Bend (7 page)

Hot as hell.

I dump my stuff on the breakfast counter, exhaling heavily. My stomach is churning, burning like I’ve had too much coffee. Which I haven’t. The acidic discomfort has been there for three days, since Sunday at the park. When Jay walked away from me and left me feeling like he tied a string around my heart before he went, yanking on it with each step until it tore right out of my chest. Leaving me empty.

Now it’s Wednesday, and I haven’t heard a word from him. I made up my mind that, with the way he took off, he’s the one who needs to make the next move. Me getting in touch with him first would be desperate. Undignified.

Dignity seems more and more overrated with each day that goes by, though.

I take off my white sneakers—ugly and boring shoes that keep my feet pain-free after a long day of running around at work—and put them away in the coat closet. Then I head to the bedroom to change into the yoga pants and loose-fitting tee I draped over the end of my bed this morning so they’d be ready to slip into as soon as I got home.

Back in the kitchen, I turn the oven on to preheat and unbag my groceries: veggies for salad and a bottle of Riesling. I don’t normally indulge in the middle of the week, but early this afternoon I decided I needed to treat myself.

Most days I see a variety of patients, but today one of the physicians, Dr. Castillo, was out of the office for an emergency C-section, and I ended up taking care of all his patients who didn’t want to reschedule their appointments. So in between handling my own patients, I spent a lot of time trying to make those women less unhappy that they weren’t seeing their doctor.

So many people, when I first meet them, seem surprised when I tell them what I do—how, as an NP, my advanced degree actually makes my work duties closer to that of a physician than a regular nurse. And it’s kind of a crappy fact, but I definitely see more respect in people’s eyes when I explain that. Probably the only person who remains unimpressed is my dad.

I open the bottle, grab a wineglass out of the cabinet, and pour it half full. If I’m going to get a nice buzz going, might as well get started. The oven beeps, so while I’m taking sips, I pull a small casserole dish of homemade lasagna out of the freezer. Leaving the tin foil on, I pop it in the oven and set the timer.

My gaze catches on the photo I have attached to my fridge among the various magnets and Post-It notes—I like to use it as a bulletin board—and I squint at it, considering. It’s a picture of me and Grandma, which was taken when I was awkward and gangly in my early teens. We’re sitting on a big rock at Mile Rock Beach with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, our hair windswept, and there are white, foamy waves crashing on the beach behind us.

It’s my favorite photo of us, and I know it’s my grandmother’s, too. Mine is only a copy. The original hangs framed in my parents’ living room. An idea for Grandma’s birthday gift plants itself in my mind. I’ll have to check on the Internet later how much it would cost and how long it would take to do, though.

Lifting the glass to my lips again, I tip my head back and empty it before reaching for the bottle to get a refill.

I value our friendship more than I want to get you naked.

Jay was on fire Sunday, throwing punches left and right, but more than any of the other gut-wrenching things he said to me—even more so than that BS about me not being over Matt—that’s the sentence I can’t get out of my head. And it still makes me want to throw a toddler-like tantrum, stomping my foot and yelling,
Why can’t we have both?

Seriously. I don’t get it. What is he afraid of? He probably doesn’t even know the answer to that. Asking would be pointless; he’d just blow me off again.

I could probably seduce him. But there’s that dignity issue to consider. And the worry that, after he started thinking with his brain again, he’d hate me. Besides, if our roles were reversed and it was him being that pushy, I’d feel like he was harassing me.

Or maybe not. Maybe it would actually be a massive turn-on. Sexually aggressive Jay. I’m suddenly short of breath. Is that how he would behave if he changed his mind about the friends-with-benefits thing? He’s dated since I’ve known him, but I don’t remember ever seeing him touching a woman beyond the occasional hand-holding or arm over the shoulders.

Probably he’s just not a PDA kind of guy. That’s okay. As long as he doesn’t keep his hands to himself in private.

God. It can’t be healthy to want something this much.

After downing one more gulp of wine, I grab a cutting board, my plastic bags of produce, and the chef’s knife from the caddy on the counter. My grandma bought me this really nice set of Wüsthof kitchen knives when I graduated college, saying they were must-haves for cooking and for “when the boys get a little too frisky.”

Smiling at the memory, I get a bowl and start shredding lettuce. That done, I move on to the red bell pepper, my knife slicing through it like it’s butter.

It’s too quiet in here. I should turn on some music. Just as I put down the knife, my cell phone rings. The ringtone is just like an old-fashioned phone, but it’s loud. A good thing, because from the muffled sound, it’s obvious the phone is still in my purse.

Maybe it’s Jay.
I scramble for my purse, which is still on the breakfast counter, and tear it open. Digging out my phone, I see a picture of my mom on the screen with the word “Mom” in big letters at the top. With a quick frown, I thumb the answer button.

“Hi, Mom,” I say as cheerfully as I can muster, bringing the phone up to my ear.

There’s a short pause at the other end. I do this on purpose, just to mess with her. She likes to start phone conversations with, “Hi, Mia, it’s your mom,” like I didn’t already know that from the Caller ID. So when I greet her by name, she momentarily doesn’t know what to say, and it’s pretty funny.

Yeah, I’m
that
child.

“Hi, monkey,” she finally says.

I grimace at the nickname she gave me when I was little. My mom has been a trial attorney for thirty-five years. She can give as good as she gets.

“What’s up?” I shuffle back into the kitchen and pick up the knife again.

“How’re you doing?” she asks in that soft and concerned mom voice that reminds me of lying in bed, miserably sick with whatever seasonal illness was going around, and getting that warm and melty feeling every time she came in to check on me.

Cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, I start cutting up my cucumber, chopping as fast as I can. Because I like to pretend I’m a professional chef.

“I’m fine.” That’s a lie, of course. But the reason I’m not fine is not something I want to discuss with my mother.

She’s quiet for another couple of seconds before asking, “Did you talk to Paige? They found out the sex of the baby.”

Why am I getting the feeling she’s stalling instead of telling me the real reason she’s calling? Tearing open the bag with my lone tomato, pulling it out, and lining it up with the knife, I say, “Yeah, I talked to her a few days ago. She sounded excited.”

“I know. Logan must be so happy that they’re finally having a boy. I’m pretty sure if Abigail had been a boy, they wouldn’t even be having another one. ”

“Mhmm,” is all I say, because I have no opinion on this topic. My neck is starting to hurt. If this is going to be a long conversation, I guess I’ll have to take a break from making dinner.

“Mom, is there something going on?” I ask, trying to get her to the point, because my mother never calls just to chitchat.

On the other end, she gives a small sigh. “Yeah, actually, there is something. I didn’t tell you right away, because I didn’t want you to freak out—”

My stomach tightens. “What is it?”

“Your grandma’s in the hospital.”

“
What?
” It feels like my heart stops beating. My shoulders jerk, and my phone starts to slide just as I bring my knife down in a quick chopping motion. Except the tomato slips, and in scrambling to hang on to it, I slice the sharp blade into my hand instead.

“Ahh!” I yelp as a fierce, sharp agony explodes in my left hand. The knife clatters back down onto the cutting board, my phone lands on the floor with a thud, and I’m grabbing my injured hand. Closing my eyes, whimpering.

I can’t believe I cut myself. So stupid. So fucking stupid and clumsy.
Shit, shit, shit.

Carefully, I uncover the wound. My hands are shaking and covered in blood. The cut is between my thumb and index finger, and it’s deep—so deep I can see bone. Blood is seeping out fast, an angry flood of bright red. Fat drops of it are splattering on the white tile floor. A wave of queasiness rolls in my stomach.

My breath coming out in gulps, I fumble for the dish towel hanging on the oven handle. Bunch it up and press it against the wound. My vision goes out of focus, and I tumble down onto my ass. The heat from the oven is warming the whole right side of my body.

With my eyes closed, I start taking deep breaths. In through my nose, hissing back out past my clenched teeth. I hug my arm close to my chest, keeping it above my heart to slow the bleeding. There’s a weird noise down here, like the chattering of an angry chipmunk. I look across the kitchen floor and see my phone. It landed faceup, and the clock showing the call duration is still going. My case seems to have saved it from breaking, thank goodness.

The noises, it’s my mom yelling. I scoot across the floor toward the phone. When I reach it, I stop pressing down on the towel only long enough to tap the speakerphone button.

“Mia!” My mom’s frantic voice bursts out of the tinny phone speaker. “Mia! Are you there? Mia!”

“I’m here.” I raise my voice a little so she can hear me. “I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“I cut myself.” I can hear the disgust in my own voice.
So stupid and clumsy.

“Is it bad?” she asks in that concerned mom voice again, except it sounds more urgent now.

Dammit. I almost take the dish towel off for another look at the damage, but I don’t want to. Don’t need to. I saw enough.

“Yeah, kind of.” My hand is throbbing like a subwoofer at a rave. “It probably needs stitches.”

“Oh, God, honey,” my mom exclaims. “You have to go to the hospital. Do you have anyone who can take you?”

I wince. This is embarrassing enough. There’s no way I’m going to bother any of my friends—most of whom are really just casual acquaintances—by asking them for a ride. Not even Jay, and he’s probably at work, anyway. “It’s my left hand. I can drive myself.”

“Don’t you dare,” my mom says. “Don’t you dare, Mia. I’m going to call you a cab. Hang on.”

Fine. I have no energy to argue with her. As she puts me on hold, I slide backward until I can lean against the fridge. Trying to focus on just breathing and keeping my arm elevated. My hairline and the back of my neck are damp with sweat.

There’s a click, and my mom’s voice comes back. “Mia? They said your cab is only five minutes away. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” I grit out. “What’s wrong with Grandma?”

“Oh,” she says with a huff, “she’s got bronchitis, and they’re worried it might turn into pneumonia like last time, so they admitted her, and they’re giving her IV antibiotics. She’s okay, though. She doesn’t seem like she feels sick at all.”

I sigh with relief. My grandma had pneumonia a little over a year ago, and she was hospitalized for several weeks. She was in such bad shape that everyone in the family started bracing themselves for the worst—and then we were all happily surprised when she recovered.

I guess that cold she mentioned this weekend was more serious than she thought.

“Okay, that’s good,” I tell my mom. “Thanks for calling the cab. Hey, I need to clean and put a real bandage on my hand.”

After promising her to call from the hospital and waiting for her to hang up, I let go of the towel long enough to push myself off the floor. Then I walk to the bathroom, where I rinse my trembling, injured hand under the faucet before wrapping it in gauze and a bandage from my medicine cabinet.

Might as well go outside to wait for the cab, so I grab my purse with my good hand and shove my feet into my flip-flops. As I grab the door handle, I realize I almost forgot my phone. After fetching it from the kitchen floor, I make my way outside and down to the parking lot.

Where should I tell the driver to go? There’s an urgent care center about ten minutes away, and they should be open for another couple of hours. But the hospital is closer, and both places will be equally busy, so I decide I’d rather go to the ER.

Maybe Jay will be there, working.

And suddenly nothing seems better or more important than seeing Jay. Asking Jay to take care of me, to fix me.

He can’t possibly say no to that
.
Right?