Cynda and the City Doctor

This is dedicated to all of my fellow St. Louis natives who moved away and never stopped missing our super special version of Chinese food.

Once upon a time (three years ago to be exact)

Dr. Prince was dazzled by an unexpected princess.

He fell for her hard.

But she departed without warning.

Leaving behind only

one glittery Dansko slipper

“Mabel’s dead. She’s going to die!”

“Mabel’s fine. She’s not going to die,” I assure my stepsister, Erin, as I crawl into the fireplace. Then I mutter under my breath, “Not unless I kill her.”

“What did you say?” E demands, her voice an indignant screech.

“Here, Mabel, Mabel,” I croon up the chimney instead of answering. “Please come down so that E can go to school.”

I shine my phone into the dark fireplace, hoping the sound of my voice will get the kitten to come down. But she doesn’t so much as mew.

Please don’t be dead, I silently beg. If this animal went up into the chimney to die, I’m never getting E out the door.

“She’s dead!” E wails. “She’s dead or she would have come down by now.”

I sigh. “Why don’t you go get all your things ready for school so that you don’t miss the bus?”

“Who can think of school busses at a time like this?” E demands, her voice on the verge of tears. “Does Mabel’s life mean nothing to you?”

Okay, I am incredibly proud of E for getting into the Carnegie Mellon School of Drama early decision. It’s a super competitive program and I respect her dedication to becoming a high-caliber actress.

But mornings like this make me really wish she could tone down the dramatics.

“Mabel’s life means a lot to me,” I answer. “But considering this is the third time she’s gotten stuck up the chimney, I’m not sure her life means a lot to her. Now could you please make sure you have your backpack so that I don’t have to drive you to school?”

“Cynda! Cynda! Where’s my tuba? I can’t find my tuba! And I know I left it by the door!”

I don’t have to scoot out of the fireplace to figure out that this voice belongs to my stepbrother, Aaron.

Yes, seriously. His name is Aaron. He and Erin are twins. My stepmother, Rachel, was married to the drummer of an R&B cover band, and not my practical father when she had them. And she’d thought it would be cute to name both twins after their father.

It wasn’t. Rachel and her first husband divorced after signing their kids up for a lifetime of confused second takes whenever they introduce themselves. And now everyone who knows them just refers to them as A and E to avoid confusion.

But as bad as I feel for A about his full name, I don’t believe his claim for a second. I know for dang sure that kid is not responsible enough to leave his instrument by the door.

“Where was the last place you used it?” I ask him before calling up to Mabel. “Here, kitty, kitty. I’m going to need you to come down because everybody’s got to get to school and work.”

“The last time I had it was in the garage,” A answers. “But it’s not in there.”

I can see the bottom half of his cargo-pants covered legs walking back and forth in front of the fireplace. He paces like a chubby tiger whenever he gets agitated.

“Did you check just to make sure, A?”

I should have known better.

The legs abruptly stop pacing. “I told you it wasn’t in the garage! I put it by the door. Why don’t you ever believe me?” Puberty isn’t quite done with him yet, so his voice cracks with all sorts of shrieky indignation.

“Your stupid nerd horn doesn’t matter, A! Mabel’s dead!” E yells at him.

Apparently, E looked at our disaster of a morning and thought to herself, you know what this situation needs? A sibling fight. Inside the fireplace, I sigh and scrub a hand over my face even though all the coronavirus experts have been advising people against touching their faces for months now.

“My horn’s not stupid. You’re stupid!” A immediately shoots back. Good thing he plans on becoming an engineer. If that’s the best comeback he can muster, any job requiring debater skills is not in his future.

“At least I’m not heartless,” E replies. “Don’t you care anything about the innocent kitten we promised to nurture in our home?”

“Mabel please come down, I can’t take much more of this,” I beg up the chimney.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re the stupid one,” A answers, his voice triumphant. “Mabel’s in my room, hanging out with Dipper.”

“What?!” E and I say at the same time.

“E, tell me…tell me Mabel was not in A’s room this whole time!” I growl, scrambling out of the fireplace.

“Let me just check,” E answers, her pretty light brown face crinkling with a grimace. Funny, her voice doesn’t sound nearly as self-righteous as it did before.

I start picking up our two-story brick colonial’s living room while I wait. The floral patterned furniture I grew up with is still in use. But I don’t keep my childhood home nearly as tidy as my mother did when she was alive. Though to be fair, I spent most of my free time rehearsing for beauty pageants when I was a teen.

Whereas A and E seem to be in a never ending contest over who can leave more stuff laying around. Today’s winner is A. I pick up empty junk food packages and Mountain Dew cans, along with a recent AP Biology test he didn’t do so hot on.

Sure enough, by the time I come back from depositing the trash in the kitchen trashcan where it belongs, E’s emerging from her brother’s room. And who’s that curled up in her arms? That would be Mabel the smaller of the two gray tabbies she and A had named after their favorite boy-girl twins from the TV show, Gravity Falls.

