Page 23 of We Were Something
“So you’re actually admitting to being a serial killer. Is this like in those movies where they say to make sure you don’t see the bad guy’s face because then you can ID him to the cops? Now that you’ve revealed your deep dark secret to me, should I assume you plan to kill me soon?” she teases.
“I don’t know if you should be worried about me, or if I should be more worried about you,” I joke back. “That is quite an extensive filing cabinet of knowledge you’re keeping about serial killers and bad guys.”
“What can I say? Some people are into stand up paddle boarding or playing darts. My vice is serial killers.”
“Naturally.”
We laugh together, something that’s easy and natural that I haven’t felt…ever.
And then we’re standing in front of the door to Ivy’s room.
Hovering there for a moment, I try to think of something to say. Something that will encapsulate how much I enjoyed my time with her, as strange and unexpected and brief as it was.
“Thanks again,” I finally say, lifting the bag to indicate why I’m thanking her. “For the shoes.”
She nods, a soft expression coming across her face.
“Sorry again about ruining your pair. And thankyoufor getting me home safely. Not every guy would have been as chivalrous.”
There’s a long pause between us, filled with a thrumming kind of tension, a pressure to say something else.
I want to invite her to do something with me this weekend. Get a drink, maybe. A coffee. But I don’t know how to ask, and on top of not knowinghow, I don’t think Ishould.
Regardless of whether or not I want to acknowledge the chemistry that seems to sizzle between us with almost no effort, I can’t seem to get past the myriad of reasons why this little flirtation might be a mistake. Whether it’s me or her or the age difference or the possibility that I’m just still not ready to pursue something with anyone so soon after my divorce…I’m not exactly sure. Whatever it is, it’s thick enough, big enough, for me to let this pregnant moment between us pass without acting.
“Dr. Becker?”
When I hear my name called from the nurses’ station at the end of the hall, I use that as my chance to break off whatever this moment is.
Reaching out, I give her upper arm a light tap, meaning for the gesture to be neutral and friendly but feeling every ounce of the awkwardness it elicits instead.
“Good to see you, Paige. And thanks again.”
With those parting words, I turn away and head off to talk with Jamie about whatever concern has her calling down to me from the nurses’ desk.
Whatever it is, I hope it’s something that will distract me from the way Paige’s simple presence has my heart hitting irregular beats and my pulse picking up and my words getting stuck on my tongue.
Because that’s how she makes me feel just by looking at me.
As much as I enjoy the unfamiliar nature of nervous excitement, I also doubt it’s anything I should dare to revel in.
I try not to dwell on the fact that I’ve been to the gym every day for the past two weeks. Well, more specifically, I try not to dwell on the fact that I’ve been every day since meeting Paige at the gala. Instead, I try to convince myself that my newfound interest in the rowing machine at Jim’s Gym is simply how I’m choosing to deal with stress on a free Friday evening.
My mother’s continued interest in communicating with Jen.
The looming clinical trial.
My own lack of certainty about what comes next in life when you’re 39 and newly divorced.
It isn’t the beautiful platinum blonde who keeps popping into the recesses of my mind, completely unbidden.
It’s been a week and a half since she came by the hospital and dropped off those shoes for me, and I haven’t seen her since. Though I can assume she’s been by the hospital at least once, if Ivy’s new glittery eyeshadow is any kind of indication.
She’s been by and hasn’t come to find me to say hello. Which is understandable, considering that I am apparently a coward whofleesfrom attractive women when they show interest, a frustrating concept I might be trying to contradict as I push backward on the rower, my sweaty palms gripping the bar and yanking it into my chest on every gritted exhale.
Fuck this shit is exhausting.
It’s been a long time since I’ve pushed myself this hard on a rowing machine. Normally, I run. I was part of a marathon training group back in Seattle, a group of doctors and nurses and x-ray techs and a bunch of other health professionals from the hospital who trained five days a week to prep for the Seattle Marathon.
