Conversation? Gah! Without Romeo there as a buffer, what will we discuss? We already covered the topics of my inheritance, my animals, and nursing school. I hope he likes discussing recent medical journal articles because that’s what I have teed up for our main conversation topics. I also have a small list of things to ask him so I don’t dominate the conversation with my interests.
Are you originally from Portland?
What is your favorite color and why?
If you weren’t a doctor, what would you be?
All solid choices from a conversation starter article I found online.
I manage to not see him all day, but I heard he was working in his lab earlier this morning. At eight, I change into my red and white striped dress and wedge, close-toed shoes. By ten after eight, my stomach starts to feel uneasy. Is he at the restaurant? Does he think I’m late? Hailey, a nurse in the ICU, went home midday because she had a bad stomach ache.
Fever.
Vomiting.
Diarrhea.
I probably have what she had. I know that’s it.
Dr. Hawkins doesn’t want to get what Hailey and I have.
I shoot off a text to him.
Me: I’m sick. You don’t want what I have. Maybe we try this another time.
My phone rings. It’s him. Why does he insist on calling me? A simple “okay, feel better” text is the appropriate response. Not calling me. For all he knows, I could be in the middle of vomiting or on the toilet with the squirts.
“Yes?” I answer with a bit of annoyance.
“What are your symptoms?”
I sigh. “Fever. Vomiting. Diarrhea.”
“What’s your temperature?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t taken it yet.”
“Then how do you know you have a fever?”
“Because I feel warm.”
“When did you last vomit?”
“I haven’t vomited yet. But my stomach feels uneasy, so I know everything will come up soon.”
“And the last time you had diarrhea?”
“Again, it’s on its way. My stomach is very uneasy.”
He chuckles. “You’re just nervous.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“True. I only have a medical degree. What do I know?”
“Just go home. If you get sick, then Romeo will get sick. And I refuse to be responsible for the spread of infection.”
“Roman is with Julie this week.”
“And you? What happens when you get sick and can’t see patients? Lives are at stake, Dr. Hawkins.”
“Eli.”
“What?” I wrinkle my nose.
“When we’re not working, you should call me Eli.”
“Well, I’m still at work. So, Dr. Hawkins, I suggest you go home.”
“Call me Eli. And I’m already at the restaurant you suggested.”
“Jesus … Fine! Eli, go home!”
“That was better than I imagined.” He chuckles.
“You’re crazy.” I slide my bag over my shoulder and grab a mask from the empty room by the exit. “I’m on my way home.”
“Come to the restaurant,” he says like a command, like he’s in charge. I like knowing who’s in charge; I’m just not sure if I want it to be him at the moment.
“This is stupid. I’ll stop by the restaurant—just so you can get a quick glimpse of my deteriorating health. I’m not actually going to get out of my vehicle. Then I’m heading straight home before the vomiting and diarrhea start.” I press End and slip on the mask.
As expected, he’s standing outside of his car in the parking lot of the pizza place, wearing a stupid grin.
“Go. Home. Dr. Hawkins. This could be something big. If the CDC gets notified tomorrow, and I’m quarantined, you’re going to regret this cocky stubbornness,” I yell out my window that’s cracked half an inch.
“Unlock the door, Dorothy.” He tries to open it.
“It’s bad. I could start bleeding from my eyes,” I shake my head.
“I’ll jump onto the hood of your car and wait for you to open the door, so why don’t you save your paint from a few scratches and just open the door?”
“You’re stupid and reckless.” I shut off my car and get out, adjusting my mask to tighten it a bit.
“Damn, Dorothy … just … damn …”
“Damn what?” I mumble beneath my mask.
“That dress looks incredible on you.”
“I know. It’s my go-to dress.”
Dr. Hawkins laughs. “Go-to for what?”
“Everything. I have it in two other colors, but the red gets the most compliments.”
He slides his hand along the back of my neck, cupping it and pressing his lips to my forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking your temperature,” he murmurs with his lips firmly pressed to my head.
“Did they teach you this in medical school?”
He chuckles as his other hand removes my mask. “No fever.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper, feeling oddly breathy and incredibly anxious. His touch is definitely intrusive and out of line for a doctor’s examination, but it isn’t completely awful. He smells good. Those herbs I like. A miracle because there are very few scents that don’t make me legitimately want to vomit.
“I’ll take my chances.” His lips move to my cheek. “Dorothy …” he whispers.