We adopted the kittens last December, back when I thought for sure that A would be going to the University of Missouri-Rolla for Engineering and E would be enrolling in the Performing Arts program at Washington University in St. Louis. I’d wanted them to have pets to come back home to every weekend and for all their breaks.

But never underestimate the co-dependent power of twins. They both managed to exceed my expectations by earning scholarships for one of the few schools in the nation that had both an exceptional engineering program and a well-respected school of drama.

However, Pittsburgh was far away and the twins could barely take care of themselves. So I’d decided to move there with them, which would mean finding a nursing job in Pittsburgh and securing an apartment for the three of us that’s okay with multiple pets.

I’d seen a few listings near CMU, but they weren’t cheap, especially compared to Guadalajara, Missouri where we currently lived. No matter how I crunched the numbers, it looked like I’d have to sell the house to make this Pittsburgh plan work.

I’d been cool with that before. Especially since I knew that Dad’s dying wish was to bring up his stepkids as well as he and my mom had raised me. But right now, all those sacrifices I’ve been planning to make to advance their dreams taste like bitter food in my mouth.

“Mabel was in A’s room the entire time?” I ask E. “You didn’t even check there first?”

“I thought I saw her run up into the fireplace!” E insists. Her eyes fill with tears. “Please don’t be mad at me, Cynda”

I want to be mad. God, I want to be. Especially since I know crying on demand is on E’s list of questionable talents, along with applying fake lashes in under 30 seconds flat and convincing boys to dump their girlfriends for the chance to hook up with her.

But then I remind myself of all the reasons she’s so desperate for attention from boys, why she hides her natural beauty under a shell of perfect shellacked makeup, and why she has such easy access to her pain.

We’re all still reeling from Dad’s sudden death three years ago. And their mom is who knows where right now—though if I were taking bets, it would probably be in St. Louis, spending this month’s life insurance payout at the casino riverboats. She’d walked out a couple of months after my dad’s funeral, and only swanned in for random visits which she never announced.

For all intents and purposes, it’s just the twins and me. Which is fine. Now that we’ve all lost my dad, I’m determined to love and provide for them just as true blue as he would have if he’d lived.

“Guys we’ve got to remember. We’re all in this together, and we have to help each other. So right now please go find your stuff so that we can get out the door.”

“But…” they both start to protest in twin unison.

I lift both hands, already knowing what they’ll say. I’ve only been their main caretaker for three years, but I swear sometimes it feels like a lifetime. I assign them duties before they can start whining about how they can’t do this or that.

“You two get your backpacks while I go check in the garage for A’s horn.”

“It’s not in the garage!” A yells after me, his round light brown face turning red with indignation.

“Guess what! Your horn’s in the garage!” I call back over my shoulder less than a minute later. You know, after I find his case open on top of my hood and the tuba sitting bell side down on the concrete. The former marching band member still lurking inside of me, shudders at the sight.

“Sorry,” A has the good grace to mumble when he comes slinking out to the garage.

But unfortunately his apology isn’t enough to get us to the school bus in time.

It drives away, even though I’m pretty sure Mr. Greiner saw us running to catch it. He’s the same driver who drove the bus when I was a student at Guac High. Guac High is what the locals call Guadalajara Senior High School. It doesn’t make much sense if you’re not a small town Missouri resident who’s only ever seen Mexico on a map, but due to our Spanish-language name, we’re weirdly obsessed with guacamole. We call ourselves Guacs not Guadalajarians, which is short for Guacamoles. And yeah sure guacamole can’t be pluralized, but none of us care. We also tack Guac to the front of all of our institutions, and our high school mascot is an avocado.

Unfortunately, Mr. Greiner doesn’t have nearly the same sense of humor as the rest of the town. And it doesn’t matter how many parents complain, he never waits for the kids who aren’t standing right there when he pulls up to the curb.

The twins and I end up coughing on fumes as he speeds away.

“Sorry,” they both say this time.

I sigh and pull my sweater a little tighter around my scrubs. “C’mon, I’ll drive you.”

When we get back to the house, I notice that the flag on the mailbox is down. So we’ve had letters sitting in there since last night. It’s A’s chore to bring in the mail. But he forgets more often than he remembers. I grab the pile of letters on our way to the garage and shake it at him.

“Sorry,” he says for the third time in the same morning.

I’m about to chastise him about this ongoing issue again but I stop when I see the letter on top of the pile. It’s the only one that’s not a bill. And the address is handwritten…to me. From an R. Smith from Pinewood, South Dakota.

Smith. That’s my mother’s maiden name, but also pretty common. And South Dakota? Who do I know in South Dakota?

