Page 219 of Darling Venom
I chased it with a sampler of organic, fluoride-free mouthwash (doctor perks), spitting out the green liquid into a sink permanently stained yellow.
By the time my cab arrived at the hotel, I had enough of a buzz going to try my hand at hypocrisy. Sylvia had written the speech, which meant it read like inspiration porn straight out of a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants flick.
Full of goodies like:
Don’t wait until a moment becomes a memory to appreciate its value.
Push through the rain to find the rainbow.
You are the most important patient you will ever have.
Chop off my balls and blend them if this speech gets leaked.
The last one was all me.
And, unfortunately, not in the cards for tonight since I didn’t want to be the next YouTube sensation.
Titled—New York Doctor’s Public Meltdown: Begs Room Full of Gynos to Touch His Genitals.
Walter clapped me on the shoulder when I arrived. He buckled into his seat, like he’d expected me not to come.
I sat through a painful dinner, talked to colleagues whose names I didn’t remember, and delivered Sylvia’s speech without vomiting from the cheesiness. I felt like Terry on that podium. Using alcohol as a crutch. Buzzed in public.
Everything I’d vowed never to be.
As soon as I hopped off the stage, the country’s finest gynos passed me around the room like a tray of hors d’oeuvres no one wanted.
“Hey, man, I read your profile in American Obstetrics. Is it true your dad is Terry Marchetti?”
Nah. Sperm donation. Not unlike some of the ones our IVF patients acquire, only theirs come from men that aren’t pieces of shit.
“I heard your mom was Christie Bowman. Wish I knew that while we were at Harvard, bro. Had a Playboy poster of her on my walls growing up.”
One—Nope. That’s my brother’s mom. Terrence gets around. If he actually had any money to dole out, I’d probably find myself in a crowded room during the will hearing.
And two—why would you tell me that?
“Nice to see you again, man. It’s been years, hasn’t it? I heard about your brother. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
If you were truly sorry, you would have shown up for the funeral. Four years ago. Could’ve brought the attendance tally up to a whopping seven.
As always, the reminder of Kel’s death soured my mood. I left the conference early. Ignored Walter when he texted me, asking where I’d gone.
Lately, I couldn’t think about Kellan without thinking about the girl he loved.
It was easy to hate myself.
For being a hypocrite. For being like my father. For wanting Charlie.
And that’s how I found myself in another dive bar after the speech. This one worse than the last. Grime-coated tables. Liquor with the labels peeled off. Thick humidity from the broken air conditioner.
I was getting drunk, and I was doing it on purpose, knowing it made me just like my useless father and hating the fuck out of myself for it.
The bartender planted a hand on my shoulder as soon as I stood. “You’re swaying in your seat. I’m not letting you leave like this.”
I didn’t answer on account of the fact that I’d somehow landed myself on a boat, and it was rocking the hell out of me.
“You got anyone to call?” he added, reaching for my phone between us.
