Dr. ER (St. Luke's Docuseries #2) Page 7

  “I accidentally saw your name, you know, when I was signing off on your file,” he responded cynically. “It’s kind of a job hazard, Frances. Or should I call you Harlow? It’s kind of hard to keep up.”

  “Frances is her first name, but she doesn’t go by it,” my father kindly explained for me, somehow not catching on to the underlying animosity. “She hated that name as a kid, and by the time she turned ten, she would only answer to her middle name—Harlow.” My father’s expression turned puzzled as he glanced back and forth between us. “Wait…signing off on your file? How do you two know each other?”

  “We met a few weeks ago.” Scott’s mouth morphed into a cocky fucking smirk, and I wanted to strangle him. “HIPAA violations prevent me from being able to give the details, but Harlow could explain the situation that introduced us,” he added, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. “That is, if she wants to.”

  Oh yeah, I’d love to tell my father a head laceration that occurred during sex was the reason I’d met Scott. What a fucking asshole.

  “Oh! Did the two of you meet at the hospital?” Nicole asked innocuously. She couldn’t see the patch of thorns she was wading into for all the blinding love for her “do-gooder” son.

  “Violations?” The vein in the center of my father’s forehead started to make its debut. “What is he talking about, Low?”

  I sighed. “Calm down, Dad. It’s nothing to get worked up about.”

  “It sounds like a big deal!” my father said on a near shout, and concern for what would happen next made my heart rate double. “Were you arrested?”

  “Jesus, no,” I answered on a whisper. “You remember the stitches on my forehead?” I asked and he nodded.

  “From the bicycle injury in Central Park?” he asked, and fucking Scott Shepard cleared his throat and chuckled softly to himself.

  Yes, I did tell my dad a little bit of a lie about my head injury. Just a minor story about a crazy man on a bicycle who ran into me in Central Park that caused me to fall down and hit my head on a rock.

  Just a tiny little white lie.

  But seriously, who would tell their father the real story if they were in my shoes?

  “Was he the man who was riding when you got injured, Low?” he questioned, and I internally groaned at his ironic choice in words.

  The man who was riding? Good Lord, that sounded terrible. And a little too close to the actual scenario…

  “No, sir,” Scott answered, and if the strain in his throat was any indication, he was one breath away from losing himself to laughter. “I was, in fact, not doing the riding when your daughter got injured.”

  My father looked at me. “If he wasn’t the one riding, then how do you two know each other?”

  Fucking fiddlesticks, I needed everyone to stop saying riding before I fainted from discomfort.

  “He was my ER doctor, Dad,” I explained, and this time when he looked at Scott, his mouth was curved in appreciation.

  “You took care of my Harlow after she got injured by that rider?”

  “I sure did,” Scott answered helpfully, an amused smirk all but sewn on to his face. “I sutured her after the riding incident.”

  “Who got hurt while riding, Scotty?” Nicole asked, her voice carrying a bit too nicely. Goddamn theater acoustics. I was torn between smacking Scott in the face or finding a way to dig a hole into the theater floor in order to migrate to China. Perhaps I can use my stiletto.

  Apparently, as an outsider, it was hard to follow along with us as we talked in code.

  “Harlow,” Scott answered and nodded toward me. “That’s how I met her. I had to suture her riding injury.”

  I was going to kill him before Kinky Boots even started if he kept saying riding.

  “How did she look afterward?” my father asked. “I bet she was a bit shaken up from that reckless rider.”

  Scott grinned shamelessly, his cheeks coming to life with a rosy flush as he basked in my embarrassment. “She did look a little shaken up. Mostly just angry, though.”

  “You were angry?” my father questioned and looked at me. “I really wish you would have gotten that rider’s name. I’d love to call him and give him a piece of my mind. No one should be that reckless.”

  “I agree,” Scott piped up again. I wanted to smack him. “People should ride responsibly.”