Maybe it’s one of the other Queen America contestants. Though, I barely remember saying more than a few words to Princess South Dakota five years ago when I competed in the national pageant. Or maybe it’s one of the nurses I used to work with at Raines Jewish before I moved back home to Guadalajara?

Or maybe it’s a certain exchange fellow whose name also began with R? The one who’d once admitted that he had twelve names, not the usual three. He had claimed it was a long boring story and he would prefer if I just called him Rhys.

A memory of him hits me without warning. Us tearing each other’s clothes off in the on-call room. Too desperate to make it all the way to the bed. Him pushing down my scrubs and taking me right against the door….

“I thought you said we were going to be late!”

I glance up to see A at the back door of my Honda Civic, waiting for me to unlock the car.

And even though it’s only in the very low forties temperature wise, it feels like my body’s burning up with fever for reasons that have nothing to do with the virus currently sweeping the nation. God, what is wrong with me? It’s been three years already. Why can’t I just forget him?

I shake my head at A and stick the mail pile into my purse.

“See this is why I have to move with you guys to Pittsburgh,” I say to A. “How were you planning on surviving on your own at college when you can’t even remember to bring in the mail?”

He shrugs and I sigh.

My friends Billie and Gina hadn’t been so sure about my decision to move to Pittsburgh with the twins, but mornings like this prove my decision to go with them is totally right. A and E need me, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to be there for them.

It’s just too bad nobody’s answered any of the rental ads for the back house I’ve put up all over town. Dad left the house to me not my stepmother—thank goodness, but it’s one of the nicer ones in our mostly agricultural and working-class town. That means it’s going to take a while to sell, especially right now during a nationwide pandemic. So I’ll definitely need the extra income renting out the back house could bring in for our move.

E lets out an aggrieved huff in the passenger seat. “There’s only three stoplights on the way to Guac High, but I swear we’re hitting every one.”

A, who’s scrolling on his phone in the back seat says, “They’re saying the governor’s about to give a press conference about the coronavirus. Do you think he’s going to tell everybody they have to close the schools?”

“That’s the rumor,” I answer. “But you never know.”

Many school districts and most of the colleges in Missouri had already closed, but Guadalajara was one of the districts still holding out.

“If they do, I hope they re-open in time for the spring musical,” E says, wringing her hands in the front seat.

I pull up in front of the red brick and stone building where a couple of hundred high schoolers are gathered waiting for the first bell. “We’ll see, honey.”

“Good-bye, dear Cynda. Love you!” E says. She gracefully slides through the passenger side door while her brother clambers out of the back seat.

“Love you too,” I call after the both of them, even though A just got out like I was his chauffeur.

They walk together towards the stone steps only to split into separate groups of their theater and nerd friends.

It’s funny, I think. If this were a play, they’d get cast as polar opposites. E could play the popular high school girl role easily with her long, wavy hair and creamy brown skin with makeup perfectly applied to hide her freckles. Meanwhile, A would definitely be chosen as the band nerd with his chubby waistline and 365 day affinity for cargo pants from the Sears big and husky line. Yet, they would never be cast as twins.

But that’s what they are, and nothing says that more than the lengths they went in order to attend the same school. My heart constricts as I drive away. It had been my father’s dying wish to see them thrive, and I’m going to make sure that happens. It’s my dream to see that they are as loved and well taken care of as I was growing up with my mom and dad.

Which means I have to rush back across town to my job in downtown Guadalajara. Our house is actually close enough to walk to main street. My dad used to walk to work every day, rain, snow, or insanely humid shine. However, the detour to the high school means not only do I have to drive to work today, but I’m going to be late.

Just as I’m halfway to the office, the phone rings. It’s Dr. Haim. Probably wondering where I am. But I can’t pick up the call because I forgot my headphones at home and it’s against the law to talk or text while driving.

So I let Dr. Haim’s call go to voicemail with a silent apology for being late. Again. This isn’t the first time I haven’t been able to get the twins to the bus on time.

If it was anybody else, I’d text him at the next stop sign. But Dr. Haim tosses his personal phone into his middle desk drawer when he gets into the office every morning and only uses his landline.

So at the next stop sign, instead of texting, my eyes wander to the letter sticking out of my purse along with a bunch of bills. The letter from R. Smith. My belly flutters and my heart twists just a little bit.

It’s probably nothing. But for some reason, I can’t stop glancing at it as I drive toward the office. If I weren’t so late, I’d pull over and read it right now.

But I am late, so the letter will have to wait.

When I get to the office, I grab my purse and immediately jump out. Only to nearly scream when I see myself in the window’s reflection. My straightened hair which I’d pulled into its usual long ponytail extension this morning now has tufts sticking out and there’s ash all over my face!

What the hell? Why didn’t E or A tell me I looked like a hot mess, not the former Princess Missouri the town takes such pride in?

