Madame Vito finally makes her appearance, and the room quickly goes quiet. She doesn’t say a thing, but then again, she doesn’t need to.
Her stern presence and the clicking of her signature moccasins are all that’s necessary to make all the chatter scurry away into dead silence. The room gets so quiet you could probably hear a snowflake land.
Vito’s graying locks are pulled back into a tight bun as usual, and she’s covered up in a dark cardigan and an equally dark, conservative pencil skirt with leggings underneath like always. Her wardrobe knows no distinction between the seasons. Vito dresses the same all year round.
I’m not a huge fan of hers, mostly because of her rigidness and cold demeanor, and while I can’t imagine living my life by a lot of her rules, I can respect her approach to education—as strict and conservative as it is.
Trixie barely tolerates “the uptight hag” as she calls her, but does her best not to butt heads with any professors, especially not Vito. Trixie may be headstrong and outspoken, but she’s not stupid. She wouldn’t be careless about getting on this woman’s bad side, not when her grades and future as a classical vocalist are at stake.
We don’t waste any time in taking our positions, arranging ourselves in a semi-circles according to our various segments and vocal groups. Vito faces our entourage, and with her back to the wall of mirrors holds her hand up in a balled fist signaling that we’re starting. She does three silent counts with her fingers, motioning for us to begin.
As lead, I start out humming the melody of the song’s intro by myself, and go on to sing the first stanza of the first verse as well. Kayla Daniels and Julianne both join me in the second stanza as the two other first-part vocalists. Trixie and the second-parters sing their way in next, and then eventually the bass-vocalists merge with everyone as we all round up the first verse. All our voices fuse together perfectly, and from Vito’s acknowledging expression, we’re doing a good job. She actually seems impressed.
And, boy, is it hard to impress this woman.
We continue our harmonized a cappella in synchrony and with precision, and I can hear the waves of our enthusiastic voices bouncing off the walls and echoing loudly in the spacious room.
I try to keep focused, even though the thought of my stomach hitching again ails me. The bridge comes up again, and I brace myself for it, instinctively balling my hands into tight fists until I feel my knuckles go sore.
Please don’t act up again. Please don’t act up again.
I keep repeating the silent prayer, imploring my stomach to behave itself as I hold a high note for several seconds. Before I know it, the bridge is over and the song is soon coming to an end. And there are no signs of a hitch in sight.
Phew.
Thank goodness.
The vocal groups start to exit in the reverse order they came in. The heavy undertones and background rumbles dissipate as the bass vocalists fade out first. The second parts follow next, and then Kayla and Julianne’s voices softly linger until they eventually disappear, leaving me to finish the last verse and hum the ending melody by myself once again.
Out of the blue, my body jerks almost violently, as if I just had a hippo-sized hiccup.
It’s back again.
Fuck.
I place my hand on my chest at the rising pain, even though the action provides no relief to the discomfort. I try to open my mouth to finish the song, but only a hoarse utterance escapes my lips.
Vito gives me a look that I think is a mix of surprise, concern, and annoyance. But mostly annoyance.
“Is there a problem, Miss Gallo?” she asks in her cold, rigid tone.
I hear the giggles of a few people coming from the other side of the semi-circle, and they only stop when Vito shoots their owners a glare before she returns to face me.
I clear my throat. “N-no, ma’am.”
She holds her gaze on me for a few seconds before returning her attention to everyone else.
“From the top, then,” she says. “Hopefully this time Miss Gallo can pay attention long enough to actually finish the song.”
I can just feel the sheer vindication oozing from those around me, as if Vito telling me off just made their whole year. A glance in the mirrors ahead confirms this. The satisfaction is written all over most of their grinning faces. I guess I never really realized just how much of a public enemy I am here.
From the way they’re looking at me, you would think I was getting my just desserts for sodomizing all their cats.
Jeez.
We go through six more rounds, and each time, I manage to fuck up at some point. At the end of the seventh round, Vito gives me an unfaltering harsh look, and I can’t blame her. The lead vocalist just missed three key notes.
Again.
Add that to the other mishaps and missing the entire ending the first go around, and you have one seriously pissed Gertrude Vito.
Time continues to go by, and I realize I haven’t had a single successful round today, and at the rate things are going, there’s no redeeming this practice session for me at this point.
This is a total fail. I can’t believe I’m struggling this much.
I’m extremely unfocused now, and any shred of confidence that may have been there before has completely left my body. Right now, I have no semblance of confidence whatsoever. I totally sucked ass at the one thing I know I’m good at. I seriously want to hide under a needle.
