Chapter 12
Vivian
"Ma'am, are you a habitual drug user?"
I tear my eyes away from the forms that I'm signing and search her face for some indication that she’s joking. But the woman behind the desk looks up at me with a perfectly neutral expression.
"Uh...no. I'm not a habitual drug user. I'm not any kind of drug user." It's the truth but for some reason, I'm not sure that's the answer she's looking for.
My suspicion is confirmed when her disdainful gaze sweeps over my face and she scrunches up her nose. She jots down some notes in my file.
Suddenly, I'm just a little bit nervous. "Umm...Is that going to be a problem?"
She sighs heavily then leans close and speaks in a low voice. "It's just that people who've never taken drugs tend to get a bit loopy under the effect of the anesthetic." I cock a brow and she nods in response. "One time, I had a girl kick me in the shin with her four-inch pumps. Don't get me wrong—she was a nice girl before they drugged her up—but that anesthetic brought out the devil in her."
Well...
I take a quick glance at the door. If I hadn't been in absolute agony for the past week, I'd bolt right now. But the thought of spending one more night in this kind of pain is the only thing that keeps me from running out the door. I need to get this surgery done.
Braving a smile, I flick my wrist dismissively. "Drug me up," I say. "I drink no less than four cups of yerba mate per day. I can handle a little sleeping pill."
She gives me an unconvinced look but I smile self-assuredly. With a long sigh, she rises from her desk and moves around her desk. “Follow me.”
I check my phone as we go down the long, brightly-lit hallway. There's yet another panicked text message from my sister.
Reese: Tell receptionist to call me as soon as ur done ur surgery so I can come pick u up. Dont forget, ok?
My sister is sort of freaking out about this. Apparently she watched YouTube videos of people having their wisdom teeth extracted and more often than not, things got really gnarly. She wanted to come with me and sit in the waiting room the whole time. I told her that was plain ridiculous. She's needed at the shop more than I need her here holding my hand. I'm a grown up. I can handle it on my own. And besides, she's been so sick lately. The last thing I want is to have her hanging out in some clinic where she could pick up a nasty infection to add to whatever the hell is going on with her.
She's pregnant. I'm sure of it. She just doesn't want to tell me because she thinks I'll feel bad. It shouldn't be that way. My sister should be able to come to me and be open about what's going on in her life. She shouldn't feel the need to hide her joy just so I don't have a meltdown.
The problem is me. My insecurities. My expectations. They're getting in the way of my relationships with the people I love most. I really need to take a good, hard look at my life.
It gets pretty lonely on the inside of these walls I've built around myself. Sometimes, I wish I could let someone in. But I don't know how. I've spent so much time trying to act like I've got it all together that now, I don't know how to be vulnerable and admit that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
I've been feeling this way a lot over the past few weeks. Ever since that incident with Clinton at the cupcake shop. The encore performance in the storage closet the next day only compounded my confusion. That kind of behavior is so out of character for me. I'm still trying to process it. Yes, Clinton is gorgeous and sexy and his hair is pretty much pornographic, but I despise him so I can't figure out why I'd have sex with him! Twice!
I’ve been avoiding him ever since I awkwardly snuck out the backdoor of the barbershop. It was the best sex of my life, though. Jesus—I was limping for two days and even now, whenever I close my eyes I feel the pressure of his erection digging through my tunnel with a friction that makes the hairs on my neck stand on edge.
I shove the thought aside as the receptionist leads me into a large sterile room with bright, overhead lights. A pretty dental anesthesist smiles widely at me as I climb into the dental chair. I absentmindedly slip my phone into my pocket, completely forgetting to text Reese back, as I chat casually with the woman readying me for surgery.
I wince when she inserts the needle. She explains to me that once the drugs are administered, I’ll be out cold until the surgery is over. I scoff internally. Everybody’s just overreacting about the power of this silly anesthetic, I'm sure. How bad can it really be? I’m tough. I can handle it.
Before I know it, the surgeon is standing beside me, all gowned and gloved with a blue mask over his face. “Okay, Vivian. I’m going to ask you to count for me. From one to twenty. Can you do that?”
Full of conviction, I nod and start counting. “One…two…three…fooouuurrr…”
I don’t remember very much after that.