“Don’t get coffee in the morning. I’ll take you to my ventanita for cortadito, which is Cuban espresso topped with steamed milk.”
“Okay . . .”
“Trust me. You’ll love it.”
I place my hands on her hips, bringing her closer to me. “I have no doubt. Today was fantastic. Thank you for sharing your family, your restaurant, your hometown, yourself with me.” I kiss her gently, or that’s the plan anyway, until she winds her arms around my neck and kisses me back with all the desire and need I feel for her.
Pulling away from her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I want to take her by the hand and bring her with me when I go inside. But more than that, I want to do the right thing by her. So I walk her to her car and hold the door while she gets in. When she’s settled, I lean in and kiss her one more time.
“Text me to let me know you got home okay.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Text me.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” One more kiss and then another. I can’t get enough. I force myself to step back, to let her go, to wave her off as she drives away. I take several deep breaths of the warm, humid air before heading into the icebox lobby and up to my room, where I immediately turn down the air. There doesn’t seem to be a happy medium when it comes to temperature in South Florida. I’m either sweltering or freezing.
Of course, it doesn’t help that Carmen has my blood boiling from her sweet kisses.
As I’m stashing leftovers in my minifridge, my phone rings. My heart skips a happy beat, as I hope it might be Carmen, and then falls just as quickly when I see MOM on the caller ID. I take the call, dreading what I have to tell her. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. What’s happening?”
Everything. Everything is happening. “Not much. Just getting acclimated to Miami while I wait to see if the board at Miami-Dade is going to extend privileges.” I cringe as I say those words, knowing what her reaction will be.
“What do you mean waiting for privileges?” My mom is a general practitioner in the Milwaukee area. The proudest day of her life, or so she always says, was my graduation from medical school.
“Just what I said. They aren’t sure they want me after what happened in New York.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.” One of the most difficult moments in a nightmarish month was calling my mother to tell her what happened with Ginger so she wouldn’t hear about it somewhere else. The two of us and my younger brother, Ben, have been a team since my dad left. Disappointing her crushed me. “The board has asked for two weeks to consider the request, and in the meantime I’m working with one of the hospital’s public relations professionals to change the narrative. She’s helped me land a pro bono gig at a local free clinic and is working on other publicity that we hope will help to sway the board.”
“Dear God, Jason. How can this be happening? You’re a board-certified pediatric neurosurgeon. They ought to be rolling out the red carpet.”
“Well, they’re not. I guess they’re afraid I’ll sleep with their wives—or their husbands.”
“How can you joke about this? Your entire career is on the line.”
“If I don’t joke, I’ll lose my mind. I know what’s on the line, Mom, believe me. I’m doing everything I can to win them over. I’m not sure what else I can do besides hope for the best.”
“You could apply elsewhere.”
“And abandon my research? I can’t do that. It’s not just about me but everyone else who’s been involved.”
“This PR professional who’s helping you? She knows what she’s doing?”
“She’s outstanding.” And brave and smart and so beautiful she makes me ache. I can’t say anything like that to my mother, who’ll think I’m insane for getting involved with another woman so soon after what the last one did to me. Hell, I think I’m a little insane, but damned if I can stop this thing that’s happening with Carmen. I don’t want to stop it. Nothing has ever felt as good as being with her does.
“Check out my new Instagram account.” I give my mom the account name. “Carmen is posting pictures of me getting to know Miami. We’ve got permission from the clinic to post pics of me working there, with patient consent, of course, and there’s a possibility of a local TV interview, too.”
“The pictures are great. You look happy.”
“It was a good day. It’s nice to think about something else besides the disaster in New York.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“We’re doing everything we can. I have to believe if it doesn’t work out here, something else will pop.”
“I hope that bitch in New York is proud of herself. All your years of hard work . . .”
“My credentials haven’t changed, Mom. She can’t take that away from me. Someone will want me, scandal or not.”
“I hope you’re right about that.”
“Try not to worry. This, too, shall pass.”
“I’m glad to hear you sounding better and more optimistic anyway.”
I have Carmen to thank for the attitude adjustment. She’s giving me reason to feel optimistic, among other things. “I’m doing what I can to get the train back on the tracks. That’s all I can do.”
“Keep me posted?”
“I will. Watch the Instagram account for updates.”
“I’ll do that. Call me if you need to talk.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I grab a beer from the stash I put in the fridge last night and twist the cap off before sitting down to do something I’ve been avoiding—check my email. I’ve got messages from a number of people I worked with in New York, many of them deriding the “raw deal” I got from the board and asking me what I’m going to do now.
“Good question.”
I write back to each of them, thanking them for their support and telling them the truth—I’m waiting to see if Miami-Dade will extend privileges so I can continue my research. If not, I’ll be looking to start over elsewhere.
One of the residents who’s been working on the tumor project with me writes that she sent messages to each of the board members, telling them they’re crazy to let me get away, especially when we’re on the brink of a major breakthrough that could bring international prestige to the hospital.
I can’t thank you enough for the support, Daniela, I write in my response to her. Please don’t risk your own neck on my behalf. It is what it is, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I have to believe it’ll work out and we’ll be back on track before too long. In the meantime, keep monitoring our patients and inputting the data.
I scroll through other messages from friends and colleagues before stopping dead on one from Ginger.
Jason,
I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. I know you won’t believe me when I tell you I have genuine feelings for you or I enjoyed every minute we spent together, but both those things are true. I’ve appealed to Howard not to retaliate against you for my sins. I told him you had no idea who I am to him. Everything that happened was my fault, and I hope someday you can forgive me for the mess I made of something so wonderful. I would love nothing more than to have another chance with you, to pick up where we left off and to move forward from here. You have my number. Call me anytime.