  “You’re right.” His mother nodded in agreement. “People should ride responsibly. Otherwise, they shouldn’t be allowed to ride at all.”

  Now, although I was internally dying a slow death, given the circumstances that led to this very humiliation, it was hard not to agree with that. Barron the Bore should’ve had his riding rights revoked immediately after he rode my ass straight into the ER. Although, in Barron’s pathetic defense, a few days after his bed had sliced my head opened, he did send me an apology in the form of a nice bouquet of flowers. I appreciated the sentiment, but no contact with Barron for the next one thousand years was still the plan.

  “So, you didn’t get the man’s name?” Scott questioned, childishly continuing this farce of a conversation for nothing more than his enjoyment, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Nope.”

  “Really? I would’ve thought you would’ve at least gotten a name or phone number…something…”

  “I didn’t,” I snapped.

  My dad sighed heavily. “You really should have gotten that rider’s name, Low,” he added in disappointment, but thanks to the dimming lights, both my view of his disappointment and the time for speaking began to fade.

  And for once in my life, as the curtain started to lift, a Broadway show was my favorite fucking thing on the planet.

  My least favorite thing? Scott fucking Shepard.

  Harlow Paige.

  Frances Harlow Paige.

  Harlow fucking Paige, the Gossip columnist, was Bleeding Woman.

  Bleeding Woman was Frances.

  And Frances, well, she was Harlow Paige.

  I’d been running through the convoluted web—okay, it’s not that complicated, but the distorted reality I’d believed to be true made it feel like it—of her identities as the actors on stage danced and sang for six full songs. Now, well entrenched in the seventh, a song about a woman who was always choosing the wrong guys, an intense burn had taken root in my stomach with the sting of reality.

  Of course they were the same person.

  In hindsight, I should have known. Sure, New York City has millions of people, and the chances of them being the same person were slim—statistically speaking—but life had a funny way of working out like this.

  And the personalities matched up perfectly.

  Challenging to the point of agitation, Harlow Bleeding Paige, held my attention. Both her visit to the ER and the witty exaggeration of her articles had seized a curious part of me in a nagging, torturous way I hadn’t been able to forget. Day after day, I’d wondered about the woman I’d sutured and the woman who wrote passive-aggressive columns about me that bled a little too close to the line, and everything that’d been muddled and smudged by uncertainty of who and why now felt clear in my mind.

  One complicated woman was at the center of it all. Glancing past my mother, I scoured the lines of Harlow’s face for some sign of remorse or discomfort. A wrinkled brow. A minute frown. I moved on to her body. A clenched fist. A nervous fidget. Something.

  But she gave me nothing.

  Instead, her eyes were glassy, the shimmer of their moisture glinting in the glow of the stage lights as she worked at her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth. One hand rubbed at a tight-covered thigh, and the toe of her boot bobbed to the music. She seemed thoughtful without looking anxious, like each word of the song would expose some vulnerable part of her if she weren’t careful.

  As discreetly as possible, so as not to garner the ire of my musical-bopping mother, I pulled my phone from my pocket and fired off a text to a number I’d saved to my phonebook, like a normal person.


  Me: So you’re Bleeding Woman.

  It wasn’t exactly the most creative opening after thinking about it for six and a half songs, but it was the best my cynical mind could do, apparently. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I could sit there and think on it as I typed while the light of the screen sent out a virtual distress call to any and all ushers in the area. Just like in a movie theater, they didn’t like when you texted during the entertainment.

  Harlow: Bleeding Woman?

  Right. Of course, she wouldn’t remember the thing she’d said that I’d remembered a million times since. It figured.

  Me: Your sex victim name.

  Harlow: Oh. Yeah. I guess that’s me. But why act like you didn’t creep my medical file to find my real name? You CLEARLY know it.

  I leaned forward, just slightly, again trying to get a read off of her by inspecting her face, but she was completely out of view behind the bulk of her dad, like she’d become one with the seat. I’d just have to do my best to assess the situation without visual cues.

