All in all, the day had been off to a fantastic start.
Will’s sudden change of heart about telling the girls in the office about our relationship had taken me by surprise at first. It seemed like I’d done something or he’d developed some kind of doubts.
But when I’d left the haven of his office after exchanging I love yous, his reasoning made almost immediate sense.
Melissa had been doing the most work I’d ever seen her do in her life, but she’d also been ranting with an intensity I hadn’t even known was possible. About how Dr. Cummings was biased, treating some people in the office one way and others another. Saying how she’d really gotten a rotten deal and how he probably needed to get laid.
All in all, it hadn’t taken a whole lot of rational thinking to infer what she’d be like if she learned about our relationship that day. So, a delay had been warranted, and we hadn’t discussed it again. It’d been a week and a half.
But I was happy. Happier than I’d ever been in my life.
At least, I had been, until we’d arrived at the auction house and things started to move toward violence.
“I’m going to kick that old lady’s ass if she keeps bidding on all of the shit I want,” Cassie whisper-yelled to me and Georgia. “That old goat is trying to start shit. I can sense it.”
See what I mean?
Cassie has officially made enemies with an elderly woman.
Mind you, this woman couldn’t be a day younger than eighty, and I’m pretty sure needs a walking cane to get around.
The bald-headed man sitting in front of us glanced over his shoulder, and a sharp “Shh” left his scowling lips. Immediately, a woman with a giant blue hat sitting across the aisle whispered her appreciation in his direction.
Good Lord, not only was Cassie in a bidding war with an eighty-year-old, she was now calling attention—and not the good kind—toward our threesome from other people. I looked around for the exit routes just in case the crowd went in together to bid on a lot of pitchforks and revolted against us.
“Stop being so loud, Cass,” Georgia chastised, but otherwise, seemed unconcerned as she popped another Skittle into her mouth. The bag of candy sat visibly on the top of her rounded stomach, and it was more than apparent her pregnant self gave zero fucks on what was deemed appropriate auction-house etiquette.
Note to self: Next time Cassie and Georgia want to go to an auction with you, strongly consider finding a way to avoid it.
“I don’t think she’s trying to start shit, Cass,” I attempted to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. “I think she just has the same taste in art as you.”
“Nope,” Cassie refuted. “She’s playing mind games with me.”
She stared down her little, white-haired bidding opponent sitting in the aisle across from us. “Look at her,” she whispered. “Why in the fuck does she want all of the pervy, naked pictures?”
“It’s not pervy, Casshead,” Georgia chimed in. “They’re tasteful nude paintings. Most of which are by twentieth-century impressionist painters. They’re worth a lot of money. She probably sees it as an investment. Not a ploy to give her husband nonstop erections.”
Cassie scoffed. “Giving Thatch boners is way more important than a goddamn art investment.”
Yeah, you heard that right, folks.
Cassie is bidding on anything and everything that has boobs with the motive of giving her husband, and this is a direct quote, “more boners than Viagra.”
Georgia snorted. “You guys have the weirdest relationship.”
“I know, right?” Cassie said with a satisfied smile. “We’re the best. I love that giant idiot so much.”
I was almost afraid to hear any more details about their relationship. It had only taken one five-minute conversation with Cassie to realize she and her husband let their freak flags fly like a goddamn eagle, but knowing and knowing the details were two different things.
Hell, during the walk to the auction house, she’d spent most of it sending him dirty texts and repeating them out loud to us. If the auction house would have been a block farther, she might’ve had time to pull her boobs out and send him a selfie.
“When’s the charity function, Mel?” Georgia asked, and I gladly welcomed the distraction of small talk.
“It’s a week away.” Just saying how quickly it was approaching out loud made me shiver. Countless hours of work and creative thinking had gone into the planning of each and every detail, and I was so excited to see how it all came together.
The function would be a full-day event that revolved around raising money for women who were in desperate need of financial assistance. Free prenatal care would be available on site, but we’d also have a few semiridiculous activities to draw in a crowd in an attempt to accumulate money. I was trying to keep my approach two-pronged—short-term assistance with a chance for a long-term impact. The women this function was meant to benefit needed help for more than a day.
But I wasn’t above calculating some of the plans based on my own enjoyment. I’d even managed the necessary equipment for a simulated-labor, via electrodes, booth. Call me slightly evil, but I was pretty excited to see Will’s face while he experienced what contractions really felt like.
“That’s really soon,” she noted with visible interest. “What will the money go to?”
“Mostly toward aiding patients within the practice in getting financial assistance and the medical care that they need but haven’t been able to acquire on their own.”
“That’s amazing,” she said with a soft smile. “There are so many underprivileged women out there who need that kind of assistance.”
“I know. I wish St. Luke’s would open a women’s clinic so that even more of the underserved population in the city could be reached, but I’m happy to at least be helping a little.”
She nodded in agreement. “They really need to figure out a way to do that. It would be a huge positive for the city.”
If only I could find a way to make it happen…
I’d been spending so many hours of my days—and nights—making sure our lower-income patients had everything they needed. But the fact that there was so little support out there for most of them was breaking my heart.
I was only one person.
I could only make so many phone calls.
I could only personally follow so many patients.
And knowing I could only do so much—and that there were so many women out there who needed help—was becoming an emotional hardship for me. What had started out as something that felt important had quickly morphed into something that felt a lot like my purpose.