Reputation(9)
Ollie scoffs. “I’m just surprised, with the hack.”
I drape the dress over my forearm and pick up the baby car seat again. “Well, I’m not the one who makes those decisions. But we have tickets. We should go. It’ll still be fun.”
Ollie tips his head toward the ceiling. The joints in his shoulders crack, a sound that always reminds me of breaking bones. Ollie sometimes works out at a boxing gym and fights against guys mixed-martial-arts style; on one of our first dates, he admitted that he’d broken a few of his opponents’ bones. It’s an image I struggle to reconcile with my soft-spoken, teddy bear Ollie. He claims it only happened a few times. Apparently, sparring is a great stress relief for the pressures of a job in which, literally, you have to prepare every minute to be aiming a gun at someone, or screaming your guts out, or fearing for your life. Still, I can’t quite picture him behaving that way.
“I’m just so slammed,” Ollie says. “We’re no closer to shutting down that database than we were when the hack broke. And I don’t know how it will look—the guy on the task force going to the Aldrich gala instead of burning the midnight oil to take down the hacker? Doesn’t seem right, babe.”
I run my tongue over my teeth. “I didn’t think of it like that.”
“I’ll try and come, okay? But don’t hold your breath. I won’t know until later tonight.”
My smile wavers. I want him to come with me. I don’t know if I can do this particular event alone. Almost nine months ago, when the doctors in the cardiology department bought the more senior surgical nurses tickets to the gala, I’d felt honored. Dr. Greg Strasser and I were—well, our schedules didn’t intersect as much, but the shit hadn’t hit the fan yet.
But now, all that has changed. Going alone will leave me exposed. I need Ollie as my shield.
But how can I explain that without giving something away? I’ve been excited about the event—it will look strange if I suddenly have a change of heart. “No problem,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Your black suit’s clean. Grab it just in case.”
He nods, and we kiss goodbye. I carry the cumbersome car seat out the door. The morning is sunny but below freezing—spring is taking forever to arrive. I snap the car seat into its base, and my baby lets out a giggle. I look into Freddie’s huge blue eyes and feel the rush that will never cease to amaze me—this little man, this miracle, is mine. Such an amazing little treasure. It hadn’t been easy for us, making him. A year ago, we never thought we’d get a baby at all. And now . . . look. Our world is so shiny and bright.
Except it could crack open and smash on the sidewalk.
I swallow hard. No, it won’t. I can’t think like that. Nothing’s going to change.
I slide into the front seat, feeling a whoosh of conviction. I can’t fear Greg Strasser. This is my life, my future, and I need to set the tone. I pull out my phone and look at the e-mail I sent Greg earlier this week. I’ve received your research. Definitely taking into consideration. But I have all I need for now—thanks. It’s popped up in the hack, but if anyone asks about it, I have a ready excuse. The problem is, Greg didn’t write me back.
There’s no way I’m going to e-mail him again and risk it turning up on a hack site. So I compose a new text: Please. We need to talk. Are you going to the giving gala?
The phone whooshes to indicate the text has been sent. My heart pounds, waiting for Greg’s answer—in the old days, he used to get back to me almost immediately. I need to get a grip. I need to fix this. And I have a fleeting, powerful thought that passes through me like lightning: It would be so, so much easier if Greg Strasser were just gone.
* * *
There’s an excited bubble of conversation at the nurses’ station as I clock in. Tina, a surgical nurse who has as much tenure as I do, notices me and grins mischievously.
“What?” I ask—she’s said something I haven’t caught. I’m distracted. I’ve checked my phone relentlessly, waiting for Greg’s reply, but he still hasn’t answered.
Tina’s eyes dance. “Have you heard about Dr. Strasser?”
Her voice is teasing, knowing. My stomach flips. Terrible things come to mind: Greg broadcasting the truth on the marker board the nurses used to keep track of who was attending to which patient. Blaring it over the hospital loudspeaker. Telegraphing it in a hospital-wide e-mail.
“N-No . . .” My throat has gone dry. “What happened?”
Marjorie steps forward. Her mouth is twisted into a smirk. “Some crazy shit came out about him in the hack,” she whispers. “Apparently, he’s having an online affair with someone—and, man, does he talk dirty to her. It’s gone viral. Like really viral.”
Tina pretends to fan herself. “The things he wants to do to her on the MRI machine! I’ll never look at that thing the same way again.”
“I wonder how Kit’s taking it.” Marjorie crosses her arms. “Gorgeous woman like that? And remember when they started dating? It was only what, two, three years ago? He was like Tom Cruise when he jumped up on Oprah’s couch, ecstatic about Katie Holmes.”
“Men,” Tina spits. “They always want ’em younger. Up for anything.”
“Well, if these e-mails are true, this girl certainly was that,” Marjorie chuckles. She looks at Laura. “Chauncey is furious. Says it makes the whole department look unprofessional.” Chauncey is the head of the hospital, a man we all quietly fear.