Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Fifty

Day 6

“Oh, my God, Trix, you’ve been at this for over an hour! Just pick one, already!” I admonish, my tone mirroring my exasperation.

My hands and feet drum and tap at whatever surfaces they can find, more fidgety than I can remember them ever being.

We’re surrounded by a myriad of costumes, practically swimming in piles and piles of various outfits, accessories, and cosplay attire. There are all types of costumes—from various Marvel and DC superheroes, to milkmaids and leprechauns, to Disney characters, all the way to generic ones like cop and sailor outfits.

The place is literally littered with them. Some are hanging off racks and flimsy hangers, while others are still displayed in their rectangular packages—quite a few of which are halfway ripped from their plastic casings.

It’s officially Halloween.

I really don’t care for the day. Actually, I take that back. It’s too much of an understatement. The truth is I absolutely loath Halloween.

As a matter of fact, I’ve hated it ever since some douche-bag in a Freddy Krueger costume thought it would be funny to scare me shitless when I went trick-or-treating at the tender age of eight. I was so scared that I’d actually pissed myself!

Yeah. It was that bad.

Needless to say, my costume got ruined, and my fellow trick-or-treaters wasted no time in turning up their noses at me and my piss-drenched outfit. I was devastated. My highly-anticipated Halloween was totally ruined within moments, and by no fault of my own—even if it technically was my piss leaving my bladder.

I mean, come on, what kind of sadistic asshat gets off on scaring eight-year-olds to the point of pissing themselves? As it was, my annual hunt for free candy got cut short and subsequently came to a permanent close.

So, yeah. That was it for me. Halloween and I had officially parted ways—with a brand new, piss-drenched Strawberry Shortcake costume to commemorate our separation—and we have not crossed paths ever since.

Until now.

Since I don’t normally celebrate Halloween any more, I’d usually just work that night, and if not, I’d opt to stay indoors, eat candy that I got for free or on sale, and listen to Beethoven on repeat.

But I can’t do that this year.

As much as I hate Halloween, I can’t bear to be by myself, cooped up in my apartment all alone. Not tonight. Not when I have a million and one unsettling thoughts racing through my head—thoughts that all begin and end with a single person:

Dexter Frost.

To be honest, a part of me—and it’s a pretty big part—still can’t believe what had transpired between us just five days ago. I swear I’m having the hardest time just wrapping my head around the whole ordeal, the fact that it actually happened! And more than anything, I think it was the manner in which he went about it that blew me away the most.

I mean, he had such a cavalier attitude and nonchalant demeanor the entire time! I was absolutely stunned—and perhaps a bit mortified—at his aloofness. Heck, I still am!

I should have felt disgusted by his proposition, but the truth is I wasn’t. I’m still not. All I felt was mind-boggled, brain-zapped, surprised out of my fucking bones, and every other word that can be used to describe indescribable shock. I was all those things, but crazy enough, I wasn’t disgusted.

I’m beginning to question whether or not I’m truly offended by his offer. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure that I am, and that bothers me. It bothers me a lot.

The rustling sound of plastic brings me out of my worrisome thoughts, if only temporarily.

Trixie keeps going back and forth between two costumes—which are really the same costume in two different colors—examining them in their packages for the billionth fucking time. Her indecisiveness is really starting to annoy me, but I know it’s not the real reason for my angsty and sour state.

No. Leave that to none other than the great blue-eyed doctor. He just seems more and more enigmatic each time I think about him—which is clearly way too often.

Even in a relatively crowded space with a gazillion costumes to look at and people shuffling up and down and constantly moving around, I can’t seem to focus on anything else but him. My stupid mind can’t steer clear of him for more than the two seconds it takes for me to frown at Trixie for being so time-insensitive.

“It’s so hard to choose, Roni,” she complains.

I can’t stop myself from giving her the side-eye. “Trixie, it’s a white Playboy bunny costume and a black Playboy bunny costume. How hard can it be?”

Because I worked a double-shift yesterday and the bar’s going to be closed tonight—at Larry’s discretion and for reasons he didn’t mention—I’d agreed to going to a house party with Trixie without giving it much thought. I figured it was a no-brainer since I’d rather not be alone with nothing but the company of my troublesome thoughts tonight.

But, in the midst of that conversation, she’s somehow persuaded me to go last-minute costume shopping with her. Of course, I agreed, as I typically do whenever it comes to my dear best friend. But honestly, right now, as I sit on this hard, uncomfortable stool while I wait eons for her to make up her fucking mind, I can’t help but feel like I made a huge mistake agreeing to come to this store with her. I’m seriously two bloody seconds away from strangling the girl!

“There are tons of outfits to choose from!” I admonish, raising my hands and gesturing wildly to the costume-filled space around us. “Why the hell are you picking a Playboy bunny costume? That’s not even remotely close to your style.”

It’s a legitimate question. Trixie doesn’t do Playboy anything, at least not until this very moment, apparently. She’s always claimed to hate the whole blonde bombshell fascination, said it was outdated and overrated. I guess she changed her mind—and she did it awfully quick, too.

“Tonight’s different,” she explains, absently running her fingers through her choppy pixie. “I’m telling you, this party’s going to be swarming with athletes. The host, Pete, told me the entire basketball team is going to be there, plus he mentioned quite a few of the football players will be stopping by. Who knows, maybe the almighty Jamie Wrighton will make a surprise show, too,” she adds, giving me a wink and extra-large smile.

I sigh out loud, not holding back the irritation I feel. I really couldn’t care less whether Jamie—or the damn Pope, for that matter—shows up to this thing or not. I have other, far more important things to worry about. “Whatever. Just pick something so we can go,” I say, ignoring her remark.

“Okay, fine. Sheesh, such a buzz-kill,” she scoffs. “I’ll take the black one,” she finally says, but then she holds out the other package to me. “But you should take the white one. We can be twinsies. Sexy bunny twinsies!” she adds with a playful smile.

I only have one response. “Four words: Hell. To. The. No.”

“Oh, come on!” she admonishes. “How the hell are you going to go to a Halloween party without a Halloween costume, Ramona?”

I shoot her an obviously fake wide smile. “Easy. With the clothes I’m wearing now,” I say, my tone dry and impatient.

First off, I don’t have the money for it. And even if I did, even if by some miracle, I actually wanted to dress up for Halloween, there’s no way in hell I’d dress up as a friggin’ Playboy bunny. I had quite enough of squeezing my body into tight and revealing clothing after the last go around, thank you very much. I sure as fuck don’t need another night of breathing problems. And I also sure as fuck won’t pay for something that will do just that.

She places her hands on her hips. “Seriously, Roni?”

“Seriously, Trixie,” I say adamantly. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She sighs and raises her hands in surrender as she finally accepts that I’m not going to budge on my decision to not dress up.

“Alright, fine. Be that way, then,” she says in mock hurt, sticking her tongue out at me. “But don’t come crying to me when you don’t have as much fun because you decided to be a buzz-killing ninny and not dress up.”

“Pretty sure I’ll live,” I shoot back dryly.

She just shakes her head. “Whatevs. Your loss,” she says, tossing the rejected costume back onto its shelf. “Let me just pay for this and we can go.”

 She heads over to the register without another word and I wait for her to finish up. Thank goodness the line isn’t that long. I don’t know how much more of this place I can take, especially when a certain doctor and his unbelievably scandalous proposition won’t stop invading my thoughts.

***