Vito seems to note my highly unnerved demeanor, and ends practice about half an hour earlier than usual. I’m incredibly glad that she does, even though I know she’s not doing it because she feels bad for me. She just has a low tolerance for “incompetence”, and gets frustrated with errors easily.
She’s definitely not the most patient person in the world. Either way, I’m grateful for the decision.
Anything to spare me any more utter humiliation today.
As everyone streams out of the studio, silently jeering and mocking me, I can’t help but feel so alone and isolated—a feeling I’ve continuously had for practically all of my adult life. I know Trixie will always be a supportive friend, but even she has a ‘Seriously-what-the-fuck-just-happened?’ look plastered all over her face as she glances my way.
I sigh in exhaustion and frustration as I head for the door, feeling defeated and deflated.
“Stick around for a minute, Miss Gallo,” Vito calls out to me.
It’s not a request. It’s one hell of an order if I ever heard one. I wince internally as I can only imagine what’s coming next.
The last thing I want to do right now is talk to anyone, let alone her. Trixie gestures towards the door, signaling that she’ll be waiting for me outside as I have my after-class ‘chat’ with Vito.
I brace myself as I walk over to meet the older woman. In five brutal minutes, she tells me off in her uber strict tone, asking me if I realize how important this performance is and how close we are to it.
She continues to chastise me without even bothering to hear me out, riding anything I have to say off as either “excuses” or “slacking off because I’m relying solely on my talent”.
I feel myself quickly losing patience, and it’s taking every bone in my body not to cuss this hag out right here and now.
Listening to her make all these inaccurate and judgmental assessments about me is really pissing me off, but I refrain from saying anything.
I think I have a renewed sense of hatred for this woman, and I can already hear Trixie spewing her I I-told-you-Vito’s-an-uptight-bitch speech.
Vito finally ends her judgmental rant, and at her suggestion— well, more like her demand—I decide to head to the campus clinic for a check-up, just to make sure there aren’t any underlying medical issues at hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The walk over to the clinic takes about fifteen minutes, and it’s mostly comprised of me feeling really cold again and Trixie trying to make me feel better about what had just transpired at rehearsal.
It’s much brighter outside now, and the scenery is a stark
difference from what it is during the spring and summer months. There are white mounds of piled up snow and barren trees everywhere.
Several people are crowded at the various bus stops in their heavy winter gear as vapor escapes their mouths and nostrils.
Everything looks so bleak, and winter’s only just begun. We’re barely two weeks in and already the place looks like fucking Antarctica.
I sigh, resigning myself to the reality that I’m going to have to deal with five more months of this crap.
We finally get to the clinic, and I feel my skin crawl as soon as we walk through the transparent glass doors. I fight the urge to hold my breath as I feel an expected wave of nausea rush over me. I do my utmost best not to freak out. I don’t exactly have the best memories of places like this.
I hate clinics.
And hospitals.
And sick bays.
And any other types of health centers and facilities.
Just being in them makes me feel ill.
Trixie and I are rudely ushered into the main waiting lounge by one of the disgruntled-looking receptionists where we wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
It takes two and a half bloody hours for the nurse practitioner to see me from the time we get get there. I’m really not an impatient person, and I get that waiting times can be long, especially since the clinic’s services are free to students—which is the only reason I can even come here—but come on!
I mean, seriously? It’s not even that crowded today, and they don’t start giving out flu shots for like another month. And after what I endured this morning, I don’t think I have much patience for much else today.
After watching several staff members walking up and down the hallway, going through seven issues of People magazine and countless ‘safe sex’ brochures, I finally get called into one of the examination rooms.
Trixie, despite her own impatience, continues to wait for me in the waiting room, playing Angry Birds on her phone to keep herself from catapulting a projectile at someone in real life.
I’m really happy she’s here.
Despite her outward appearance, she’s one of the most caring people I know. She’s such a gem, and with my grandma three and a half hours away and not many other people I can depend on, I’m pretty sure my life would be a lot less exciting and a helluva lot more depressing had we not sat next to each other on the first day of orientation. Our friendship was practically instantaneous, and she’s been one of the few people who’s fully embraced me ever since I started school here.
I shut the door behind me, and another wave of nausea hits me as I take in the bland white walls and the sterile smell of the closed room. I feel goosebumps forming on my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
I feel trapped.
I hear the smacking of rubber against skin and turn to see a woman in maybe her early fifties or so putting on a pair of disposable gloves. The blue translucent latex fits a bit loosely on her slender hands.