  Me: I didn’t do it on purpose.

  Okay, that was a bit of a lie, but it wasn’t like I was the only one sugarcoating the truth. I mean, she was also that fucking columnist from Gossip.

  Harlow: Job hazards, right? Pffft.

  Me: Listen, I tried not to look, but I had to sign off on your chart. And like you should talk. You’re the Gossip columnist.

  Harlow: Yep. That’s me.

  So fucking casual. My jaw ached from clenching it, and my pulse pounded in my ears. She had a way of getting under my skin like no other, but at least I was keeping it contained, eating away at me on the inside rather than causing a scene.

  As if on cue, my mother turned to me with a hostile frown.

  Okay, maybe I’m not keeping it on the inside.

  A tiny fragment of our previous phone conversation struck me like lightning.

  Me: Well…I guess you were right about being an inside source.

  Harlow: I don’t lie.

  She doesn’t lie? SHE DOESN’T LIE? Was she serious?

  Me: …

  What? I don’t yell via text message or even out loud. Just in my head, usually.

  Harlow: Okay, so I lie *sometimes*. But, whatever. It’s a gossip column. What do you expect?

  Me: Oh, I don’t know. Some kind of truth in reporting…

  Harlow: It’s a GOSSIP column.

  I started to type again when another message popped up from her.

  Harlow: Can you stop messaging me now? I’m trying to watch Kinky Boots.

  I scoffed, and my mom outright seethed in my direction. Bared teeth and a silent snarl, Nicole Shepard was five seconds away from tanning my thirty-five-year-old ass. Shit.

  Me: You don’t want to watch Kinky Boots. You want to avoid me and the consequences of your actions. The “freedom” of anonymity sure makes being out in the open even worse, huh?

  Harlow: Stop. Messaging. Me.

  Fine. She didn’t want to talk via text? That was just fine.

  “Oh, what the fuck? Are you serious right now?” Harlow shouted as she came out of the stall to find me leaning against the bathroom counter during intermission.

  I wouldn’t say it was my finest hour, but it felt like I’d been waiting for answers for forever, and I didn’t feel like waiting anymore.

  I’d lucked out, managing to clear out the other women and lock the door. I was actually surprised how willing they were to believe I was surprising my girlfriend with a wanted bathroom quickie.

  If you’re ever in this situation, please do a better job of looking out for your fellow female friends’ safety.

  No random man should be let into the women’s restroom under the pretense of surprising his girlfriend with sex. Or for any fucking reason, for that matter.

  “You didn’t want to text,” I told her, crossing my arms over my chest and putting one ankle over the other.

  “And you read that as please stalk me like a pervert in the women’s bathroom?” She shouted a bark of laughter. “Christ, this is going to make one hell of a column. Let me know how the police interrogation goes.”

  Well aware of the boundaries I was pushing—more like trampling all over—I was careful to keep physical distance between us, shifting even farther away when she moved to the sink to wash her hands and keeping mine clearly to myself.

  “You don’t think I deserve some kind of closure?”

  “Closure? What the hell do you need closure for? I was your patient, and then you had a couple of gossip rag columns written about you. Isn’t that like a normal Tuesday for you, Dr. Erotic?”

  I clenched my teeth and rolled my jaw, taking a moment to smother the building fire in my chest. She was trying to irritate me. Pushing all my buttons on purpose. I didn’t know exactly what reaction she was looking for, but whatever it was, I didn’t want her to have the satisfaction of getting it.

  “Come on, Harlow,” I teased. “Isn’t Kinky Boots teaching you anything about friendship?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned the tap to make the water hotter. Always a doctor, I surreptitiously checked out the healing gash on her forehead. It looked good, like she’d been taking care of it. Of course, I’d done a hell of a job on the sutures, so really, I was just admiring my work.

  “Adversaries sometimes make the best of friends.”