Wiping the soot away as best I can, I set my phone to vibrate, then race into the practice. No waiting patients. Thank goodness. I head directly to Dr. Haim’s office to apologize.

“Cynda, there you are,” the doctor who replaced my father says when I push open his door. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with you all morning.”

“Sorry, Dr. Haim. The twins missed the bus and I had to drive them to school. And I didn’t have my headphones, so I couldn’t call back and tell you I was running late.”

His gray brows crease in a distracted frown and he adjusts his wire-rimmed spectacles over his long nose. “Oh, Cynda, it’s okay. I just wanted to give you some warning before telling you about a very difficult decision I made over the weekend. You see, I received an offer for my practice and after much thought, I decided to sign the deal and take early retirement.”

My stomach drops. “You sold my dad’s practice? But why?”

Dad had left me the house but strangely he hadn’t made any arrangements for the practice, so it had gone to my stepmother. Luckily she had no interest in dealing with the actual sale and had let me handle it.

I’d picked Dr. Haim to take over my dad’s clinic and he’d assured me that he was in it for the long run. He’d agreed to all of my conditions and had even hired me as his nurse to prove how dedicated he was to preserving my father’s legacy.

“I know this must come as a shock,” Dr. Haim says, his dark brown eyes somber. “But it was a very good deal and it will give me the chance to retire much earlier than I originally had planned.”

I shake my head at him. “You’re only fifty-two. Why do you need to retire now? Especially when so many people here depend on you—”

A terrible thought occurs to me, remembering the last doctor who surprised me with an out-of-the-blue retirement announcement. “Please tell me you didn’t sell my dad’s clinic to one of those McMedicine franchises like DBCare. You promised me you’d never do that.”

Dr. Haim holds up his hands defensively. “And I kept that promise! My buyer is a single male doctor, like myself. In fact, let me introduce you to your new boss.”

The door I’d only halfway opened obscures the view of the guest chair in front of Dr. Haim’s. I don’t realize there’s someone there until he extends his hand toward it.

Cursing myself for not fixing my ponytail before I came in, I frantically wipe at the soot on my face. This is not a great first impression for the boss I’m about to meet.

But remembering all my pageant training, I take a deep breath and step forward the rest of the way into Dr. Haim’s office with a bright smile and one hand extended.

Only to stop when I see the man sitting in the chair.

My heart thuds, then free falls to my feet.

Everything stops.

Everything fades away.

Everything but the man sitting in front of me.

It’s been three years but I recognize him immediately. From the slick russet brown hair to the direct steel-grey eyes.

Rhys.

The Fine Prince…

Dr. Prince to anyone who wasn’t an ER nurse in the Raines Jewish Emergency Department and didn’t love 90’s sitcoms.

The last time I saw him had been at his trendy Central West End apartment with its view overlooking Forest Park. He’d been regarding me like a king on his throne as I slunk out the door with my overnight bag.

“You may go home this weekend, but when you return, come straight back to me.”

But I’d never seen him again…until now.

“What…what are you doing here?” I demand lowering my hand. I’m too shocked to be polite.

But Rhys stands up like a proper gentleman. And dear God, he’s even finer than I remembered. His dark brown curls are no longer tousled but slicked back. He has a beard now, but somehow his jaw actually appears sharper than before, his grey eyes even more intelligent.

He’s wearing a suit instead of scrubs and a white coat, but I can clearly tell he’s been hitting the gym since I saw him last, not the carbs. Unlike me. I’ve put on at least fifteen pounds, but he’s lean with muscles that fill out his tailored suit.

He regards me for one cold and stiff moment, before saying, “Hello again, Cynda.”

He also still has that sexy English accent, which makes his greeting sound about a thousand times more polite than mine.

Until he also says, “You’re fired.”

Three years ago:

“Red Alert! The Fine Prince is here. I repeat. THE FINE PRINCE IS HERE!”

The alert from the Emergency Department Nurses’ text stream came through on the Apple Watch Daddy got me a few Christmases ago. And it was promptly followed by rows of eggplant emojis from several of my fellow ER nurses.

I let out a heavy sigh and rolled my eyes. I liked a hot piece of eye candy just as much as the next overworked nurse. But these heifers were acting so thirsty.

“So you don’t think I should use my Princess South Carolina scholarship money to get a degree in accounting?” a hurt voice asked.

Dangit! I’d forgotten I was on a three-way FaceTime call with my best friends Billie and Gina. Cursing that stupid message for distracting me, I turned back to the phone in my hand.

Billie was staring up at me from her screen, looking self-conscious bordering on crushed. And Gina, who as usual, was decked out in a Beyonce-level blonde weave, was shaking her head at me. I could almost hear her silently asking me, “What the hell? You know how sensitive Billie is!”