“You can put your bag over there, hon,” she says as she points over to an equally white countertop by a barred window. The idea of leaving any of my belongings unattended here makes me feel extremely uneasy.
Maybe I should’ve just left my stuff with Trixie in the waiting room. I reluctantly place my bag and jacket where she suggests, eyeing it from time to time as I lie on the examination bed.
She brings out some equipment including a pressure meter and a thermometer, presumably to take my blood pressure and other vitals. I feel the pressure on my wrist increase as the band tightens with each squeeze she gives the pump. My eyes travel over to the laminated name tag clipped onto her breast pocket.
Jane Seyfried.
Her name is Jane…
Like my mother.
I glance at her face again, admiring the way she focuses and her level of concentration at the task at hand. She really does look like a Jane; poised and graceful with a subtle and quiet strength about her. Women like this are often overlooked, but are always missed dearly when they’re gone.
Like my mother.
I feel my chest constricting again as the threat of oncoming tears burn my eyes. Today is just not a good day. I wish I would have just slept in and said I was sick. I sure as hell feel like it now.
As Jane continues to take my vitals, she asks me a range of questions including, “Are you currently sexually active?”, “When was your last period?”, “When were you last sexually active?”, and “How many sexual partners have you ever had?”
No.
Last week.
Six years ago.
One.
Personally, I think most of the questions are irrelevant to my situation, but I guess they’re pretty standard for college girls everywhere, especially here in a Wisconsin college town where the only thing everyone does aside from drink obscene amounts of alcohol is screw everyone who drinks obscene amounts of alcohol.
She finally gets to the actual examination, ushering me to lift my top as I lay back. The air feels warm on my exposed skin, but not even that can get rid of the chills this place gives me.
She proceeds to examine my torso, intermittently pressing her gloved hands firmly on various areas of my belly.
“Let me know if you feel any pain,” she says.
I nod, “Okay.” It barely comes out in a whisper. I’m so
uncomfortable right now. The only thing that’s making this even remotely bearable for me is her soothing and endearing voice. She seems like a really sweet and patient person, and I hope my show of discomfort doesn’t make her think I’m just being a bratty tool or a whiny crybaby.
Her fingers wallow around for several seconds as I feel nothing but the rubbery texture of latex and the rapid thudding of my heart in my chest.
She presses firmly right under the center of my rib cage and my body retreats on reflex.
That’s definitely the spot.
CHAPTER NINE
She pinpoints the area of concern, touching the same area again and parts adjacent to it to confirm that it is in fact the source of my ailment.
“It could be a number of things,” she says. “Have you eaten or drank anything out of the ordinary since it began?”
“No, not that I can think of,” I say, my voice a lot hoarser than I remember it being.
“Do you drink heavily?” she asks.
This is Wisconsin. And I work at a bar. Define heavily.
“Not really…,” I say, the uncertainty obvious in my voice.
“Do you drink more than once a week and about how much in that time period?”
“I really only drink occasionally. Maybe once or twice a month. Beer mostly. No more than a bottle each time.”
And that’s only really because I’m broke. Like most adults my age, I’d probably drink more if I wasn’t so stripped for cash all the damn time.
She simply nods. She rolls my top back down, and I can only assume she’s done. “You’re certainly not the typical college girl, huh? No boyfriends, virtually no drinking…” she trails off with a gentle smile.
The smile I give her in return is unsure as I simply say, “I just don’t really have the time for all that right now.”
Or the freaking money!
I know I don’t have the desire either. At least not for the boyfriend part.
But I’m not about to explain my life story to a stranger in a gloomy examination room who just got done poking my belly, no matter how nice she seems.
She takes off each glove with a pop and smack, and discards them into the trash receptacle at her feet.
“We can’t really determine what’s causing you the discomfort without doing either an ultrasound or an endoscopy at this point. Since you noticed the abnormality over a month ago, I would highly recommend that you get either one as soon as possible.
“It can be IBS, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, or the beginnings of a gastric ulcer or something else entirely. Whatever it is, it seems to be concentrated just below your rib cage so I can probably rule out IBS, but again, you’ll have to meet with a physician to really determine what it is.
“We don’t offer ultrasound services here at the clinic, but I can refer you to someone over at the Greenwood Surgical Center. You know the one on Hashinger Boulevard, about three miles from here? They offer all those services and more, and the doctors there will definitely be able to help you out a lot more than we can over here.”
She keeps going on for a bit longer, mostly reiterating what she’s already said, but I’ve pretty much stopped listening to her at this point. All sorts of things are going through my mind, haphazardly bouncing around in utter chaos, and I can almost hear my brain cussing me out as it spins out of control with so many thoughts at once.
