Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

Case in point:

“Speaking of Connor, I ran into him and his brothers in the ShopRite parking lot today.”

“Really?” Presley asks, her eyes wide and intrigued.

“Really. He said hello in that deep, perfect voice and I . . . proceeded to crash my cart, fall on my face, and scatter my groceries all over the parking lot like confetti at a ticker-tape parade.”

“Oh no.” Aubrey flinches.

“Oh yes.” I nod. “They helped me pick everything up, which was nice. Connor touched my tampons—grabbed the box out from under old Mrs. Jenkinsons’s car and handed it to me.”

Presley presses her fingers to her forehead. “Yikes.”

I don’t tell them the box in question is currently sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. Or that I’m going to save it the way some people save concert tickets or corsages . . . because even among friends, that detail is one crazy-bridge too far.

“I guess a small part of me is hoping that now that he knows I menstruate, he might actually realize I’m alive. That the janitorial staff doesn’t plug me in at night to charge my battery in a storage closet in the hospital basement.”

Despite Connor’s friendliness today, he’s never shown any actual interest in me as a person. A female. A young, healthy, hot-blooded woman who would jump on him like a pogo stick.

To him, I’m a nurse, a coworker, an asset that’s effective at my job who helps him do his job.

Like . . . the ultrasound machine.

I take another drink—two big gulps, right down the hatch.

“And on top of that, your blind date was a bust.” Aubrey says gently. “No wonder you’re happy to just veg out with us and a glass of wine.”

I lift the long-stemmed glass and gaze at the sunny-colored liquid.

“You’ll never let me down, will you?”

“Yeah, that’s healthy,” Presley remarks.

Then her voice brightens. “You should write a poem about it. Were you going to write a poem about it?”

Presley is head of publishing at LWW—literature in any form is never far from her mind.

And I write poetry. Not good poetry or the kind that should ever be seen by human eyeballs. It’s just for my own enjoyment and sanity, and the amusement of my closest friends.

“About the date with Evan? Probably.”

“Oooh—write it now.” Aubrey claps her hands. “I want to hear it, and you’re fun when you freestyle.”

Why not? I clear my throat. “Okay . . . here goes:

There once was a boy named Evan

Who learned a valuable lesson.

If you have a weak stomach few things are worse

Than going to dinner with an ED nurse

And asking about the cases she’s assisted in

The ED nurse learned something too

When hoping for a night of romance and woo

Don’t go out with a boy no matter how tall

’Cause it takes a real man to hear the words twisted balls

And still want the date to continue

Now poor Evan’s alone

And the nurse is at home

Drinking her wine

With her friends on FaceTime

And writing this terrible poem.”

I take a bow in my chair. “I’m going to call that one ‘The Story of My Life.’”

Aubrey and Presley laugh as they applaud, making me feel giggly and good as I refill my glass.

Who needs men when you’ve got friends and FaceTime and copious amounts of wine?

Not this girl—no way, no how.

Although . . . penises are really nice.

Right on cue, a particular penis immediately comes to mind—on the epic day the owner of said appendage forgot to pack an extra pair of compression shorts to wear beneath his scrubs after his morning run to the hospital. How the outline of it pressed against the thin green fabric, slightly to the left, thick and long even at rest, with a heavy handsome shape.

It was a thing of beauty. The Chris Hemsworth of penises.

I wrote a poem about it.

Because it was perfect—just like the rest of him. Maybe that’s why I turn into an idiot whenever Connor is around. It’s hard to be close to someone you admire so much and not feel small and silly and intimidated. At least it’s hard for me.

“You have to let me publish you one day!” Presley begs. “You could write a book of poetry for all the single ladies. It would be hilarious.”

“Yep, that’s me.” I smile. “Funny all day without even trying.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Connor

“I don’t understand why I need to listen to her.”

It never fails. And it never ceases to amaze me.

“I’m a doctor, she’s a nurse.”

Interns. First-years. Short-coats. Newly graduated medical students who are technically doctors—but not really. They rotate through the different hospital departments working under the supervision of senior residents and attendings. They have a tendency to be jackasses. Pumped up by their shiny new medical degrees, with just enough knowledge, plus confidence, to make them dangerous.

“I shouldn’t be taking orders from her.”

But there’s always one in the group who stands out. With balls of hubris. Arrogance to spare. Gold-medal-level annoying.