I grimaced. I had what my mother used to gently call, “ER Nurse qualities.” I could be way too direct and plainspoken on and off the hospital floor. I’d done my best to cover up all that attitude when my mom was alive. But in the two years since she died of cancer, I’d been reverting more and more to my natural state. The gracious beauty queen had faded away along with my mother and the real me, a tell-like-it-is nurse had taken her place.

But Billie and Gina have been my best friends ever since we all competed in the Queen America pageant two years ago. They’d been the only two other Black women in our class that year, and though none of us had won, we’d always said our instant friendship was worth more than any crown.

We tried to talk on FaceTime at least once a month. And since they were both on East Coast time they went out of their way to accommodate my hectic ER Nurse schedule. Yes, I like to tell it like it is, but I’d never mock either of their dreams.

“Sorry, that eye roll wasn’t meant for you,” I assured Billie. “I got distracted by this stupid text that came through on my watch about this hot doc all the nurses are slobbering over. They call him ‘The Fine Prince’, and everybody’s been acting crazy stupid about him ever since he came through for this fellowship.”

“Ooh, tell us more about The Fine Prince!” Billie demanded. “He sounds a lot more interesting than my accounting degree.”

“No, trust me, it isn’t,” I answer with another eye roll. “I already have to put up with the other nurses talking about him all the time. Let’s talk about accounting. Right Gina?”

“Sorry, Cynda, I’m on Billie’s side,” Gina answered, her southern accent honeyed and sweet. “All of us, including Billie, know she’ll make a great whatever she wants to be.”

“Aw, thanks, Gina!” A bright smile lit up Billie’s entire face.

It’s a sweet friendship-affirming moment for one whole second, but then Gina says, “Now spill the tea on this hot doc of yours.”

“He’s not mine,” I started to answer.

But Gina blew right through my point. “Plus, I want to live vicariously. If I even look sideways at another man, it’s a huge fight with Tommy.”

I frowned. Gina had only started dating Tommy, a sergeant with the Jonesboro PD a few weeks ago, and he was already telling her she shouldn’t look at other men? “How does that work with you being a stripper?”

There was no judgment from me about Gina’s current career. She was doing what she had to put herself the rest of the way through Emory part-time after not winning the America Queen pageant—unfortunately, her Princess Georgia scholarship money hadn’t been nearly enough to cover the prestigious university’s cost.

But I didn’t see how her fledgling relationship would work if this new guy of hers was too jealous to even let her look at other men.

Gina’s gorgeous face crinkles as she waves a perfectly-manicured hand dismissively. “It’s fine. He knows I’m just working when I’m at Magic Peaches—I mean that’s where he met me. But when I’m with him. He wants me to only be with him and not thinking about any other guys. That’s all.”

In the other FaceTime screen, Billie twisted her lips.

And I said out loud what we were probably both thinking. “That sounds controlling AF!”

“Yeah,” Billie agreed. “Are you sure this guy is a match for you, Gina?”

“C’mon guys, I was just making a little joke,” Gina said with an exasperated shake of her blond mane. “He’s great. He buys me presents and he can be so sweet. It doesn’t matter if sometimes he gets jealous.”

“It doesn’t?” I sucked on my teeth, because, “If a guy tried to catch salt like that with me, I’d be like deuces.”

“Or if he ate off-brand Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies,” Gina replied, throwing me an exasperated look.

Okay, that had actually happened a few months ago. An EMT I was dating tried to offer me one of those foul Mrs. Freshley Oatmeal Crème Cookies the morning after first sex. There was no second sex. “I mean those things are just gross.”

“How about the murse you dumped because he said ER was better than Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Shonda’s show is clearly superior!” I shot back.

“Remember the vegan?” Billie asked, jumping on Gina’s bandwagon.

“That is a very aggressive decision to make in St. Louis,” I answered, my voice whiny and defensive. “And it made it so hard to eat.”

“Then why did you dump that perfectly nice firefighter who ate too much meat?” Gina asked.

“Who only eats at steak houses?” I asked back.

“Ooh! Ooh! Remember the lawyer she ghosted because he didn’t vote for the right judge?” Billie asked Gina.

Gina’s eyes flare comically. “I forgot about that one! Like president or governor, I can understand. Maybe even the mayor. But who stops dating someone because of what judge they voted for in the election?”

“If he’d voted right, a Black woman would have had a chance of making it onto the Missouri Supreme court!” I insisted.

Gina shrugged and shook her head at me like she was trying hard not to laugh. “I’m just saying my standards and your standards are on two different levels and I’m fine with that. Because my level isn’t located in Crazytown. I mean how many guys have you been through in the last year?”

I rolled my eyes. And this time it was definitely aimed at my two friends. “Twelve. I’m not tracking it or anything.”

“Twelve, seriously?” Billie asked, her eyes huge. “That’s a lot.”

“Okay, thank you, math whiz,” I answered. “Yes, you should definitely go to accounting school.”