An ultrasound or endoscopy? The surgical center?
What the fuck?
I don’t have the money for any of that!
And I sure as fuck don’t have health insurance anymore.
My eyes dart around the room restlessly as I try to compose my roguish thoughts. My expression must be a clear reflection of how shitty I feel right now, because she seems to read my troubled mind.
“Give me just a second, I’ll be right back,” she says before she heads out of the room. The door closes after her with a fairly soft thud. Even the way she closes doors is gentle. My father would have liked her. He was always so touchy about how people closed doors, whether in buildings or cars, saying shutting them too hard could end up with someone losing their finger.
Another sigh escapes me for the million and third time today.
I really don’t want to be thinking about my dad right now. I feel myself go limp as if the very essence of me has been sucked out of my body through a wide straw.
This really sucks ass.
Where the hell am I supposed to get money for an ultrasound?
The door opens again and Jane’s presence fills the room once more. She holds out a crisp white 2 x 4″ card as she approaches me.
“Here,” she simply says as she hands it over to me.
I take it and hold it firmly between my long fingers as I read the professionally formatted dark blue font on it.
John T. Templin, M.D. Chief Surgeon, Greenwood Surgical Center.
She moves over to the hand sanitizer dispenser and rubs a few pumps all over her hands.
“John’s a great doctor and a frequent referral of ours. Plus, he’s my brother,” she adds with a smile. “I’ve given him a call and told him he should be expecting you around one-thirty this afternoon if that time works for you. Your consultation with him is on me, and he’ll be able to determine if you even really need an ultrasound or any other in-depth diagnostic procedure at that point. Alright?”
I’m not sure what to make of this extension of kindness. I don’t know why she’s being nice to me, and I’m almost unsure how to react. The paranoid chick in me sees this as a bit of a red flag, searching for any signs that her kindness is of some sort of gimmick, but there don’t seem to be any.
“Thank you,” I manage. It sounds a lot less enthusiastic than I’d like, especially since she’s being so nice, but I’m confused and worried on so many levels right now. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind my bland response.
“No problem, sugar. Good luck with everything, ‘kay?”
“Thanks,” I force a smile once more as she leaves the room.
I soon follow suit, grabbing my belongings in haste and with quite a bit of eagerness to get the hell out of that room and out of that entire building altogether. Thankfully, Trixie shares my sentiments.
CHAPTER TEN
I have about three hours until my appointment with Doctor Templin, and since Trixie doesn’t have class for another hour, we decide to get some breakfast before either one of us passes out from starvation.
She calls Bill and has him meet us over at the Overground, the largest eatery on west campus. Bill lets us know that he’s already there by the time we arrive, with seats saved for both of us.
He’s undeniably punctual for everything, even something as informal and trivial as getting food. While I find it overzealous at times, now is not one of them. The place is packed and crowded as hell, and his early-bird tendencies are definitely paying off in our favor right now.
Several bright yellow signs are randomly scattered across the hall, cautioning everyone that it’s slippery and to be careful. I look down at the floor. It’s covered in haphazard muddy shoe prints and has a few soggy paper towels and disposable cups littered here and there as well.
It looks disgusting.
Suddenly, my appetite evades me. I can almost actually feel it leaving my body. If being at the clinic earlier hadn’t already made me nauseous, the sight of this floor would have done the job perfectly.
After more minutes of rummaging through the crowd to find Bill and having Trixie say, “I can’t hear you, you’re breaking off,” twenty times over the phone, I finally spot him at one of the bar stools by the east wall, frowning at a newspaper from behind nerdy glasses and running a hand through his disheveled dark blonde hair.
I tug at Trixie’s elbow to get her attention. “There he is,” I say, pointing over to where Bill is seated. We make our way over to him with a bit of difficulty, trying to not get knocked over as we constantly rub and bump shoulders with every other person who’s also trying to get by.
“Ugh, why the fuck does it always have to be so damn crowded in here? It’s like a goddamn flea market on steroids,” Trixie scoffs.
I completely agree, but I don’t say anything. My mind is still preoccupied with worry. I’m worried about what this Doctor Templin guy might potentially find. I’m worried that I don’t have health coverage in case it is serious, and that I can’t afford to be sick on any level right now. The Koplan performance is two weeks away, and I don’t have the money to deal with this.
Aside from my grandmother, singing is all I have left.
Without it I’m… Lost.
And whatever this thing is, it’s disrupting it. I simply cannot have that.
