Page 6 of Love and Other Mental Health Concerns
“Of course, see you tomorrow and call me tonight if you need another one of my famous pep talks!”
I have a feeling I may need more of that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marcy
I am finishing my lunch in the cafeteria, reviewing my notes for my meeting with Nick this afternoon. I’m wearing my most uncomfortable pencil skirt with a matching satin tank top and cotton cardigan. It’s a little more business than the self-imposed leggings and oversized sweater uniform that I normally wear, but I have a strong desire to be seen in a certain serious light today. If there is anything television has taught me, it is that serious and important women wear pencil skirts.
There was a struggle trying to ride my bike to work at first, but throwing bike shorts in my bag for the commute felt like a fair sacrifice.
I head to the restroom to give myself another once over. I pull my hair back into a bun and try and pin up whatever loose curls are fighting to be free. My make-up looks like I did it this morning, instead of my typical “slept in” smudges, which feels like a win. Skirt and shirt are laying neatly, and my short but strappy heels are giving me just enough added height to assert a little authority. Part of me still feels like a little girl playing dress up, not a grown woman fighting for her value, but here we are.
Fake it til you make it, Marcy.
I exit the bathroom with my bag and head down the hall toward the elevator that will transport me to the business offices. I press the button down and wait for the worlds slowest elevatorto arrive. It only stops at two floors, so the fact that this process takes several minutes is concerning. I survive the ride down to the sterile hallway. Everything on this floor feels muted compared to the bustle of the patients and staff upstairs. The carpet and walls are a muddy olive-green shade that gives 1970’s industrial, not in a good way. They glow eerily in the fluorescent lighting overhead. Since this hall is never seen by patients, or even most of the staff, any renovations that have taken place over the years have never included this part of the hospital. I have only been down here one other time, by mistake, looking for Keith’s office during my first week on the job. Keith’s office is upstairs. Freshly renovated.
All the doors in the hallway are closed, with muted conversations and the clacking of keyboard keys trickling through as I walk by. Only one door at the very end of the hall is spilling light and music into the otherwise dim abyss. I practice some deep breathing as I reach what feels like a radiant portal to a dimension where sunshine may prevail. I peer hesitantly around the threshold to see Nick, humming away to his music and enthusiastically typing into some spreadsheets. He turns around as if he senses me immediately and is grinning ear to ear.
In contrast to the bleak hallway, he has already set up his office to create a surprisingly welcoming space. Far too welcoming to be tended to by a robot, in fact. He has a couple tall lamps in the corners of the room so he doesn’t have to rely on the harsh overhead lighting. Small plants are placed in the few small areas where they can catch whatever sun the egress window of his office will allow. He has even placed throw pillows on the extra chairs in his office, which is frankly, shocking behavior.
There are pictures on his desk with two little boys and their parents, some including Nick and some not. Must be some of his family, and I can’t help but notice there isn’t a picture of him with any particular woman.
Why must I notice that?
“Marcy, thank you so much for coming, have a seat!” He says with such a lightness that you would think I just met him for ice cream somewhere, not in the bowels of small-town healthcare. He stands as I take my seat. Men don’t do that anymore. Or maybe that’s boys? When you are in your twenties, it’s hard to tell the difference.
“Nick, good to see you.” My voice suddenly sounds like I am about to announce the evening news. If Nick notices, he doesn’t even flinch. I remember my mission and straighten my back as I lower myself onto a scratchy wool armchair. I try to keep my gaze focused and steady, but I accidentally inhale and am hit with such a delicious mix of pine, mint, and…well I am sure just some nice laundry detergent. Whatever it is though, it’s heavenly. In combination with the blue eyes smiling at me over his beard, and the fitted sweater over his button down and jeans, I am mildly distracted.
So distracted in fact, that I immediately get off task. “What music are you listening to?”Damn it Marcy, keep it professional. At least I didn’t ask him why he smells so good. I am spinning my rings around my fingers, which I can’t tell if he notices.
“Bon Iver, do you like it?” He answers enthusiastically.
“Maybe. I think someone died onGrey's Anatomyto this song.” He looks at me like he can’t tell if I am serious or just trying to joke with him. I am definitely serious.
“Hmm…I wouldn’t know. I’m behind on that show.” His smile returns, full force. “But I think by only two decades.” He gives me a quick wink while he turns to finish something on his spread sheets. He even winks in a cute way. Isn’t that supposed to be creepy?
“Well, skipping a cultural phenomenon entirely is a strong choice.” I quip. He turns with a little smirk on his face. I amlearning there is a wide range of ways in which this man can make his mouth convey his thoughts, but I don’t yet know the code. I need a dictionary on this man’s expressions.
“What kind of music do you like then?” Ugh, I set myself up for the question I hate the most. I do like that he is asking me though.
“You know those pop songs from the 90’s and early 2000’s that you can now hear at Target?”
“Yes?” he asks like he is already enjoying my answer, which gives me a little more confidence.
“That. Love it. I would describe my music preferences as mostly guilty pleasures to everyone else. Although, maybe now they are considered classics? Hard to tell.” I have had to hone this response over the years, always jealous of people that have some cool or niche band that they are into. My music taste was shaped by my mother, and the limited time that I experienced her celebrating being alive.
“But not a guilty pleasure for you?” He’s looking at me with a bit of a mischievous grin, having abandoned his spreadsheets.
“It’s hard to feel the guilt when I am having a good time, I suppose.”
His voice drops an octave as he muses, “Well, most pleasure is never something to feel guilty about in my opinion.” The comment releases in a low tone that I can only describe as not safe for work. My blood is thrumming instantly. Nick has quickly shifted himself back to staring at his computer screen, not typing though, as he seems to have put himself on pause; stilled by his own flirt.
“That was not…” he turns back slightly to me, struggling to make eye contact and clearly a bit flushed. He’s struggling to rectify the awkwardness of the moment, while I am drowning in the hope of hearing him say the word “pleasure” again.
And then, as if saved by the angels of chastity, Keith enters the room. Wearing a puka shell necklace with his button down and khakis. At least he has on full length pants today.
“Guys, sorry I am a little late. Hope I didn’t miss anything, got stuck on a call.” Fortunately, Keith can’t read a room because Keith can’t read people, so the delicate band of tension that has presented itself between Nick and I is invisible to him.
