A White Coat Is My Closet (21 page)

Sweat glistened off his forehead, and he pushed his damp hair back by running his fingers over his head. He smiled and pushed me in front of him. “You’re not slowing down, are you?”

“Me? Man, I’m just getting warmed up. I figured if we only take a short break, then kick the pace up a notch, we can make Santa Barbara by sundown.” I paused briefly, then tried to look appropriately disappointed. “Oh, that’s right. You have to work tonight. Any excuse to wimp out.” Anticipating what was coming, I leaned into him so he could push me again with a little more force.

“The only way you’d make Santa Barbara is if I carried you on my shoulders.”

“Sounds to me like you’re volunteering. Let’s do it. I’m looking forward to riding you.” This time, I laughed and ran ahead to avoid being shoved. In doing so, I noticed that my hamstrings were a little tight. Though I had been doing a lot of cardio, it had been a while since I had been on my bike. “Man, I guess I’m using some muscles I haven’t used in a while.” I smiled over my shoulder. “Still feels like the bike seat is riding up my ass.”

“That’s probably the icicle I was telling you about.”

We separated to wander through the store, looking for something to take the edge off our hunger and provide us with a little energy for the ride back. I had picked up another bottle of water and was considering grabbing one of the freshly baked cookies displayed on the counter when I saw Sergio coming back with an apple in his hand.

“Damn. Now you’re going to make me feel guilty. That cookie had my name all over it.”

“Go for it. Then the cookie will have its name all over you. Forget about having six-pack, abs. I’ll just call you ‘cookie gut.’”

When I had initially seen him with the apple, I’d thought about getting a piece of fruit instead of the cookie, but now I was unwilling to give him the satisfaction. “That’s the advantage to having the metabolism of a finely tuned Ferrari; you can eat as many cookies as you want and still maintain a six-pack.” I picked up a chocolate chip cookie and dangled it in front of him.

“Is that the truth? So, why are you still carrying that liter bottle around under your shirt?”

“You’re an ass. And an eight-pack is the equivalent of a liter.” I put my money on the counter and took a satisfying bite. “Besides, a little sugar might sweeten your disposition. Want a taste?” I thrust the cookie under his nose.

“No, thanks. You enjoy it. My body is a temple, and I won’t have it polluted with sugar. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m naturally sweet. No artificial substitutes for me.” When he brought the apple up to his mouth, he intentionally flexed his bicep. Rolling my eyes only seemed to encourage him, and he proceeded to raise his arms up and flex both his biceps. “Mountain grown for better flavor.”

“You’ve been watching too many American coffee commercials, and besides, being born in Rome doesn’t make you mountain grown. But….” I paused. “Keep that arm up there a second longer, and I’ll taste it for myself. I’ll let you know if it’s a good brew.”

He smiled. “Imported directly from Italy. The world’s finest grind.”

I gave the cashier enough money to pay for both our purchases. “This one’s on me.” I looked at Sergio and smiled. “It’s not every day I get to feast on international cuisine.”

He tried to look indignant. “Who said anything about a feast? You just get the sample!”

I had devoured my cookie before he’d even taken the second bite of his apple, so I took his key and went to unlock the bikes while he finished it.

When the wire cable was again secured around his bike seat and he had thrown his apple core into the garbage, we pushed our bikes into the street, mounted them, and started the ride back. As the day wore on, it had gotten a little warmer, and we now had the wind blowing in our faces. Pedaling required a little more exertion, and we kept the conversation light.

I was ecstatic as I thought about how much I was enjoying spending time with Sergio. He was insightful, communicative, and really funny. As an added bonus, he seemed to get my sense of humor, and when I teased him, he was never short of a quick comeback. In fact, with the exception of our intense conversation regarding coming out to my parents, we had spent the majority of the day laughing.

B
Y
THE
time we had peddled back up the hill to where the car was parked and had gotten the bikes loaded without incident, it was already almost three o’clock. Sergio looked at his watch and wrinkled his brow with concern. “I hope we don’t hit much traffic. It’s going to be a little tight to get back, drop you off, and still have time to get home and shower before I have to be at work by five. I probably should have thought about bringing my work clothes with me in case we ended up running short on time.” He shrugged. “Oh well. No sense worrying about it now. Worst-case scenario, I skip the shower.” He smiled. “I can’t smell that bad. I’ll just put a little oregano in my underwear. Customers will just think they’re picking up a spicy aroma from the kitchen.”

I tried to look suspicious. “Careful, there. I’m not sure I’m thrilled about you giving customers an excuse to push their faces into your crotch. When we get to my house, you jump out, and I’ll spray you down with the garden hose. If you drive back to your house with the windows down, you’ll be dry by the time you get there. You can skip the shower, still make it to work on time, and save the oregano for the house pizza, not your own sausage.” I smiled triumphantly, then, for good measure, added, “Problem solved.”

He looked at me skeptically out of the corner of his eye. “Better if we just hope for no traffic. There’s no way you’re coming at me with a garden hose. Though,” he said, keeping his stare straight ahead as he pulled into the street, “had the invitation been for you to help me shower, I might have been willing to be late for work.”

My mouth dropped open. “Let me submit another proposal! I demand a do-over. I had no idea showering with you was even a possibility. Give me one more chance. Did I mention I would even provide lavender-scented soap?” I was anguishing over the lost opportunity.

“Sorry.” He grinned. “All applications are final. I suggest that in the future you lead with your strengths. Never give your competition the edge. When the stakes are this high, it’s winner take all.”

“Wait!” I slapped the dash as he drove. “I want to speak to one of the judges. I demand a retrial. The rules were never explained to me and….” I slowed my rant and looked at Sergio coolly. “I wasn’t even aware this was a competition. Who am I up against? Someone else you planning on jumping into the shower with?” I smiled ruefully.

