“Holy dip on a carrot, I did it!” I squeal softly to myself as I finish the edits on the last line of my thesis and click save nineteen times. After nearly three months of killing myself and creeping into this hospital cafeteria to work because I couldn’t seem to write this godforsaken paper anywhere else, I have finally completed my master’s thesis.
Dip on allll the carrots!
Intense, sweet relief shoots through my veins. I could stand on my chair and blast light from my fingertips. Instead, like the mature graduate I’m on my way to becoming, I sit back and bask in my achievement while observing my fellow cafeteria diners. These people have unknowingly kept me company as I’ve suffered through this paper. And I never would have had the guts to come here to work if it weren’t for Kate.
With a grin, I pull my phone out of my laptop bag and type out a quick text.
Me: I did it. I finished.
Kate: Aww, see? I told you if you used the bigger attachment on your vibrator, you’d climax quicker.
Me: I’m not talking about masturbation, you perv.
Kate: Perv? You say that like it’s a bad thing! Don’t you realize that being called a perv is basically a compliment to an erotic romance novelist? Actually, you’ve just inspired me to get it embossed on my business cards.
Me: I’m talking about my thesis. I finally finished!
Kate: Holy shitballs…congratulations! That’s better than an orgasm!
Me: I know, right?
Kate: And let me guess, you’re at the hospital cafeteria again?
Me: I’m embarrassed to admit it, but yes.
Kate: I told you not to feel bad about writing where the words flow. My smutty words flow at a tire shop waiting room, and yours flow at a hospital cafeteria. We’re productive millennials, Lyns! Which is more than I can say for the rest of our generation. You totally owe me a fruity beverage, by the way.
Me: That’s exactly what I was thinking! Hang at my tiki bar tonight?
Kate: Can’t tonight. Miles put a roast in the crockpot, and he’s embarrassingly proud of himself about it.
Me: That sounds so domestic and boring. How is cohabitating with your lover going, by the way? It’s only been a week since you moved out & I already miss my best friend. My tiki bar is sad too!
Kate: I miss you too! But I’m getting sex on the reg now, so I have to admit, I don’t miss you that much.
Me: You’re disgusting. I hate your happiness.
Kate: That’s because you need sex! Call Dean and make him be your wingman tonight. Get out of your house and away from the tiki bar to celebrate this achievement. It’s about time you were wooed by something other than a fruity beverage and the Womanizer Pro40.
Me: You’re the worst.
Kate: Later, whore
Me: Later, perv
I can’t help but laugh as I shut off my phone screen. Kate always brings a smile to my face. She is so unapologetically herself twenty-four seven. It’s incredible, really. She’s basically loaded from writing erotic romance novels but still loves going to a Tire Depot Customer Comfort Center to write because the coffee is complimentary, and she hates paying for Starbucks. But that’s Kate, through and through.
We met almost ten years ago as freshmen in the undergrad dorms at the University of Colorado Boulder. She was this bold, outgoing redheaded cartoon character who was gorgeous and fearless with everything. I was the awkward, soft-spoken kid with mousy brown hair and a penchant for slouchy shoulders.
Kate and I were total opposites who somehow connected instantly and balanced each other out. She would tell me when I was being too timid, and I would tell her when she was being too crazy. That’s why I wasn’t even surprised when she started sneaking into Tire Depot a few months ago because she claimed the waiting area cured her writer’s block.
Honestly, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve seen her do. And it paid off because, in the end, she did more than just finish her novel. She fell in love with a hot mechanic named Miles. And now those two lovebirds are living together in his house outside of Boulder in some sexy, tire-lovin’, burnt rubber-scented candle sin.
Life can be seriously unfair sometimes.
The closest I’ve come to sparks flying at my writing hangout was when an elderly man’s portable oxygen tubes fell off his face while he was reaching for a piece of pie. I bent over to pick them up for him, and when I attempted to hand them over, our fingers brushed, and I felt a gust of air blow right between my legs. The moment was ruined when I looked down to see that I had yanked the tubes out of the tank, and it was blowing fresh O2 right in my special place. Not quite the same as fainting in the arms of a hot and sweaty mechanic, which is literally what happened to Kate.
Regardless, I deserve a reward for my accomplishment today. I push my computer and textbooks to the side and reach for the beautiful slice of French silk pie that I saved for this exact moment. I’ve come to cherish this delicious treat at the Boulder Medical Center cafeteria. They usually sell out before I get here, but somehow, I managed to nab the last slice today.
I rarely let myself indulge in sugar like this. My mom was a total health nut and wouldn’t let my sister or me eat anything that didn’t come from our garden. Apparently, supermarkets are crawling with pesticides and germs, and we were busy following the biblical diet of Christ.
It took rooming with Kate in college to indulge in my first Oreo cookie, and I’ve cursed her ever since. I gained twenty pounds my freshman year, and for someone who’s only five feet four, that was not a good look for me.
After graduation, I found a balance with sugar and lost the extra pounds. Well…fifteen of them, at least. When I decided to quit my job in social work and go back to school for my master’s in psychology, French silk pie became my new bestie. Pie is much more mature than Oreos. Pie and beautifully constructed charcuterie boards. Those two items are my weakness now, and the direct reason my ass does that jiggling thing whenever I jog.
My fork pierces the graham cracker crust just as a lunch tray crashes onto my table. My eyes go wide. The owner of the obnoxious tray is the perpetually angry doctor who’s been ruining the mood in the cafeteria for months now. I mean…I’m pretty sure he’s a doctor. He always has a stethoscope around his neck and wears blue scrubs with a white lab coat. That’s very doctory, right? People jump when he barks, and that seems doctory too.
Regardless, this is the hot, seemingly always grumpy doctor who glares at me from across the cafeteria. I noticed him right away when I found my little writing haven because there’s no way not to notice a gorgeous asshole like him. A cross between Chris Hemsworth and Gerard Butler—and I’m pretty sure he has the body to back up that comparison. He really should have his own Instagram page, if he doesn’t already, because I’d follow the shit out of that!
He’s the type of guy who rarely ever smiles. At first, I figured that might be judgy of me because he probably just has a lot on his mind. Hell, for all I know, he could have a terminally ill patient or be in search of the cure for a flesh-eating virus that the rest of the world doesn’t even know about. I wanted to cut the guy some slack for his decidedly surly attitude toward the world because well…he’s hot! Hot guys get hall passes—they don’t teach that in grad school, but they should.
But then, his anger seemed directed toward me. I swore he’d scan the entire cafeteria, and when our eyes would connect, his resting dick face would morph into a murderous glower. It’s freaky! I kept waiting for him to approach, thinking maybe this is some kind of kinky foreplay, but he always just watched me from a distance like a tiger stalking his prey. It’s unnerving.