“Ooh, will The Fine Prince be lucky number thirteen?” Gina asked.

“In what universe is thirteen lucky?” I asked my overly optimistic friend. “And no he won’t. Yeah, he’s stupid hot and has an English accent, but he’s totally stuck up. He barely ever looks at me, even when we’re face to face, talking about a patient. From what I’ve seen, he only flirts with White girls. So even if I wanted to date him—which I wouldn’t, given the aforementioned lack of diversity in his flirt game—he probably wouldn’t be into dating me.”

“He has an English accent?” Billie and Gina ask in unison.

Apparently, that was all they heard.

“And he only likes White girls. Did you not hear that part?”

“Perhaps not, but I did,” a voice said behind me. A voice with an extremely sexy English accent.

I froze, my entire body flooding with shocked embarrassment.

“Oh, no! Is that him?” Billie whispered, covering her face with both hands. “Did he hear everything you just said?”

“Hold the phone up so that we can see if he deserves that nickname,” Gina demanded, her voice also hushed.

“I’m going to have to call you back,” I answered before killing the FaceTime call.

Remembering all my pageant training, I crooked of my head and pasted on a dazzling smile before turning around. “Hey, Dr. Prince. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” he answered, not returning my smile. His expression was serious and tight as he lifted his arm. “I came upon this ancient relic while checking on Dr. Rhajeen’s patient in bed two. It requires translation.”

I almost laughed when he held up a clipboard with a paper chart. But I tamped down amusement to inform him, “I can’t read Dr. Rhajeen’s handwriting either.”

“Yet, you let him chart on paper, which he’s apparently saved from last decade.”

I shrugged, some of my embarrassment at being caught talking about him fading away. Maybe he’d only heard that last line and had no clue I was talking about him. “Not my fault he refuses to use the electronic system.”

“Many of the other RNs make separate electronic charts for him in order to make the lives of the doctors who have the shift after him easier.”

I raised my eyebrows and pulled back my neck to say, “No, they do that to make your life easier. Your life only.”

He frowned down at the charts. “That can’t be right.”

I shrugged. “Don’t believe me, ask the other docs on your shift.”

“I will,” he answered. “But perhaps it would behoove you to show us the same kindness as the other nurses.”

“And perhaps it would behoove you to tell the chief it’s time to put Dr. Rhajeen out to pasture as opposed to expecting us nurses to cover his ass,” I shot back.

His sharp jaw worked in a way that told me he was gritting his teeth. Then he said, “Fine, I’ll take that under consideration. In the meanwhile, would you be so kind as to help me with this chart.”

Back when my mom was still alive I would have at least tried to act like I was a somewhat gracious person. But now…

“Man, I just got off my shift and this is the first chance I’ve had to eat all day,” I answered. I walked over to the refrigerator to retrieve the Chinese food I brought for lunch. “So if you want me to look at that chart for you, you’ll need to wait. Or I’m sure any of the nurses currently on shift would be happy to help you translate. They’re such huge fans.”

He stared at me for a tense, irritated beat. Then he asked, “Are you always this prickly? No wonder you’ve had twelve relationships go wrong in as many months.”

So he was listening in! I almost let him see me sweat. But acting bothered wasn’t a thing I like to do. Especially in front of men who were so fine nurses acted a fool whenever he signed on for his shift.

“Are you always this entitled?” I plopped the carton in the microwave, then punched the minute button three times to start it up. “And how long were you listening in on my conversation anyway?”

“Long enough,” he answered. He picked at a corner of the paper chart. “It sounds like your stripper friend has trouble brewing with that new boyfriend of hers.”

“Right?!” I asked, turning away from the microwave to face him. “He’s sketchy as a big dog, but Gina won’t listen to me.”

Dr. Prince set the charts aside on the breakroom table. “I’ve a sister like that. She’s always falling for suspect men. She went through a string of artists who never managed to produce enough work for a show. And now she’s going out with an aspiring yoga guru.”

Okay, so I guess The Fine Prince and me are chatting now. “Aspiring, huh? I didn’t know that’s something you aimed for. Yoga teacher, I get. Maybe even a meditation master. But who’s like ‘you know what I’m fixing to do? Become a yoga guru?’”

His lips twitched slightly. “Do you think he’s already written the script for the Netflix docuseries about his inevitable rise and fall under a combination of sexual harassment charges and unpaid back taxes?”

“He most definitely has!” I let out a surprised laugh. This guy was funny in a droll sort of way.

And hot I couldn’t help but notice. He had that smooth I just woke up looking like I could walk onto a Shonda Rhimes set vibe on lock. And when he smiled down at me, something weird happened in my chest. I don’t know what it was, but it made it impossible for me not to smile back up at him. For real this time. No Princess Missouri.

No wonder nurses of all colors spent so much time making sure his charts were all the way correct. The Fine Prince indeed.

