Dr. Hawkins: Hi
I jump when he responds so quickly.
Me: Whoops. Figured you were sleeping.
Dr. Hawkins: I don’t think you need a Q7. I think you need to call in sick tomorrow and come to brunch at my parents’ house.
“What?” I mumble, reading his text.
Me: I’m just having issues sleeping. I’m not sick.
Dr. Hawkins: Good. I’d hate for you to get my parents sick at brunch tomorrow.
I’m not tired enough to sleep, but I’m too tired to write in my journal. And here he is, texting me an invitation to eat food with his parents.
Food.
Unknown food.
Food made by other people.
Food not at one of my regular restaurants.
Me: You want me to lie?
Dr. Hawkins: I want you to meet my parents tomorrow.
Me: I have never called in sick.
Dr. Hawkins: Do it for me.
Me: I’m not good at lying.
Dr. Hawkins: Pretend you’re sick and it won’t feel like a lie. That’s what you did earlier when you tried to cancel our date. I’ll write you a doctor’s note.
Me: Really. I’m a terrible liar.
Dr. Hawkins: Text your boss, then you don’t have to say the lie aloud. It will be easier.
Me: Do you lie about being sick?
Dr. Hawkins: No. I’m a doctor. I have to work from my deathbed.
Me: I’m a patient transporter. If I don’t show up to work, who will transport YOUR patients?
Dr. Hawkins: Please (folded hands emoji)
Me: (eye rolling emoji)
Dr. Hawkins: I’ll make sure everything is vegetarian. I’ll even order you a pizza or a dozen tacos from your favorite restaurant so you don’t have to eat my mom’s cooking. Which would be a shame because she’s an excellent cook. (three folded hands emojis)
Dr. Hawkins is an emoji man. That makes him exponentially more attractive to me. Still … I’m not a good liar. But since it will be Sunday, maybe having four days at school before seeing my coworkers again will make it easier to deal with the guilt and not spew my confessions the second someone at work asks me if I’m feeling better.
Me: Send me the address and time. Will Romeo be there?
Dr. Hawkins: Sending … and yes, Julie will drop him off.
The next text is his parents’ address and the time: 11:00 a.m.
Drop him off. That means Dr. Hathaway will be there. Right? At least long enough to let him out of the car. Or will she walk him to the door? Come inside? Meet me?
Hi. I’m Dorothy. Does your ex-husband require anything out of the ordinary to have sex? I tried a sexy dress, stripping for him, offering both oral and vaginal sex. Not sure where I went wrong. Would you mind giving me a few tips? Oh … and I think you’re brilliant. I want to be you when I grow up. Me? Yeah, I’m thirty, but in the Aspie world that’s like twenty … so barely a grown-up.”
I imagine her feeling flattered by my compliments, suggesting we be friends who share knowledge of their favorite scientific studies and tips on pleasing men. My friend list is pretty short. Accommodating Dr. Hathaway seems doable.
Dr. Hawkins: Did you fall asleep?
His text brings me out of my roleplaying.
Me: No. Going to try again now. See you tomorrow.
Dr. Hawkins: Night, Dorothy. Can’t wait to see you again.
“I don’t mind being me. No one else can do it better.”
–Dorothy Mayhem
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Frittata Fingers
Sleep isn’t on my side, so I make the most of my Sunday morning by texting my boss—lying to her. Then I load up my bike and drive to the trailhead. Two hours later, I return to my car and check the activity app on my watch, fully intending to message Dr. Hawkins to brag about my early start to meeting my activity and exercise goals.
“What the hell?” When I look at my watch, there are notifications that Eli has already completed an eight-mile run and a weight lifting workout—exceeding all of his daily goals.
Before I can figure out a response, my watch chimes with a message from him.
Dr. Hawkins: Good job! Keep up the hard work.
That’s his response to the notification he got about the workout I just completed.
“Oh, I’m keeping it up.” I breathe a determined sigh, securing my bike to its carrier. On the way home, I stop by the gym to make sure I exceed his weight lifting workout. Then I hustle home to get a shower since the drive to his parents’ house is forty-five minutes, and I don’t want to be late.
“Hey, what are you—”
I hold up my hand to my mom as she pours coffee for herself and my dad. “No time to talk. I have to get showered.”
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’ll explain later.” I jump into the shower, trying my best to multitask—suds and shave while planning out the appropriate outfit. Settling on a dark eggplant skirt and a pale pink button-down blouse with matching flats, I blow out my hair, and then apply my lip balm while pulling out of the driveway.