Page 49 of The Worst Guy Ever
After a frankly unacceptable wait at reception, we’re pointed towards the drab blue waiting room, full of patients in various states of distress. Hattie finds two seats together in a far corner, although right now I think I’d prefer she sat as far away from me as possible. I slump down on the hard plastic and she folds her coat over the back of the chair next to mine. “You sit here and I’ll get us something to drink.”
“I’m hardly likely to leave, am I?” I huff loudly.
She comes back five minutes later with two Styrofoam cups of warm brown slop and a digestive biscuit, which I eat in two bites. I’m starving. The hotel bed was as great as I hoped, and by the time I woke up I was pretty fuming to discover I’d slept through breakfast service. The only suitable thing I could find was a Snickers from the mini-bar, and I ate it in the shower.
A Snickers and a biscuit. Is this the effect hanging out with Hattie has on me? Shoot me in the head if you catch me eating cheese puffs and calling it lunch. I was hoping after we’d finished with the clear up she’d let me take her out for food somewhere. Megan too, anything if it meant I got to spend a bit of time with her.
Last night was… Well, I’m not sure what last night was, except I know in my gut that I walked in on her at a vulnerable moment and she raged right into it. I should have left immediately, but that’s the thing about Hattie. Walking away is the hardest thing to do. Either it’s because she’s locked me in a battle for the last word, or because it’s just so enjoyable to watch her get herself fired up into one of her rants. Or lately it’s because a few of those arguments turned into moments of connection that I haven’t felt with anyone before. Whatever it is, it’s impossible for me to turn my back on her, no matter the mood.
“I wasn’t sure if you took milk and sugar, so I added both. I’m sure the sugar will help with the shock,” she says with her shit-eating grin plastered across her face. Just when I was starting to give her some grace.
“This is not funny, Hattie. I’m so angry with you.”
“I really am sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.” She angles herself sideways on the seat and leans in close to my face. “Is it still bleeding?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’m not removing this napkin until I see a professional.”
“Let me take a look,” she reaches out, but I swat her away.
“What are you going to do Hattie,marketing campaignmy face better?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” she sulks, sitting back in her chair. In the corner, an ancient TV plays old episodes of quiz shows, but of course the volume is down so low that watching is completely pointless. Still, we both stare.
“I’ll probably need plastic surgery to make sure there’s no scar, you know. This hospital better have a Jackson Avery on staff.”
A perfect arc of tea sprays out of her mouth and rains down over her jeans. “You tit!” she says, fishing a tissue from her bag and dabbing at the thankfully tepid liquid. I won’t give her the satisfaction of an apology. On the TV, another re-run of Wheel of Fortune begins.
“You watch Grey’s Anatomy?” she asks quietly.
“Yes. Is that so surprising?”
“Yeah, it kind of is, actually.”
“Well, there you go again, Hattie, making assumptions about me based on absolutely nothing.” Her eyes flare as I repeat her words from yesterday. The words she said before I showed her where I thought her tattoos would be. The words that clearly bruised my ego.
She picks at her nail varnish for a while then crosses the waiting room to leaf through a pile of old magazines. She comes back a few minutes later with Practical Camping and I force myself not to comment as she loudly flicks through the pages.
“Do I have my own ringtone?” Her brow furrows, until she pieces it together with the memory of our interruption last night and laughs.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll never know.”
I pull my phone from my pocket. “I’ll ring you right now.”
“You’re not supposed to make phone calls in here,” she pouts and wrinkles her nose, pointing at a big sign on the wall with an 80s mobile phone and a red cross in front of it
“Fine. You win. For now.” Mere seconds later, her phone rings in her hand, and she quickly rejects the call. “You’re the only person I know who has their phone off silent.”
“My job is important. I can’t risk missing a call or an email.”
“Hattie, with all due respect, your job is sending emails and making people rich. You’re entitled to your time off. It’s the weekend. What could they possibly be ringing you about today?”
“It’s not work. It was my sister,” she huffs and something tells me now is not the time to get into why Hattie is rejecting her sister’s calls.
Eventually, we’re taken through to a small room and I oblige when the nurse tells me to hop up onto the bed, still holding my face. Hattie hovers by the door and steps to the side when the doctor appears with a trolley of medical supplies.