As if reading my mind, he asked, “Do they truly call me that. The Fine Prince?”

“They sure do,” I answered, pulling my carton out of the microwave. “You want in on this?”

Yes, I’m prickly, but the manners my mother instilled in me remained. Even after she was gone.

Remembering my last sight of her, a wave of sadness passed over me. She’d been surrounded by loved ones, her husband, her daughter, and a few of her friends from the Lutheran church we attended. But she had looked so small in that hospital bed.

“You want me to call your sister?” my father had asked her as she worked hard to breathe through her nasal cannula oxygen tube. “Let her talk to you one last time?”

For some reason, my mother had turned her head to look at me.

Then after what looked like several conflicted seconds, she shook her head.

I didn’t know much about that sister. Only that she was wild to the point that she wasn’t invited to the funeral when granddaddy died. My dad had remained silent about grandpa’s funeral. But I guess not inviting her to grandma’s must have sat on his conscience. I overheard them arguing about it when I came downstairs for a glass of water the night before grandma’s funeral.

“It just doesn’t seem right to me, Mari.”

“What would be right about inviting her? That heifer left in the middle of the night and we haven’t heard from her ever since.”

“She sent that letter apologizing…”

“If she was really sorry, she would have come down here and said it to Mama’s face.”

“But…” Dad had started to argue.

“And who’s to even know if she’s still off the bottle like that letter said?” Mama had asked before he could finish that sentence. “For all we know she’s out there somewhere turning tricks to get another bottle.”

“But…” Dad had tried again.

“Don’t but me, Mac. Just don’t. My mama is dead and the last person I want to deal with is my sister on top. And don’t you forget, she could ruin everything!”

Dad had opened his mouth to argue again, but then he saw me standing there in the kitchen door. “Aw, pumpkin, how long have you been standing there watching us go on?”

Pumpkin. That was what he always called me, whether he was happy, angry, or sad.

“I came down to get a glass of water,” I had answered, squinting at Mama. She seemed frozen in place, like someone who’d been caught doing something bad. Which had made me suspicious enough to ask, “Why would she ruin everything?”

“Let me get you that water, sweetie.” Mama had turned around with what she called her “make pretty smile.” Because as she’d put it, “I’m not anything to look at until I put on a pretty smile and a pleasant attitude. That smile’s what made your daddy fall for me at first sight. And my pleasant attitude is what keeps him loving me to this day.”

I’d been doing pageants since the age of six, so I knew I was pretty, whether I smiled or not. And I’d always thought Mama was pretty too. But whenever I’d tried to tell her that, she’d said, “Stop that now. I’m just all right. Like my mama told me, growing up, one beauty in the family is quite enough.”

I’d always assumed she’d said that because in the old black and white photos, anyone could see grandma had been the kind of pretty that turned heads back in the day. But as I had watched my mother fetch the glass of water, a new thought had occurred to me.

Had the younger sister been the designated beautiful one? The one I’d never seen a picture of…the one she was refusing to invite to grandmama’s funeral?

Instead of answering my question about her sister ruining everything, my mother had handed me the glass of water and said, “There you go. Now get back to bed. We got to be up early tomorrow to make all of Mama’s arrangements.”

I’d gone back to bed, but I wondered about the sister who wasn’t invited to either of her parents’ funerals for days afterward.

“Yes, I’ll have some, thank you.”

The Fine Prince’s acceptance of my invitation drew me out of my memory. And took me by complete surprise.

If that fireman I dated for a few seconds had only eaten dinner at steakhouses, Dr. Prince struck me as someone who wouldn’t let anything that wasn’t presented on fine china pass his lips. He had an air of refinement about him that you really didn’t see often in St. Louis, even with the visiting fellows.

But okay…

I grabbed one of the paper bowls from the cabinet and used a spoon to put half my Chinese food in a bowl.

He took it, but his face fell when he saw what was in the Styrofoam dish. “Ah, I thought you were having Chinese food.”

“That is Chinese food,” I answer.

“Then why is it covered in gravy?” he asks.

I laughed. “Welcome to Black St. Louis, Dr. Prince. Our version of Chinese food is a mashup of the basic boring kind you find in most places and Black soul food. So that’s basically pork fried rice smothered in Egg Foo Young gravy.”

“Oh, I see.” Dr. Prince nods as if he understands. But then he asks, “And could you explain to me what Egg Foo Young gravy is?”

Once again I found myself trying not to laugh. “They don’t have that in England?”

“No, they don’t have this particular dish where I come from.”

“Well Egg Foo Young’s kind of like this fried egg pancakey omelet sort of dish. We also make a sandwich called the St. Paul with it—it’s pretty famous, at least around here. But anyway when you have egg foo young alone, this is the gravy they put over it. And if you’re real St. Louis like my roommate, you order pork fried rice and gravy off menu. St. Louis Style Chinese food is like a whole Food Network documentary. So, why don’t you just try it and tell me what you think?”

