The jake ryan complex, p.4
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 4
Her explanation drifts away on one of her creative thoughts, leaving me, as always, clueless as to how her brain works.
“Okay, I’m heading into the clinic. I should be home around six or so. J.T. is coming by sometime today, so I guess just leave your door unlocked if you’re not home.” She nods in understanding but keeps her attention focused on the canvas. “And the old man is crashed out on his pillow, so . . .”
“Yeah, okay,” she says, reaching for her spray can. “I’ll check on him in a little while.”
This is normally the point in the conversation where I’d take her disregard as my dismissal, but I can’t go, not yet.
I swallow hard and, with a painful amount of hesitance, say, “Do you happen to know anyone you could set me up with?”
She shakes her spray can. “Are you just looking to bang it out, or are you talking about an actual date?”
The fact that she’s even asking me that question is why I was reluctant to ask her in the first place. “Uh . . . an actual date. He doesn’t have to be a forever kind of guy,” I clarify. “Just someone . . . nice. And if he happens to look like Jake Ryan, then, you know, bonus.”
I grin at my little joke, but the reference appears to be lost on Gia.
“Who?” She finally raises her head to look at me.
“Jake Ryan. From Sixteen Candles.”
She shrugs.
A tiny piece of my heart breaks, and I sigh.
She knows every Google-worthy detail of Steve Guttenberg’s life, but she has never heard of Jake Ryan . . .
“Never mind. Just think about it, okay? I’ll see you tonight.”
Feeling monumentally old, I make my way out to the car and head into the city.
Daisy, Tracy’s cousin, is manning the reception desk when I arrive at the clinic. She graduated with a master’s in psychology last year but hasn’t been able to find a job, so she works here answering phones and scheduling appointments. Well, she sort of works. Mostly she just plays therapist to anyone who speaks in her general direction, but we overlook her professional shortcomings because our patients have come to rely on her always-bendable ear (and occasionally helpful advice), and in the long run that saves us doctors time—and mental stability. Expectant and hoping-to-be mothers aren’t always the most rational people.
“Morning, Daisy.”
She’s too busy talking to the always-crying Diana Chambers—twenty-three-weeks pregnant with triplets—to acknowledge me with anything more than a wave. I don’t take it personally.
I duck into my office, where my patient docket waits on my desk. I take a quick look at the day’s schedule while I swap out my jacket for my lab coat.
Interesting.
Caroline Fuller, my former high school sort-of friend, is coming in this afternoon.
She was pretty popular back in school. Maybe she knows a future Michael to set me up with—
“Paging Dr. Ryan.” Claire pokes her head into my office, grinning.
I roll my eyes.
“You’re hysterical, you know that?”
She smirks as she settles in against the doorjamb. “So, did you come up with some potential Michael candidates over the weekend?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” I grab my stethoscope from my desk drawer and start toward the door. “And it’s a long list, too, so you geniuses better be prepared to eat your words when you see how fast I land myself a Michael.”
“Ooh. Them sound like fightin’ words,” she teases, backing out of the way as I pass by her and head down the hall toward the exam room. “You’re not trading Jake Ryan in for Rocky, are you?”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to laugh. My friends are idiots.
Ultrasounds and pelvic exams steal my morning and, thankfully, all my attention. I don’t even think about the Michael situation until the afternoon, when I walk into the exam room and find Caroline waiting for me. She’s got to know someone she can set me up with.
“What’s up, hooker?” Offering the same greeting she has since high school, Caroline hops off the exam table and hurries over to hug me. Her mane of wild auburn curls presses against my mouth and nose, suffocating me beneath the heavy floral scent of her shampoo.
I swallow back a cough and say, “How are you? How are you feeling?”
“All right, I guess, except that I haven’t taken a dump in like four days. Is that normal?”
Caroline’s crass response doesn’t surprise me. She’s always been a little rough around the edges. Which is probably why my mother never approved of her . . . which subsequently only made me want to hang out with her more . . .
“Unfortunately, it is.” I motion for her to hop back onto the table while I head to the sink to wash my hands. “Heightened progesterone levels tend to relax your muscles, including your digestive tract, so that can slow things down. Or it could be the extra iron in your prenatals. Are you getting much fiber in your diet?”
“I had a bran muffin for breakfast.”
“That will probably do the trick, but if it doesn’t, you can drink a little Milk of Magnesia. That should get things moving.”
I unwind the scope from my neck, tuck the ear tips into place, and make my way over to the exam table.
“So, how’s everything going? Work good?” I press the stethoscope against her chest.
Normal rhythm. Good.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Just busy as hell. Tomorrow I’m flying out to New York for client meetings, and then Friday I’m heading to Seattle for a big pitch.”
I gently guide her forward so I can listen to her lungs. I press the scope against her back, and she takes in a deep breath. Then another.
All clear. Good.
“What’s in Seattle?”
I slowly ease her back down.
“Cannibeats.”
“Canni . . . what?”
She laughs. “Cannibeats. Like cannabis and eats. It’s a restaurant chain that uses weed in all of their recipes.”
