Page 61 of A Really Bad Idea

We wait for Mom to sign her discharge papers and walk her and Dad downstairs to the car service they arranged to bring them here and back. Brian heads toward the subway to go to his office downtown, and I head into work.

As I head through the doors of Park Avenue Cardiology, I recognize many of our regular patients waiting on the plush sofas for their upcoming appointments. I say hello to a few, including one who has brought her granddaughter with her. The little girl with curls in her hair is throwing the magazines on the floor as her grandmother tells her she can’t make a mess of the waiting room. I walk to the reception desk and open the drawer where I keep a stack of activity books and crayons I get at the dollar store. Then, I set the girl up at the coffee table with an Elena of Avalor coloring book. Her grandmother thanks me, and I head back to the break room where I put my stuff away in my locker.

I’m putting my hair in a ponytail when the door swings open, and Angela comes in, holding a large display of sunflowers that are obstructing her face.

“Heard everything went well this morning!” she chimes as she puts the flowers on the table. This room is so sterile-looking, and flowers brighten it up.

“So far, so good.” I motion toward the glass vase filled with vibrant golden flowers. “Looks like someone is getting romanced. Denny is upping his game.”

Angela scrunches her face. “Those are not for me.”

It’s a rather expressive bouquet. Whoever they’re for is a very lucky individual.

“They’re for you,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Me?”

“There’s a card in there,” she says.

I walk over and look through the petals for the small card that comes with such an arrangement, but I stop when Angela adds, “They’re from Christian.”

“Snoop much?” I reprimand.

She shrugs. “I had to see who they were for.”

With my hands on my hips, I tap a foot.

She doesn’t seem fazed as she twirls her silky hair and sings, “Looks like someone is getting romanced.”

Romanced. What a word. I used it before when I thought they were for Angela. Now, the word makes my stomach go wild with butterflies.

I turn back to my locker. “My mom had her procedure today. He sent them as a friendly gesture.”

“Yeah, I get sent large displays of flowers from my friends all the time.” She’s being sarcastic.

“They’re sunflowers. They’re the epitome of friendship. In fact, they’re the least romantic plant on the entire planet,” I defend.

“That’s not true. Gladiolas remind me of funerals. And carnations are cheap.”

“I’ll make sure Denny never buys you carnations.”

“Oh, he’d never buy me flowers, period. Something about paying money for a thing that’s ripped from the ground, guaranteeing its impending death, is bad for his soul.”

I tilt my head. “Isn’t he an avid cannabis user? Is the pot plant not a living, breathing thing?”

The question seems to stump Angela. “You’re getting off topic. You. Christian. Flowers.”

“I told him I’d go to the gala with him.” I feign nonchalance.

She squeals with a jump to her step. “What are you going to wear? We should go shopping! Tomorrow, during lunch, let’s go out—”

“I already have a dress,” I state as I take out my white coat. “Christian bought me a dress.”

I adjust my hair from under the collar and lace a stethoscope around my neck. When I close the door and turn around, Angela is standing there with a raised brow and a devilish grin.

“What?” I ask.

She moves her shoulders in a shimmy. “You two are so going to get it on!”