Page 16 of Hold the Pickle
I attempt to force my wild hair into some sort of order, then give up. “Settling into my new place.”
“Finally free of sleeping on the floor?”
“Finally.”
“Where’d you end up?”
“A small complex about three miles from here.”
“Nice commute. I have to drive nearly an hour.” Harrington stuffs his work shoes in a bag. “And now to go endure it. At least we have part of the weekend off.”
“It’s Friday?”
He laughs. “I know. Days become meaningless in here.”
“They do.”
Harrington claps my back. “Nice work with that kid who swallowed all the quarters. I thought we were going to have to sedate him to get an X-ray. You calmed him right down.”
“I was a lot like him. I know what worked for me.”
Harrington leads the way out of the locker room. “Swallowing money to hide it from your sister?”
“Nah, just doing dumb stuff and not wanting to admit it.”
He grins. “You still do dumb stuff. I saw you ignoring that nurse in Trauma 4 who clearly wanted you to take an inventory of her bulbus vestibuli.”
This makes me laugh. We all love a good clit joke. “Girlfriends aren’t on the current agenda.”
“I don’t think she was asking for long-term status.”
For some crazy reason Nadia pops into my head. “I have to get a handle on my life before I can drag a woman into it.”
Harrington steps left to avoid an orderly rushing through the atrium at the front of the hospital. “Sounds like you’re getting there. I would kill for a place that close.”
“You might have to for the rent it costs.”
As we push through the doors of the main entrance, the air outside is fresh and cool. California nights. You can’t beat them.
“See you next shift,” Harrington says. He heads left for wherever he parked.
“Later.” I turn right, aiming for Bernadette’s red frame softly lit beneath a lamp. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I tell her, but for some reason the words conjure the image of Nadia.
Again. What the hell?
“Not going there,” I mutter as I slide into the seat and fire up Bernadette’s cranky engine.
I’ve got enough problems, and I can’t add fantasizing about my roommate to the pile.
But when I pull up next to her Earl-blue Jeep, I realize,uh oh. We already have a schedule conflict.
It’s evening. I’m home. She’s home.
Who’s getting the bed?
I’m tempted to knock on the door. Then I think, this is my place, too. If she wants to lounge around in her underwear, we’ll both have to make peace with it.
But then I picture her in a lacy bra and panty set and suddenly, I need a minute. I can’t go in there like a sex-starved creeper. Scrubs hide nothing.
