Page 28 of Hale Damage
“I think he is.” Like an amazing friend, she doesn’t elaborate, but I know this guy makes her happy.
Unlike the man I slept with last night. Goddammit! I ache inside. I actually considered pursuing something with “Joe.” Being with him did make me deliriously happy and hopeful, but it was all a lie.
“Do you think I should try to find out who’s he’s marrying and warn her?” I ask.
Caroline switches lanes without using her blinker, and a crease appears between her eyebrows, the same one that always pops up when she’s thinking hard.
“I don’t know, Mindy. I think it’s awesome to be a girl’s girl and all that, but what if she doesn’t believe you? Then you’ve inserted yourself into a sticky situation and come out looking like the bad guy.”
A long sigh makes its way up my throat and out of my mouth. “You’re right. I’m so dang confused. One second I want to bust in like an avenging angel and tell the entire wedding how the groom spent his last night. But on the other hand, I just want to forget it ever happened.”
Though I know deep down inside, forgetting will be nearly impossible. The stupid man imprinted himself on my body.
I grip the cloth seat when Caroline merges into the left lane, flipping off the car she just cut off and making a very derogatory remark about his mother. Swear to god, I take my life into my hands every time I ride with her. She’s a maniac, but somehow, she’s never been in so much as a fender bender.
My friend reaches over and pats my thigh. “I think we shouldspend the rest of the weekend on the couch with wine and Rice Krispies treats. You can cry and get it all out of your system.”
“The baker in me should be appalled that you want to eat Rice Krispies treats instead of a properly baked dessert.”
“If baking would make you feel better, we can bake,” she replies easily. God, I love her.
“You’re a terrible baker,” I point out.
“Good thing I’m cute,” she retorts, tossing her brown ponytail over her shoulder with all the sass.
“You’re the best,” I reply earnestly. “I need something to get over these stupid feelings I’m having. Last night was officially the worst.”
I wriggle on the seat of the very uncomfortable waiting room chair. It’s Wednesday, four days after I left room 418 in the wee hours of Saturday morning, and my damn vag is still sore.
And if I’m being honest with myself, she misses… him. Stupid pussy. This is why vaginas aren’t allowed to vote or drive cars. They are completely unreasonable and have very few survival instincts. At least I don’t have a penis, because that would make me both unreasonable and a total jerk. I’m feeling very anti-man right now. Understandably.
I just don’t understand the disconnect. Is Joe simply a skilled liar who wanted one last hookup before he tied himself down to the stunning woman on his phone screen? Or had there really been something there behind his soft brown eyes when he looked down at me and asked for more?
The thoughts have been torturing me for days on an endless loop through my brain. On Sunday afternoon, Caroline caught me standing in the open refrigerator door eating shredded cheese directly from the bag while I contemplated Joe’s motives. Then she snatched the cheese away, called me a sad raccoon, and ordered me back to the couch for moreGolden Girlsreruns.
While I’m apparently now Blanche with an open-legged invitationfor any man passing by, Caroline is my Dorothy, always there to call me a sad raccoon and put me in my place. I adore that bossy wench.
Deciding I need to put an end to my pointless ruminations, I try to clear my mind. But goddammit, I can still imagine the feel of his hips moving between my legs. The way he literally buried his face in me like I was the only oxygen left on earth.
I squirm again, and Mama leans over and asks, “Do you have a hemorrhoid, honey?” My mother… I love her to pieces, but the woman whispers like a freight train. A man across from us lifts his head from his phone, as if waiting for the answer.
“No,” I hiss. “I’m just sore from… working out.” Not a complete lie, I guess. There had been a lot of cardio going on in that hotel room.
The nosy fucker across from us, now satisfied he knows the health status of my rectum, goes back to scrolling his phone when the nurse calls my mom’s name.
“Ciara Espinoza.”
We stand and follow her down the hallway lined with diplomas and certificates from all the doctors in this gastrointestinal specialty practice.
“Does Dr. Nguyen treat hemorrhoids?” my mother asks casually, and I barely refrain from covering her mouth with my hand.
“Mama, I do not have a hemorrhoid,” I hiss.
The nurse smiles placidly and opens the door to the exam room, gesturing us inside. “Dr. Nguyen is brilliant. She can do anything GI-related.”
Turns out that was a damn lie. Because the one thing Dr. Nguyen can’t do is save someone with stage 4 pancreatic cancer.
My face is blotchy and wet from tears, and the poor waitress keeps shooting me suspicious looks each time she checks on our table. Mama’s face, on the other hand, is oddly serene. Sure, she shed quiet tears when the doctor gave us the diagnosis and explained the prognosis, which was… not good. At all.