I try to breathe and think positively. It might be nothing. Maybe it’s all in my head. I’m probably freaking out for nothing.
I let out another frustrated sigh as I realize that I can’t seem to convince myself that things are truly okay. They’re not, and I can feel it my gut.
Literally.
As we approach Bill, I grab Trixie’s arm and pull her back for a second to whisper in her ear.
“Hey, you mind not saying anything to Bill about earlier? I don’t really want anyone else knowing about it. At least not until after I know what’s wrong.”
It’s not that I don’t trust Bill or that I can’t confide in him. I’m just not comfortable with sharing a lot of my problems with people, even with Trixie at times. I’m not really sure why, especially since they’re fairly open with me about the nitty-gritty of their own lives.
“Sure,” she nods. She has a slightly worried look on her face, but a smile soon brightens it up again.
“Come on, we’ll get run over if we keep standing in the middle of the way here,” she says as she continues to walk.
She places her backpack on the seat next to Bill with a loud thud.
“Hey, Pooch,” she says as she snatches the newspaper from his hands before he even gets a chance to speak. “And what a surprise! You’re actually here without your girlfriend for once,” she adds snarkily with a bitter undertone.
He offers a groan in response. “I was reading that! And are you really still going to keep calling me that? We aren’t ten anymore, you know.”
She looks at him with a nonchalant expression. “What? ‘Pooch’? You love that name,” she adds with a wry grin. She loves teasing him.
“Right. I love a being called a name you only gave me because you thought I was a good replacement for a pet after your dog died,” he says sarcastically, smiling nonetheless. He turns to me and puts his hands up dramatically. “You see what I have to put up with everyday?”
All I can do is chuckle and shake my head. I’ve known both of them for over a year now, but these two have been friends long before I came into the picture, and the chemistry between them is undeniable. Any outsider can see they’re meant to be together, even if they aren’t.
Trixie hasn’t explicitly told me this, but it’s not hard to see that she has feelings for him, and considering that they’ve been friends since they were both eight years old, she’s probably had them for a while. And if I know her as well as I think I do, Satan will go ice-skating in a bright pink tutu before she tells him how she feels about him. And I can understand why.
Potentially losing a great friendship over feelings that might be unrequited is an incredibly scary and awkward thought. Plus, I’m not sure if Bill’s feelings for her go beyond friendship like hers do. He can be a bit hard to read at times.
In the same vein, I can only imagine how hard it must be for Trixie to see Bill with his girlfriend, Gina, almost all the time. My heart truly breaks for her every single time we see the both of them being affectionate with each other in public.
Seeing the person you love with someone else just stinks. It sucks ass big time. I know all too well how that feels. I definitely wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.
But then again, that’s where Trixie and I are completely different. I’d cut Bill out of my life completely if being around him caused me that much pain, no matter how far back our friendship ran.
Heck, I’d cut him off the nanosecond I realized I was falling for him. But then again, I suppose Trixie isn’t dysfunctional. At least not in the way that I am.
Her voice comes through in an equally sarcastic tone that matches Bill’s. “Oh please, you’d be lost if I wasn’t in your life. Not to mention, bored out of your fucking mind.”
He just shakes his head and picks up another newspaper from a nearby stand.
I set my bag down and grab my wallet before we head over to the food dispensers. We walk around, looking at the array of choices as we decide on what to get. I’ve lost most of my appetite, and the food here is expensive. I consider just skipping breakfast altogether, but Trixie won’t let me.
She’s like a second mom, insisting I get something, especially since I’ll be heading to the surgical center later. A shiver creeps up on me, and I try not to think about having to go there.
I keep looking around some more, searching for something cheap. I end up opting—well, more like settling—for a plain bagel and a small cup of coffee, more to appease Trixie and her continued nagging than my stomach. She tells me to go ahead and pay for my stuff at the counter as she waits for her freshly made vegan wrap.
I head over to one of the counters, and I’m struggling to get my card out when I feel someone bump into me as I stand in line.
I look up to see Jamie Wrighton, the head running back of the football team, and one of the best ranked college football players in the nation.
“Sorry,” he smiles. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
He’s much taller than I thought, and standing next to his big body makes me a bit uneasy. Even covered in his heavy winter gear, his good-looks are apparent, and even I of all people can admit he’s cute. It’s no wonder every girl on campus is constantly on a mission to hit him square in the face with their underwear.
He also seems like a decent guy, and that’s saying a lot for someone on the football team. He’s definitely outgoing, a classic people’s person, and he certainly seems to be a lot friendlier and grounded in reality than most of his teammates.
