating, she would be keeping house in Estes Park with me when I returned home.
Lara probably wrote some scathing reviews about me or the medical practice I work for online. Anything else, I could give a shit. Which is the crux of the problem.Hell hath no fury. I pull into a gas station to grab a coffee and, cringing to myself, compose a text message to Steve, our practice manager, to let him know Lara may be ‘pulling a Rachel.’
Rachel was the first woman I dated who threatened to retaliate when we split and then made good on her word. We broke up after six months—if I remember correctly—she was pissed I didn’t want to settle down. She launched a trolling campaign against our practice via our social media sites. She hasn’t been the only one, but she was the first and so far the most colorful. That’s why her efforts are referenced when other vengeful exes of mine have come up in practice meetings. Sarah, Henry, and the rest of the group are going to be unhappy with me, to say the least, unless Lara is planning a more personal payback.
Whatever.
I pull into a truck stop to grab a coffee along with a small bag of treats for Ginger, my pit bull-border collie mix. She’s a white dog with large caramel spots and this one adorable extra-spotty ear. She has high energy with a friendly disposition. She hops into the bed of my truck to wait as I go into the shop. When I returned to my truck, she looks thrilled, as if I’d been gone for hours. At least one girl in my life is happy with me.
“Hey there, Ginger, you wanna take a walk?”
Giving her the release command, she hops down and follows me over to a grassy area to find the perfect spot to relieve herself. Lara’s voice is still replaying in my head, and I wonder if I should stop dating altogether. In my twenties, when I told a woman that I didn’t do relationships, it was fine. In my thirties, they take it as a challenge, as if I didn’t mean it, or they could change my mind. These days, the women that I’ve been dating eventually become furious when all I’ve done is remain consistent. Somehow, I’m the asshole for doing what I said I’d do all along. No one gets it; it’s not personal. I’m not wired to fall in love—it hasn’t happened to me yet, and I don’t expect it to. For that reason, I’m not interested in commitment, and I never want to get married. I don’t know how much clearer I could be.
I rub my hand across the back of my neck and look to see that Ginger has finished her business and is seated in front of me, her eyes locked on mine.
“Well, I love you too, girl,” I say to her as she wags her tail hard, making the grass fly out from behind her rear.
“All right, let’s go.”
She hops into the truck next to me, and I hand her a treat. If only it had been this easy with Lara, it might have worked out. Then I think about how angry I’d be if someone thought of my mom or sister that way. This is exactly why I’m better off on my own. I’m not fit for dating, let alone a relationship.
Taking the turn off 287 onto Highway 34, I realize I can’t quite pinpoint the last time I’d been back up to Estes. The hills are rising around the road in front of me as if welcoming me back. Some of the trees are still a lush, leafy green, but many are shades of dark red, gold, and amber. Higher up are the evergreen pines, and as I drive closer to them, I feel the air cooling around me. With the shifting air, I feel tension leaving my neck and shoulders. After working across Nebraska for around a month, and then traveling over to Laramie for the last several weeks, it’s a relief to go home. I love what I do, but I need my downtime and to get back to my own space.
Our clinics help underserved patients obtain the healthcare they deserve without compromising on quality. Our practice settings don’t look like free clinics; patients who are adverse to charity are permitted to pay what they can, and many do. My colleagues are all of the same ilk; some are former public health officers, like myself, and others are ex-military. I get along with the other doctors, and we have an unwavering support staff, many of whom have been there for years. There’s also a fundraising part of the job, but I’ve never minded getting my tux out to raise a few dollars for such valuable work.
The job isn’t perfect. Regularly driving long distances has started to wear on me. At first, it was a novelty. Back then, I didn’t mind spending long hours catching up on audiobooks and podcasts. Lately, I’ve been wondering how much longer I’m going to do this commuting. The worst part of the job, though, is the sleeping accommodations. Most of the other providers work locally and don’t travel between cities the way I do. Each clinic has a bare-bones apartment for staff, but even those aren’t always available. When that’s the case, we book into a motel—the cheaper, the better for our bottom line. Today, my lower back is unhappy with the long commute after months of crappy mattresses. Most of these motels are not supplied with a bed that accommodates a person over six feet tall.
In my mind, I can hear my mother giving me shit for complaining. I’ve been lucky and should be more aware of that. But my damn back hurts.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts when a distinct odor fills the truck.