I sat down at the table and beckoned him forward. Like I did with my junior-high-school-age twin stepsiblings when I was encouraging them to try new things.

“Do you at least have chopsticks?”

“Man, you are not in London anymore,” I answered. “Sit your butt down and try this on already.”

He sat down across from me with the bowl I’d given him. And I had to suppress a smile at the way he hesitantly dipped the spoon into the dish, lifted it slowly, then finally gave it the smallest of nibbles.

I took back what I said about him being like the twins. He was even worse.

But then his eyes widened. “It’s good,” he exclaimed. “It’s actually good!”

I laughed, loving his reaction to the comfort food that had gotten me through so many twelve-hour shifts. “When I came to St. Louis for nursing school after growing up in Guadalajara, I wanted to slap my mama for never telling me Chinese food could taste so good. She grew up here.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So you grew up in Mexico, but your mother is from St. Louis?”

“No, I grew up in Guadalajara, Missouri. It’s a small town, a couple hours west of here. Missouri also has towns called Paris, Amsterdam, and Cairo. My mom went to high school in a city called Normandy and lived in a neighborhood called Beverly Hills. Missouri loves borrowing names like that.”

He finishes his bite before responding with, “You’re naming conventions are certainly more interesting than the ones in England. For most of my formative years, I attended a very English boarding school in a very English town. No whimsy about it.”

“Wow, that sounds boring.”

“It was actually,” he agreed with a laugh.

God, he’s handsome when he laughs. The thought comes without warning. And suddenly it feels like I’m in high school again. Back when I was still capable of things like crushes and being surprised when a boy I thought was cute turned out to like me too.

We continued eating in comfortable silence after that. But then he asked, “The Fine Prince? Is that truly what they call me behind my back.”

“Yup,” I answered. “But not me. I just call you plain old Dr. Prince.”

“You also have a nickname if you didn’t know already,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “And a reputation.”

I raised both my eyebrows right on back at him. “For real?”

“Yes, for real,” he said. His tone stayed casual, but I was pretty sure I detected an underlying note of petty glee. “If you’re wondering about my cool attitude toward you, it’s because I’ve been warned by quite a few of your spurned admirers not to pursue anything with Nurse America.”

I had to give him credit. As clapbacks went, his wasn’t half-bad. But then he ruined the effect by screwing up his face and admitting, “I don’t understand the nickname, but I have heard you called that.”

I shrugged and shook my head. “It’s a reference to this dumb thing I did a couple of years ago. A national pageant called Beauty Queen of America—though most people call it Queen America for short. I was crowned Princess Missouri before that, but when I competed in the big Queen America competition I didn’t win. So calling me Nurse America isn’t exactly right.”

“Ah…” he said with a nod. “Then I won’t call you that. Even behind your back.”

Something warm fluttered in her chest. “Thank you.”

I graced him with a beauty queen smile before returning to my food. I was down to my last few bites. And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I found myself eating way slower. Taking the time to chew each and every spoonful instead of wolfing down my post-shift reward meal like I usually do.

Lingering.

The word floated into my head like a third-grade spelling challenge.

Yes, I admitted to myself. I was lingering. Wanting this unexpected meal with The Fine Prince to last longer than it needed.

He was eating slower too, I noticed. Maybe because he was full. Or maybe he, too, felt the tension hanging in the air between us. Tight with unspoken thoughts.

“You know, what you told your friends wasn’t correct,” he said, breaking the new silence first.

“What wasn’t?” I asked, pausing the spoon above my last bite of food.

“I don’t only date White girls, as you called them. I’m quite open. And if I seemed cold, I’m sorry.” He averts his eyes. “I find it difficult to interact with especially attractive women as they make me nervous. It’s a byproduct of spending my formative years at an all-boys boarding school I’m afraid.”

Especially attractive women…wait a minute, he’s talking about me!

My heart stuttered.

“Oh, really?” Oh, God, why was my voice squeaky and weak?

I cussed inwardly. Really, Princess Missouri, really? You can play piano flawlessly for millions of people around the world. But you can’t keep your voice from going all squeaky when a hot doc starts flirting with you?

“Yes, really.” He put his plastic spoon down on a napkin beside his bowl. “Perhaps we should talk further about your many misperceptions of me…over dinner.”

I scooped up my last bite of pork fried rice and gravy. Chewed it slowly and swallowed it down.

He waited patiently for me to finish, but I think we both knew even before he asked me out what my answer would be.

That night he took me out to Dressel’s, a popular farm-to-table restaurant that was just a five-minute drive from the hospital.

And that’s when I learned he had twelve names not three. “My mother is Welsh and my father is—well, it’s a long boring story. But I’d prefer if you called me Rhys.”

So I did.