  “We’re not adversaries,” she contested, drying her hands and unlocking the deadbolt on the bathroom door. “We’re not anything.”

  Out the door and, I presumed, back to her seat, she left me there in the bathroom with absolutely nothing gained from our conversation other than determination.

  She didn’t want to be adversaries, friends, lovers…anything?

  Sure sounds like a challenge to me…

  God, I fucking loved a good challenge.

  As Kinky Boots ended on a more than perfect note, leaving the crowd tingly with happy thoughts, positive vibes, and hundreds of smiles, all a mile wide, I’d be a liar if I said it was awful. Despite the fact that Kinky Boots had led to an in-person meet-and-greet—and a side of bathroom stalking—with Scott fucking Shepard, the notes of friendship, adversity, and wacky fashion all won me over piece by piece. And, when I stopped feeling bitchy long enough to admit the truth, one thing was obvious: hands-down, it was one of the best Broadway shows I’d ever seen.

  And let’s face it, I’d seen a lot of Broadway over the past fifteen or so odd years.

  Cyndi Lauper had created something magical with the musical genius she had injected into the show. It definitely had something, and I had a feeling my dad would be dragging me back to the Al Hirschfeld Theatre for another showing.

  The crowd’s applause, already a steady, rolling roar, increased ten-fold as the performers made their way back to the stage to take a bow. My dad hopped to his feet and wolf-whistled as the main cast members stepped out of the line and to the front of the stage. “Bravo! Bravo!”

  I wouldn’t be surprised if, when the house lights came up, I found a few fresh tear tracks on his face.

  His enthusiasm urged a soft smile to my lips and made me grateful to the cast for making such an impact.

  Broadway and Bill Paige. A match made in musical heaven. I often wondered if he had a past life as a performer.

  “Wow,” he said between claps as the cast took their final bows on stage. “What a great show.” He glanced at me out of his periphery, just in case the actors made some last-minute enchanted statement. “Wasn’t it fantastic, Low?”

  “It was.” I nodded, struggling to swipe the amused grin off my lips. “Kinky Boots was perfection.” Bill Paige is perfection. Really, I had the best dad.

  “It really was,” Nicole added with awe in her voice, briefly reminding me of the person I’d been pretending I’d forgotten.

  Whatever her devil spawn of a son’s name is.

  “It’s been ages since I’ve seen a Broadway show, but wow, I need to change that. I’m missing out.”

  “You are,” m
y dad agreed and gently grinned in her direction. “It’s one of the perks of living near the city, Nicole.”

  “See?” She nudged Scott—ugh—with her elbow. “You should take your mother to Broadway shows more often.”

  Scott smirked and glanced around the theater dramatically. “Oh, shit. I thought that was what I was doing. Where am I? Am I hallucinating?”

  “Smartass,” she muttered on a laugh. “I mean, you need to do it more. Not just once every few years.”

  “Whenever I can fit it into my call schedule, I’ll take you, Mom,” he said, and she groaned.

  “Ugh. So, basically, once every few years, then?”

  Scott grinned. “Boy, you’ve gotten grumpy in your old age.”

  “I’m not old!” She smacked his shoulder, glancing briefly to my father with rosy cheeks. Scott laughed.

  My dad cleared his throat and wrapped his arm around Nicole’s shoulder.

  Damn. Bill’s got game.

  “Consider it a standing offer. Anytime you want to go to a show, I’ll gladly escort you.”

  “Okay.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her and—Jesus Christ, these two were doing a lot of smiling.

  “See?” Scott questioned with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Everything always works out in the end.”

  “Not with any help from you,” Nicole muttered, but her eyes seemed welded to my father.

  Holy moly, what was going on with these two? The last time I’d ever seen my dad look at a woman like this, I was five and he was still married to my mother—and I’d caught him with a Playboy in the bathroom.

  Don’t worry. His pants were on, and all of his parts were covered. Trust me, trauma like that and we’d probably be having a different conversation right now.