Page 151 of Darling Venom
Me.
So, this was what they called a spiral.
Step One: Snap at your receptionist all day, to the point where you catch her in the break room in tears, shoveling a Snickers bar down her throat while angry-texting her friends to tell them what a dickbag her boss is.
The first time you’ve ever witnessed her consume a single carb, by the way. Even then, you ignore it because the alternative—compassion—is beyond your realm of capabilities today.
Step Two: Reveal the baby’s sex to a couple who wanted to keep it a surprise because you cannot keep your shit together. A couple who spent over a decade and several rounds of IVF conceiving.
When they collapse into tears but decide to keep you as their doctor because no one else can do what you do, offer them a voucher for a free visit as if their designer everything and straight-off-the-Mayflower last name indicate they’d ever use it.
Step Three: Arrive late to a C-section, call the nurses you’ve known for years by the wrong name, and leave as soon as the surgery is done with barely a congratulations to the new parents.
Demand your practice partner supervise the rest of the patient’s care for the day because you don’t trust yourself not to make a mistake.
Check.
Check.
Fucking check.
The reality of Kel’s note sank in as soon as Charlie arrived at my place. But I’d pushed it aside, forcing myself not to process
it. Which backfired in spectacular fashion.
Specifically, it bit me in the ass exactly two days after I kissed Charlotte in a library, hitting me during my morning coffee on my way to work.
I spilled it in the elevator and walked around the rest of the day with a shit-colored stain and the fact that my little brother had written what had to be a suicide letter ramping up the pressure in my brain.
By noon, a headache threatened to crack my skull in two, and I’d made more poor decisions in one morning than I had all my life.
But these were reversible poor decisions. They were not of the un-doable magnitude that would haunt me for the rest of my life, of which I only had one.
Not catching the signs with Kellan.
So, I told myself it wasn’t a big deal and went on with the day, being a huge, distracted, and absolutely fireable dick.
Good thing I was self-employed, or I’d be out of a paycheck. Though, at this rate, my reputation had taken a nosedive, and no one wanted to share a room with me.
Didn’t blame them.
When I asked Sylvia to clear the rest of my schedule, she leapt to her keyboard, relief clear as the August Hawaiian sky.
Terry wasn’t home when I arrived at my brownstone. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been around in days. But I couldn’t bring myself to give half a shit.
In fact, I relished the silence.
Needed it to hate myself in peace.
I sat on my bed. Stared at the ceiling. Debated whether to enter Kel’s room and decided against it.
After an hour or so of being generally useless, I called Charlotte Richards for the second time ever and not in the way I’d intended on using her number when I’d lied my way into getting it from Reagan.
She answered on the absolute last ring, saying nothing.
I said nothing, too.
So, we sat there, listening to one another breathe, neither of us budging. It made me feel dirty. Like a sick bastard.