I wish I could be even half as outgoing as he is, but I guess we can all dream.
I shake my head at his apology. “It’s okay,” I simply
offer. I turn my attention back to the line in front of
me without another word, slight discomfort etching its way into my body at his closeness.
“You’re Ramona Gallo, right?” I hear him ask, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.
I turn back to face him again, a bit surprised that he knows my name.
“Yeah,” I confirm with a bit of suspicion.
He nods. “I thought so. I was at the Mushroom with a few buddies on Saturday and I saw you perform there. You have a beautiful voice.”
I feel myself blush slightly at the compliment. My ego can certainly use the flattery right now, even if it’s just generic praise from a sweet-talking ladies’ man.
“Thank you,” I smile back.
He continues to look at me, still maintaining his friendly smile. I hold his stare for a few seconds too long, and am grateful when I hear the girl at the counter ask for the next in line.
Any other girl—any normal, college girl—would see this as an awesome opportunity to exchange phone numbers with a star athlete, but not me. Besides, even if I were looking for casual sex, I wouldn’t go for a football player who’s younger than me.
I pay for my items quickly and head back over to Bill without looking back at Jamie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A minute later, Trixie comes back with this huge, giddy smile on her face.
“Oh my God, you little slut! I totally saw that,” she says to me as she sits down.
I raise my eyebrow. “What?”
“As if you don’t know,” she waves her hand in a dismissive fashion. “You and Jamie Wrighton ogling each other in the middle of the cafeteria, that’s what.”
“I was not. He was just apologizing for bumping into me,” I say nonchalantly.
Trixie can be extremely dramatic when it comes to two things in life—Bill, and anything college sports. She’s pretty much the only reason I’ve attended any of the games I have, even going as far as buying me a sports ticket package so that she’ll always have at least one person to go to football and basketball games with.
She’s tried endlessly to get Bill to go to more games, but he’s just not sports-inclined. Still, that doesn’t stop her from continuing to try. The only reason she doesn’t bug him about going with her as much as she used to is because she doesn’t want to have to endure watching a game with Gina around. Needless to say, Trixie can’t stand her and can’t understand what Bill sees in “the skank”.
Yeah. Trixie has a nickname for her, too.
“Is that all he said?” she asks, bringing me back to our ‘discussion’ as her whisky eyes search mine with impossible curiosity.
“Yup,” I lie. I take a sip of my coffee and wish I hadn’t. It tastes awfully bland, and I might as well have put the money I just spent on it in a shredder instead of on the cardboard cup in my hands.
“I don’t believe you,” Trixie says.
The girl can read me a lot better than I’d care to admit sometimes.
“What else did he say, Roni?” she pushes.
I sigh, knowing that she’ll just keep poking and poking at the matter until I say something. I might as well just get it over with.
“He said he saw me singing at the Mushroom and thinks I’m alright,” I admit, now picking at my bagel.
The round pastry is beginning to look like it was made to go with Swiss Cheese from all the craters I’m absently making in it.
Trixie lets out the kind of squeal that she only does when she talks about things she’s obsessed with—in this case, college sports and the “hot athletes” who go with it.
“Did he ask you for your number?” she asks with visible anticipation.
“No,” I answer simply.
“Well, did you offer it?” She has this incredulous look on her face, almost as if it’s a no-brainer to give your number to anyone you come in contact with simply because they’re an athlete.
I feel my mouth curve into a slight frown. “No. Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because he’s Jamie fucking Wrighton, Ramona! Duh!” she says dramatically, waving her hands for emphasis. She goes on and on for a few minutes, telling me I should know better by now and insisting that I should have given him my number as if world peace depended on it.
In the midst of Trixie’s dramatics, I notice that Bill is unusually quiet. After Trixie and I go back and forth a few more times, I turn to him with a bit of concern.
“Everything okay, Bill? You’d normally be telling Trixie to get a new hobby by now.”
“Yeah, Poochie,” she concurs with a teasing smile. She tries to mimic the Joker’s voice. “Why so silent?”
Bill remains quiet for several seconds, as if he’s in deep thought, before exhaling deeply. He rubs the bridge of his nose and runs his hands through his hair again, obviously distressed about something.
“Bill?” Trixie asks again, her expression showing a bit more worry now.
“I think Gina’s cheating on me,” he says without looking at either of us.
The hurt expression on his face gives me the impression that he’s pretty sure his speculation is true. He can be a bit private about certain things, like I am, and he’s definitely not the paranoid type. So that fact that he’s telling us that he thinks his girlfriend is being unfaithful to him means he’s probably been feeling this way for some time.