He gave me another sideways grin. “It’s always a competition, Zack.” He paused. Despite the fact that we both knew the entire conversation was nothing more than a joke, he seemed to be enjoying seeing me squirm. His smile broadened. “You can relax, though. You don’t have to get your panties in a bunch.” He was obviously proud of his successful use of trendy slang. “Your position as the top contender on my list is still secure.”

I slumped back against the seat. “I’ll only feel better when I’m certain I’m the only contender.” I pulled my glasses back down over my eyes. “Now, when we get to my house, I’ll have no alternative but to drag you, even if it’s kicking and screaming, into my shower. Then you can just throw the list away. You’ll have no need for any of the other names on it.” I refused to look over at him and instead crossed my arms over my chest. I couldn’t however, prevent the small quiver of a grin from creeping across my lips. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I turned my head slowly toward him. “And I’ll do everything within my power to prevent you from feeling desperate.”

“As much as I genuinely appreciate your generosity, don’t worry yourself too much. In a pinch, I’m actually able to shower by myself. In fact, I’ve been doing it for years.” He punched my arm. “But stay close; you never know when I’ll be looking for a volunteer to help.”

“When that day comes, and for the record, you might as well know I’m hoping it comes soon, I can say to you without hesitation, ‘I’m your man.’” I smiled. “I would offer to provide you with
my
list of references, but that would make me sound like a slut.”

“That’s okay. I’m not interested in what anyone else thinks of you. I prefer to be my own judge.” He looked at me and shook his head confidently. “And just so you know, so far so good. And I’m a pretty good judge.”

“I’m relieved. Flattered… but relieved. ’Cause as of this moment, there’s no other judge in the entire world I’m even remotely interested in trying to impress. Now, when do I get to get my hands on the trophy?” I reached across the middle divider and pulled him into a hug.

“Hey, at least wait until I get you home. If we’re in an accident, the trophy will be little more than damaged goods.”

The rest of the drive home passed with easy conversation. It was still early enough in the afternoon that returning beach traffic was light, and we made it back to my house with time to spare.

Sergio helped me to unload my bike out of the back of his car and then stood on the sidewalk appearing only slightly ill at ease. He looked at his watch and said, grinning, “I can still shower and make it to work on time without having to break any traffic laws. This means that rather than oregano, I’ll be able to use real deodorant.”

“Excellent. I wouldn’t want a speeding ticket to put a damper on what was otherwise a perfect day.” I let my gaze drop to my hands. I gripped my bicycle handlebars and absentmindedly kicked my tire. I looked up, as if inspired by an idea, but truthfully I just wasn’t ready to say good-bye. It really had been a perfect day. “You wanna come up really quick? I could give you the grand tour and at least offer you something to drink. You’ve got to be a little thirsty. I mean, you must have really exhausted yourself trying to keep up with me.”

Rather than even acknowledging the facetious challenge, he instead answered, “Yeah, I’ve got a little time. A glass of ice water would be good.”

“Excellent. Come on up. That’s one of the great things about this place; we’ve got a faucet with an unending supply of water.”

I carried my bike over my shoulder as we climbed the steps to our upstairs balcony, then I secured it to one of the rails with my lock. Then I reached into my fanny pack to retrieve my keys and proceeded to unlock the door. I paused before pushing it open and said, “The décor is a little lacking, but it has all the comforts of home.” I stepped aside to allow Sergio to walk through the door in front of me.

Actually, for an apartment occupied by two medical residents and a medical student, the place was really quite tasteful. We lived on the second floor of a two-story duplex, and because it was Spanish style, we had adopted a southwest theme. The walls were white stucco, and the living room, dining room, and kitchen were all separated by spacious arches. We had painted the arches a warm turquoise to match one of the colors woven into the throw pillows tucked in the corners of the couch. The furniture in the living room was overstuffed and comfortable. One wall was dominated by a large fireplace. Its mantle was painted the same turquoise as the arches and covered by framed pictures, vases, and other architecturally interesting pieces. The coffee table in the middle of the room was large and rustic. It was built of weathered gray wood and doubled as a footrest. Leaning against one of the walls was an old-fashioned country ladder built out of gray wood that matched the coffee table. It was surrounded by potted plants and large earth-tone ceramic urns. It provided a beautiful focal point for the room. The walls were covered by framed prints that also complemented the theme. Some were of desert canyons; one was a painting of an old abandoned adobe mission.

Sergio smiled at me as he walked through. “Not bad. I’m impressed. My guess would have been that, as a doctor, you were artistically challenged. But this place is really nice.”

“What do you mean you thought that I’d be artistically challenged? I’m more like the Michelangelo of modern medicine. My genius extends well beyond the walls of the hospital. The world is my canvas.” I paused long enough to strike a thoughtful pose and then started laughing. I pushed him toward the kitchen, then clarified, “Actually, I’m better with a roller than I am with a paintbrush.”

Sergio leaned against the counter as I reached up into the cupboard to grab a couple of glasses. As I filled them with ice, he gazed around the kitchen. It was long and narrow. On one end was a small breakfast nook partially separated from the rest of the kitchen by a decorative archway. In it was a small wooden table with wrought-iron legs, surrounded by four chairs. The cushions on the chairs were covered with a southwest print, and because both exterior walls had big windows, the nook was bright and welcoming. The rest of the kitchen was dated but functional. The counters were made of heavy four-inch cream-colored ceramic tile separated by half-inch light-gray grout. The cabinets were an antique off-white, the walls celery green, and the appliances black enamel. Nothing about it screamed gourmet, but it served our purposes nicely.