“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.
With love,
Ginger
I read the message twice, the first time in complete disbelief and the second time with rage boiling inside me. She fucked up my entire life, and she wants me to forgive her for that and pick up where we left off? We “left off” when her husband caught her giving me a blow job. Is she for real? I block her, delete the message and empty the trash so there’s no chance I have to see that bullshit again.
Disgusted, I get up and step away before I’m tempted to hurl my laptop against a wall. I take the beer with me to the small balcony that adjoins my room and look down over the hotel’s pool area, which is still busy even at almost nine o’clock.
Goddamned Ginger. She had to make it even worse than it already is. After making a total fool of me and costing me my job and sterling reputation, she actually thinks I might want to get back together? Is she insane?
If there’s one kernel of good news, it’s that she appealed to her husband on my behalf, or so she says, not that I think that’ll actually help. He’s not going to have the man who screwed his wife and humiliated him on his staff. What’s funny, if you want to call it that, is how she fucked with both of us. He and I ought to get together, have a beer and talk about the many ways she did us both wrong. We might even be friends after that, a thought that makes me laugh.
As if.
I’d never claim to have been a saint in my dealings with women, but married women are a hard limit for me. Not that good old Howard would