He still doesn’t look at us.
I look over to Trixie. She’s equally silent, but her eyes are seething. She looks like she wants to kick something; no doubt, Gina’s forehead.
Suddenly, I feel even shittier than I did before. I can’t even begin to imagine how betrayed he must feel. I really hope it doesn’t turn out to be true, but somehow, I’m certain it is. I wouldn’t put it past Gina to do that to him. He’s a bit of a pushover when it comes to her, and she knows it and takes full advantage of it.
The fact that she does that enrages Trixie to no end, but there’s only so much she can do about it. Bill’s in love with Gina, almost hopelessly so.
I never want to feel betrayed like that.
Fuck love with a sandpaper dick. I want no part of it and the inevitable mess that it eventually causes. That’s why I keep avoiding guys who show interest in me or anyone I can actually envision myself being with.
“I’m just gonna go. I’ll see you guys later,” he finally says. He gets up from his chair and leaves before I can say anything else.
I’m not sure if I expected Trixie to openly gloat or bask at the sign of possible turmoil in Bill and Gina’s relationship, but I didn’t expect her to be so quiet about it, either.
The creasing on her forehead becomes more prominent as her scowl deepens.
She’s pissed.
Really pissed.
That’s the only time she ever gets this quiet.
“Trixie, don’t do anything stupid,” I say, my voice dripping with concern—for both her and Gina. She looks at me but she continues to remain silent.
All I can hope for now is that she doesn’t run into Gina any time soon. Or go looking for her, for that matter. Somehow, I can’t envision the latter being possible.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My feet tap uncontrollably as I find myself sitting in a waiting room at the surgery center—a gloomy health facility, yet again.
I sit there trying not to heave as I do my best to accurately fill out a patient form that’s too many pages long. The fact that I’m in a place like this for the second time today only frazzles my nerves even more, making the simple task of even holding a pen ten times harder.
It had taken me thirty minutes to get here from campus, including the fifteen minutes it took for my car to heat up enough for me to drive it. My Polo isn’t the easiest car to run, and winter only makes it that much harder.
The drive to Greenwood itself was fairly smooth, rattled only by the increasing nervousness I had felt on my way here.
I had tried extremely hard to keep calm, feeling my hands shaking as they’d gripped the steering wheel hard. Thankfully, I managed to get here without driving myself into an electric pole.
The sterile smell of the building makes me want to hold my breath until my face turns purple. My hands are trembling so badly that I’m still on page one of the patient form after ten minutes at it.
It seems like an eternity before I’m done, noting how much I struggled with filling out sections asking about previous drug use and family history.
I glance at my watch.
Only ten minutes more.
I head over and hand the completed form to a receptionist behind a glass window, and she smiles politely at me as she takes it. She looks around thirty or so, with warm dark brown eyes and medium long hair to match.
“Doctor Templin should be done soon. Just have a seat, okay?” she says. Even her voice is kind, and I’m not sure if she’s being sweet because she sees the distress written all over my face.
I nod and head back to where I was sitting. I’m even finding it hard to speak right now.
The minutes seem like eons as I sit here by myself, watching staff members in their scrubs and lab coats constantly walk up and down the hallways or bend into corridors or enter the elevators.
The morbidness I feel is too daunting, and the discomforting familiarity of being in this place makes me want to throw up.
The unmistakable sensation of bile rising in my throat unsettles me, and I have to grip the arm of the chair and hold my breath at the bitter, disgusting taste.
I feel myself breakout in a sweat all over my body, and beads of perspiration form on my forehead, temples, and just above my lips. All telltale signs of one thing.
I’m gonna be sick.
I dash to the nearest restroom and barely make my way into a stall before the remnants of what little coffee and bagel crumbs I had earlier come gushing up my throat and out of my mouth in a forced, painful strain.
I heave and heave as my stomach empties itself, and continues to do so even when there’s nothing left to get rid of.
Damn it. I knew I should’ve just skipped on breakfast.
I know better than to eat before coming to a place like this.
After several minutes, my gag reflexes take a break and I stop heaving. My brows furrow at the ill sensations I feel as I try to take in deep breaths and calm myself.
I feel my body give in and slump over the toilet bowl in exhaustion. I feel like I’m carrying dead weight, and my legs feel like heavy wooden stumps.
My temples are throbbing, and despite my efforts to control it, my breath is still coming out in short, shallow strains. I feel tears quickly welling up in my eyes, and I blink them back ferociously.
I can’t cry.
I won’t cry.
I’ve already done enough of that to last quite a few lifetimes.
