Page 23 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Now wait a moment—”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “You know what? No. Seriously?” Don’t be dumb, I tell myself; but it’s too late. My ire is up. Time to do something stupid. “Dr. Bishara—I quit.”
“Imogen, don’t be ridiculous.”
I remove the stethoscope from around my neck and set it on his desk. “What’s ridiculous is that I haven’t quit before now. I can make double at the hospital doing the same thing I do here. At this point, I’ll take the extra hours and extra stress.” I give him a sarcastic, cutesy finger wave and fake smile. “Good luck without me, Dr. Bishara. You’ll need it.”
I shove the door open, ignoring his protests. I grab my purse, and walk past the front desk. Amber hurriedly puts a call on hold and chases after me.
“Did he seriously just fire you?” she asks, following me out to the parking lot. “For your phone going off?”
I laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. “No, I quit.”
Amber halts in place. “You—you quit?” Her voice rises about an octave on the last word. “You can’t quit! You’re the only reason this entire office is able to function!”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m done.” I pause with my hand on the handle of my ghetto-ass car. “Also, Amber, you should know your husband is cheating on you. Tiffany saw him at a restaurant with some other woman, making out and stuff. I told her she should tell you, but she didn’t. So…there you go. Sorry.”
Amber sniffs. “Dammit. I suspected, but I haven’t been sure.”
“Tiffany has pictures, actually. But she said you were a bitch to her about covering for her that one time she got wasted and no-call-no-showed, so she wasn’t going to tell you.” I laugh, not at all kindly. “Good luck with her. She’s a real treat.”
And with that, I climb into my car and drive away. Instead of going home, though, I go to the nearest cellular service provider and buy a new phone. Apparently I was due for an upgrade anyway, so it didn’t actually end up costing me a full arm and a leg. Then, with shiny new phone in my hand, I decide to keep splurging. Nothing like quitting your job to make you feel like celebrating.
I decide on Mexican. Chips and guac and margs and a smothered burrito.
My phone rings halfway through my second margarita. This time, I can see the screen, so I know who it is: Jesse.
I make him wait—make myself wait—before answering. Don’t want to seem too eager.
“Hello?” I say, as if I don’t know who it is.
“Hey, Imogen. It’s Jesse.”
“Oh, hey.” I try for breezy and end up sounding overly breathy. “What’s up?”
“I tried calling you a bit ago, but your voicemail is full and you weren’t answering messages.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I was at work. I dropped my phone in the toilet.” I laugh. “My voicemail is full because my douche of an ex-husband left a bunch of messages on it right after we got divorced. He got drunk and drunk-dialed me, I guess. Nobody ever calls me, and nobody ever leaves voicemail, either, so I never thought about deleting them.”
“Dropped your phone in the toilet, huh?” His voice crackles with humor. “Let me guess—it was in your back pocket?”
“Shut up.”
“They should have back pocket insurance specifically for women.”
“Is there a reason you’re calling, other than to make fun of me?” I ask. “Because I’m busy celebrating, here.”
“Celebrating? Celebrating what?”
“I quit my job, and got a new phone.”
A long silence. “Congratulations? What are you going to do now?”
“Be able to use my phone, for one thing. The screen has been shattered for like two months.”
“I meant about work.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “I don’t know. Probably apply at the hospital. It’s a higher stress environment, but they pay more than an office. I took the office job because I wanted less stress. With my experience and my RN credentials, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t have, but I was pissed. I dropped my phone in the toilet, like I said, and the ringer wouldn’t go off, it wouldn’t switch to silent, so when you called I was with a patient. My boss, Dr. Bishara, has a very strict no cell phone policy, but it appears he’s okay with other people violating it, just not me. I’ve worked for him longer than any of the other nurses, and he reprimands me for my phone accidentally ringing one time—once! I’ve worked for him for almost ten years! So I just…I quit.”
“Because of my call?” he asks, sounding worried.
“No!” I say. “Well, yes, but it was time. I like being a nurse, but that place was driving me crazy.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry my call came at an inopportune time, regardless.” He pauses. “So, the reason I’m calling is because I wanted to know if you’d be okay with me swinging by your house today while you’re gone. I have something I want to do, and I want to surprise you with it.”