My eyes grow wide. “That’s a thing?”
“Hell yeah, it’s a huge thing. Anything weed related is selling like a motherfucker right now. This Cannibeats place started out as a food truck three years ago, and now they have fourteen locations in Washington and Oregon. They turned a profit of something like nine million dollars last year.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, nine million dollars for pot brownies. It’s insane! That’s why I’m flying out there. They want to expand down into California now that they legalized. They’re looking to run a huge campaign.”
Caroline is a sales exec for a national advertising firm. She had been working at their Los Angeles office but was transferred back here to Chicago about a year ago. I guess it makes sense that they’d want her in on this deal, since she’s the most familiar with the territory.
“I can still fly, right?” She interrupts my thoughts with a pointed look. “’Cause I have no problem telling those assholes I work for that I can’t go. If it’s too risky, I won’t go.”
Despite her ashtray vocabulary, I have no doubt that Caroline will be a good mom. She is always very conscious of doing what’s best for her baby. Though I suspect mama won’t be the first four-letter word that little one speaks.
“I think you’re fine to fly now, but by next month we’ll probably want to keep you grounded.”
Even though there haven’t been any complications, Caroline’s still considered high risk based on age alone. Once she hits her third trimester, we’re going to be extra cautious.
“Okay, let’s see what this little one is up to.”
I raise the hem of her shirt while she yanks down the elastic band of her maternity pants, exposing her rounded belly. Now at twenty-two weeks, her baby bump is really starting to show, like a cantaloupe she somehow swallowed whole.
“Have you felt the baby kicking yet?” I ask while reaching for the ultrasound gel from the counter beside me.
“I’m not sure it’s kicking, but it’s definitely doing something in there. Especially after I eat.”
“Sounds about right.”
I squirt some gel onto her belly, then press the Doppler against it and start seeking out a heartbeat. At first we just hear the whoosh-whooshing sound of the amniotic fluid, but with a little maneuvering, I land on my target. Caroline smiles.
“Oh my god. That’s a heartbeat. There’s a fucking person inside of me,” she says, savoring the sweet sound like she does every time she hears it.
“Yeah, there is. A very healthy one from the sound of it.”
We listen until the baby starts to move and we lose the feed.
I trade out the Doppler for a towel, and while wiping the gel off her stomach, I say, “So your ex is still being a jerk, huh?”
“And then some. That asshole won’t even answer the phone when I call.”
“He really wants nothing to do with his own child?”
“Nope. When I found out, he told me that he never signed up for a kid, so if I was going to keep it, I was on my own.”
“God, that just makes me sick. How could someone be so cold and heartless?”
“You got me.” She shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I was in the market for a baby, either, but here I am.”
“Yep. And you’re doing great,” I assure her. “You don’t need him.”
“Damn straight. There are way too many penises in the pond to waste my time worrying about him.”
Her penis metaphor makes me laugh but also reminds me what I need to talk to her about: the need for a penis in my own pond.
“Since we’re on the topic of guys,” I say as casually as possible while giving my hands another wash at the sink. “Do you happen to know anyone you could set me up with? I’m in desperate need of a date.”
“Ooh. Desperate needs are the best kind . . .”
“No, not like that. I stupidly told my mother I was dating someone just to get her off my back, but now my sister’s getting married, and if I don’t show up at the wedding with my boyfriend, all hell will break loose. I just need to find someone to play the part—”
“No need to explain.” She cuts me off with a raise of her hand. “I was there for Martina Day, remember?”
I sigh. As if I could ever forget Martina Day . . . It was my senior year of high school, and prom was quickly approaching. Because I hadn’t been asked, I didn’t even mention the dance to my mom. (Dances and pep rallies were her high school priorities, not mine.) But when she arrived on campus for a PTA meeting and saw the “Enchanted Evening” posters plastered across school, she pulled me out of English class and confronted me about whether I’d been asked right there in the hallway. With Caroline and my other classmates within earshot on the other side of the door, I couldn’t very well lie—they all knew I hadn’t been asked—so I was forced to tell her the truth. The result was a tirade of premenopausal wails, followed by accusations of “It’s because of your hair! I told you that short haircut made you look like that Martina Navratilova! That’s why they’re not asking you—they think you’re a lesbian! It’s that ridiculous hair!”
Thankfully, some of her fellow PTA members started coming our way, so she quickly shut up—too concerned with looking foolish in front of them—but the damage had already been done. For the remainder of the school year, I was known around campus as Martina, my locker and car’s windshield regularly adorned with heart-outlined images of the famous tennis player.
And I wonder why I continue lying to her . . .
“So, what are you into?” Caroline asks, bringing me back to the present.
My eyes narrow.
What am I into?
“Short, tall, black, white . . . What’s your poison?”
