Page 65 of Brooklynaire
“Stop by my office when you’re done,” Dr. Armitagesays.
“Absolutely.”
* * *
Ten minuteslater I take a seat in front of the doctor. I’m still sweaty from my workout, including another Ping-Pong loss toRamón.
Dr. Armitage puts on his reading glasses and scan’s Ramón’s notes. “You’re making great progress. This isterrific.”
“It’s really encouraging,” I agree. “I feel better. I think I could go back to work, don’t you?”Please, please sayyes.
He frowns. “Soon. This early progress is terrific, but vestibular therapy never goes in a straight line. Most patients experience plateaus before they can make further progress. And we’re asking a lot of your body right now. You need to give the physical work a little more time before you’re ready to tax your eyesight in an officeenvironment.”
Shit.
“Okay…” I clear my throat. “How much time, though? I need to work. I’ve used up every sick day I ever had, and then some. It would be great if I could tell my boss when to expectme.”
The doctor frowns. Apparently he isn’t expecting me to worry about this. After all, Nate casually dropped fifty grand to get my firstappointment.
And just like that my face heats. Just the thought of Nate does that to me now. I also recall that first morning when the doctor assumed I was Nate’s significantother.
How trippy that Nate and I went and did exactly what he assumed we’d beendoing.
Gah. My face is on fire now. But I can always blame theworkout.
“Let’s talk again in a week,” the doctor says gently. “Get a lot of sleep, and stay active. Then maybe we can discuss a part-time return to work. Would your employer consider an arrangement likethat?”
“Sure.” It’s better than nothing, and I’ll feel less like I’ve been exiled and forgotten. “Honestly, it would be good for me to go back part-time. It’s really stressful not to show my face in theoffice.”
His expression softens. “I’m sure I’d feel the same way. Give it at least one more week at home, okay? I’m happy to write a letter to whomever you need, if your continued absence requires a letter in yourfile.”
Hugh Major doesn’t care about the letter. I know this in my heart. But it doesn’t make me any less eager to get back there. “Thanks, I’ll let you know if that’snecessary.”
When I leave the building, I find a misty spring day waiting for me. It smells like rain, and I don’t want to go down in the subway tunnel right now. So I walk uptown. It’s not a particularly interesting stretch of lower Manhattan, but I dawdle up Broadway, peering into shop windows. I stop to admire all the Chinese imports at Pearl River. There is a set of green chopsticks with pandas on them, and I remember the pair of nice chopsticks Nate used to keep in his desk drawer, because he didn’t like the disposable wooden ones that always arrived with our take-outfood.
Hello, subconscious. I think of Nate often, and every time it gives me a pang. Since our awkward talk in his office, he’s always there, blowing up my subconscious in a way he never did before. I can hear his laugh inside my head and picture his knowingsmirk.
I stood there and told him I wanted to forget that night. And I suppose I do. It’s just that forgetting is a lost cause. When I get into bed at night I can practically feel his hands on my thighs, nudging them apart. When I close my eyes, my imagination isshameless.
My latest fantasy is so potent, and absolutely out of character for me: I’m lying on my stomach in bed. Nate comes into the room uninvited. He lifts the covers and gets into bed with me.You shouldn’t be here, I say. He doesn’t answer me. Instead he removes my panties.This is a bad idea, I say. In answer, he takes my legs in hand and spreads them. I lift my hips off the bed, because I can’t help myself. And I’m rewarded as he pushes inside me, then fucks me without aword.
My inner feminist is absolutelyappalled.
And, wowzers. The spring weather is really warm all of asudden.
I can’t shut off my brain. And yet I shut Nate right down during our awkward little chat in his office. I realize now that I never got a chance to hear what Nate thought of our Florida encounter. I didn’t let him tell me. And now I’m practically eaten up withcuriosity.
There’s a part of me that wonders what would have happened if I didn’t play the fear card. If I’d confessed to being staggered by our chemistry together, what exactly would have happened? The most likely outcome would have been another hot night together. Maybetwo.
But that’s it, right? Nate and I couldn’t ever be a serious couple. When Nate thinks about his future, I know it’s not me he sees. I’m nothing like his ex Juliet, who was one of the super-accomplished graduates of his Ivy League school. I’m not a captain of industry like his friend Alex. I’m not even much like Lauren, who’s on the brink of earning a degree in business so she can climb the ladder atKTech.
I’m the office manager—great at my job, but not trophy wife material. I’m the quirky fun girl at the office who knows what time the cars are coming and can always find you a dinnerreservation.
I’m never the one the reservation isfor.
When my little squirrel brain isn’t busy imagining weirdly submissive sex with Nate, it’s making this very circuit:What might have happened between us? Oh, right. Notmuch.
Rinse andrepeat.