I stand up, trying to balance myself on shaky legs as the bowl flushes itself automatically. I brace myself against the tile walls with hands that visibly tremble.
Blurry stars fill my sight, and I have to shut my eyes tight so that the dizziness and unease can pass. After a few moments of deep breathing, I begin to feel myself getting somewhat centered again.
I stumble out of the stall and head to the sink to quickly rinse my mouth out, putting a few splashes on my face as well. The cold water feels good against my skin, and helps me calm down some more. I fight the urge to look up at myself in the mirror, afraid of what I know I’ll see; a frightened little girl who, after six whole years, still can’t deal with her past.
I walk out of the restroom before uninvited memories that threaten to come rushing back get the chance to consume me. I can’t be by myself right now. As much I hate being here, I need to be around other people.
At least for the sake of my sanity.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I head back to my seat feeling incredibly somber. Just as soon as I sit down, a deep, commanding voice comes
through that makes me jump in my chair. “Ramona?”
I turn to the side to find the owner of such a demanding voice, and I’m stunned to stillness as I see a man covered in a crisp white lab coat walking towards me.
I feel my eyes widen as I take in the sight of him.
He’s incredibly good-looking, possibly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in real life.
He’s really tall, maybe even taller than Jamie, and perhaps just as big. His strides are long, as are his legs.
I look up to meet his eyes, and my breath catches in my throat as the iciest, coldest pair of eyes settle on mine. They’re beyond intimidating, and they seem to pierce through my very soul with their frosty, pale blue color.
They give off this strangely intense vibe that I’ve never experienced before, and I can’t seem to look away from them. They’re alluring and enticing and frightening all at once. It’s almost like looking into the eyes of a beautiful serial killer. You know it will be the end of you, but you can’t for the life of you look away.
He extends his hand to me as I sit there just staring at him, trying to remember how to speak. I somehow manage to stand up and take it with a trembling hand, standing face to face with his broad chest.
His hand is big, too, and it easily engulfs mine as he squeezes it gently in a handshake. The firm hold, despite how brief it is, shoots sharp tingles straight through my body that shamelessly travel and collect in my lower belly and groin.
I feel my nether regions throb abruptly at the contact of skin on skin, and I’m beyond shocked that I’m responding like this to a formal gesture from a total stranger.
From somewhere in the universe, I hear my voice come through in a breathy question.
“D-Doctor Templin?” I ask nervously.
There’s no way in hell this potential linebacker is a doctor, but I have to ask anyway.
I sound so hoarse, and I’m not sure if it’s from throwing up just a few minutes ago or from beholding the imposing six and a half or so feet of sexual eye-candy in front of me. Perhaps both, but somehow, I’m inclined to believe it’s the latter.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt such strong attraction for anyone from just looking at them, and I was never really a believer in the whole insta-lust thing. I think this man just debunked that for me.
He slightly loosens his hold on my hand, but doesn’t let it go.
“No, I’m Doctor Dexter Frost,” he corrects. “John had to attend to an emergency that he just found out about. He apologizes for the short notice and asked me to sit in for your appointment, if that’s okay with you.”
The rumble and tenor of his voice is deliciously deep, and my ears are screaming in absolute bliss. I can actually envision my ear drums in frantic applause, giving a standing ovation to the sexy, baritone sound that’s invading them.
His name rings all sorts of bells. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of him before. My mind searches my memory for several seconds as I continue to scan his chiseled face, and I finally put a link to the name.
No freaking way! I tell myself.
The Dexter Frost? It can’t be.
I’d learned of him years ago when… When my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I feel my brows furrow in question and curiosity. What the hell is one of the top oncologists in the world doing in a college county in Wisconsin?
I feel unmistakable wetness beginning to form and collect between my thighs, and I have to avert my eyes from his to compose myself.
And just how the hell did I go from feeling sick to my stomach to undeniably horny in a matter of minutes?
I remain stunned, my hand still in his with my entire body paralyzed.
My eyes are on the verge of popping out of their sockets in spasms as they drink in his impossibly gorgeous face and big body—as they drink in the paradoxically cold and icy, yet beautiful and mesmerizing gaze of the infamous, allegedly unconventional, and disturbingly handsome medical physician;
Dexter Frost.
To be continued…
A Short Message from (e)Me to You
Hey, there!
Thanks for reading the first volume of the story, and I truly hope you enjoyed it. If you want to read book two for free and find out what happens next between Ramona and Dexter, email with “DPC Volume Two” as the subject and you’ll get to enjoy more time with Roni and Dex.
Much love,
Eme