“Oh right, um . . .” I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and lean up against the counter as I consider her question. I’ve never really thought of myself as having a type, but . . . “Well, I don’t really care about ethnicity, but I guess I’d prefer that he be tall. A couple inches on me, if possible.” Unlike Hope, who is five foot three on a good day and has always managed to make her plump curves enviable, I’m a five-nine beanpole with a shapeless silhouette and, as I apparently said on the infamous Sonoma trip, smallish tits. There’s nothing worse than having your date be eye level with your boy chest.
“You want him to be local, right?”
“Definitely.”
I’ll need to squeeze in as many dates before the wedding as possible. Long distance is not an option.
“Is girth an issue?”
“Girth?”
“Yeah, do you like a thick dick or a candy stick? Oh my god, that should be a commercial.” She snorts. “Do you see why I’m in advertising? This shit just comes to me.”
Inwardly cringing, I fake a laugh of my own. “Yeah, you definitely have a knack for it. But, um, no. I’m not worried about that. In fact, I’d prefer you not have firsthand knowledge of their . . . size.”
“Oh.” A look of surprise settles on her face before she shrugs. “Okay, well, that will thin the herd a bit. Let me think on it, and I’ll message you later.”
I help her down from the table and, as I do with all my clients, walk her out to the lobby to schedule her next appointment, for one month from now. I’d ask Daisy to do it, but she’s busy counseling Lydia Hernandez, thirty-nine weeks, baby number five.
God help you, Lydia . . .
At the end of the day, I’m packing up things and find Daisy standing in my doorway, a pinched look on her face.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“There’s something off about that woman.”
My eyes narrow. “Which woman?”
“That Caroline woman you saw earlier.”
“What do you mean off?”
“She’s evasive.”
“Evasive?” I fight the smirk threatening my lips. Daisy and her diagnoses . . .
“Yeah, she never gives solid answers to any of my questions, especially when I ask about the baby daddy.”
“Probably because it’s private.” I give her a stern look. Daisy means well, but not everyone wants to lounge on her therapy couch when they come into the office. She really needs to learn some boundaries. “What do you have there?” I motion to the yellow Post-it note in her hand while I peel off my lab coat.
“Oh. Yeah. I took a message for you.”
She took a message?
Like an actual phone message . . .
She steps into the office and presses the note onto my desktop, her raven-black hair swaying off her shoulder. “She said if you weren’t going to answer your cell, she had no choice but to call you at work.”
She?
Dammit.
There’s only one she who ever calls me at work.
Scowling, I stare down at the note and shake my head.
Call your mother! Wedding emergency!
“She told you to use exclamation points, didn’t she?”
Daisy crosses her arms over her chest and with authority says, “That woman has control issues.”
I wait until I’m driving home to return my mother’s calls. There’s something about the stress of bumper-to-bumper traffic that numbs the pain of talking to her. Probably because my hands are already strangling the steering wheel—
“Mackenzie Rose, it’s about time you called me back. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day.”
And my knuckles run white.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry. I was just really busy”—being an important doctor, not that you’d ever notice. “What’s the emergency?”
“Well, we’re working on the invitation list, and we need Michael’s address.”
My breath hitches. “Wh-why do you need his address?”
“So we can mail him an invitation.”
“But . . . he’ll be coming with me.”
“Well, yes, I know that, but it would be impolite not to send him his own invitation.”
I shake my head, hard. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”
“Nonsense. We’re not a bunch of ticky-tackies, Mackenzie. Wedding invitations are keepsakes. We’re sending them to all of our family members, and for this event Michael is considered part of the family.”
Michael is considered part of the family. SHIT!
“Now tell me, what is his address?”
“Do . . . you mean his email address?”
She makes a horrific sound that lands somewhere between a gasp and a pig being slaughtered.
“Heavens no! We’re not sending out emails, Mackenzie, honestly. What kind of wedding do you think this is?”
I fake a laugh, like I’m not slowly dying on the inside, but my horrified reflection in the rearview would say otherwise.
“So . . . the thing is, Mom, Michael is actually in the process of renovating his condo. He’s having all of his mail rerouted to a PO box so nothing gets lost in the construction. You should probably just send it to me at my house, and I’ll give it to him.”
The lie rolls off my tongue fast. So fast I don’t even know if it sounds believable—
“He’s renovating his condo? I thought you said it was a brand-new building.”
Crap.
Keep your lies straight, stupid!
“Well . . . brand new to him. The building is actually a few years old. He just wanted to rework the floor plan so he could put in a . . . tasting room.”
A tasting room?
What the hell is a tasting room?
“A tasting room?”
“Yeah. For all the things he . . . tastes.”
Like a kitchen?!
“A tasting room,” she repeats. “Well, that sounds posh, doesn’t it?”
I nod over a relieved sigh. Yes, it sounds very posh. My boyfriend, Michael, is very posh.
“All right, then, we’ll just send it to your house, but make sure that silly old dog doesn’t get to it. You know how he’s always slobbering on your mail when it comes through the slot—oh! The bride is here. Hope, honey, please come over here and tell your sister what we’re up to.”
Please. That simple little word epitomizes the difference between Hope’s relationship with our mother and mine. She always gets a please or a thank-you served up with her orders; I . . . don’t.
