Head Above Water Pt. 01

You'd think my job would be all about numbers, team meetings, quotas, and authorizing policy changes outside of supervisor authority, but really call center managers spend a lot of time dealing with stupid customers who don't believe complaining to an agent or their supervisor is enough. Then I was giving discounts, lowering premiums, forgiving drivers record points, and pretty much everything but sucking dick to retain all the good clients; like the ones that had a brand new Audi r8 coupe, a vintage Ashton Martin and a sixteen year old daughter driving a G-Class Mercedes Benz all on the same policy. That's a good six thousand a year in insurance premium. Great for my bonus, terrible for my sanity.

If you live in Orange County, California long enough, I guarantee you'll know the posh places just by the cars on the streets alone. I was successful enough to be able to afford to live in one of those places now, but sometimes I wondered if being yelled at by rich people was really worth it. It especially sucked the soul out of me to take shit from people who weren't even richer than me.

But I won't quit. It's been three years since I'd accepted the position now, and the only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I got out of the system and I'd made it. I knew I was the exception, not the rule. People with backgrounds like mine weren't supposed to make it. Foster kids like me get cast out at eighteen to fend for ourselves, thrown into the world that had never wanted us in the first place. Everything had been against me from the start. The satisfaction was what really kept me here, almost like I was rubbing it into society's nose even though nobody cared.

Someday I want to be a member of the board, but maybe that's too ambitious. I'd need to have at least a bachelor's degree to climb even one step up those floors at headquarters. I'd considered going to college at least a hundred times because I'd spent so much of my life crawling out of this hole that life had put me in, clawing and scratching with my bare hands, taking every foothold that I could find, but there was no way that I could fit in school with my schedule. Most days I was lucky if I could manage getting off without at least twelve to fifteen hours logged.

Soul-fucking-sucking.

But I had a lot to prove to myself. So here I am, crawling out of one hole and digging myself into another.

—

I was on my fourth sea cream black iced coffee of the day, buried ass-deep in work when I realized that it was already 7:15 PM. It was Wednesday, the night of my 'date'.

"Shit," I hissed under my breath.

The 'Floor' is the term call centers use for where all the magic happens. Here you'll find all the cubicles with my agents, all my supervisors, and all the calls ringing one after the other to service the next policy holder. I did my final Floor walk of the day, checked in with the six evening-shift supervisors, told the senior supervisor that she was to absolutely, under no fucking circumstances call me for just this one night, gave a few encouraging words to some of the struggling agents for morale or whatever, and then I was practically running for the elevators. A real bitch in heels, let me tell you.

"Celine, Celine," said a nasally voice just as I stepped out of the main doors of the Floor.

Fuck me. I couldn't catch a break.

"Where you off to in such a hurry?"

Trying to get as far away from you as possible.

"I have a date."

Yeah, take that, David from Underwriting. If you really need a dictionary example for a true freak then David's your guy. As if having to pick up the phone and call him at least ten times a day to expedite reinstatements, high liability increases and new home policy inspections wasn't enough, the little freak picked up the phone almost as many times to ask me about my day and see if I wanted to 'hang out'.

"Aw, have fun," he said in a tone that didn't sound like he meant it.

"Bye, David."

One of the advantages of being a boss was having a parking space right in front of the building. The authority was liberating and the money was astounding, but the parking space was the icing on the cake. I could still remember the fifteen minute walk to the parking lot across the street from my days as a lowly customer service agent. I guess that had been the bigger bitch in heels.

I flung open my car door like a madwoman, cursing myself for losing track of time. I didn't have enough time to change into the casual clothes I'd brought—an outfit that didn't scream too 'fuck me' but not boring enough to accentuate my plainness. Walking into Saddleback Ranch in a business suit was about the worst thing I could imagine, but it seemed too rude to cancel now. For all I knew he was already there.

If you know anything about Southern California freeways then you know that just after 7 PM at the 55 N and I-5 N junction, traffic clears up like a dream. I had a green fuel-efficient decal on my car that let me drive single-occupant in the carpool lane so I gunned it, driving just a little over the speed limit, but not too much because I'd been working in personal lines insurance long enough to know just how much a speeding ticket could fuck you over.

I somehow made it from Newport Beach to Orange in thirty-five minutes. Fuck if I'll ever know how I did it, but it seemed like somehow the stars were aligning for this date. I didn't really know how to feel about that. The high of those kisses had worn off fast. Why the hell would a guy like that even want to go on a date with someone like me? I'm not saying this because I lack confidence; I'm saying it because I doubt the two of us had anything in common. I felt like he was mostly just pulling my leg and enjoyed my company because I'd been able to make him laugh. I was okay with that. I enjoyed his company too.

My luck ran out at the outdoor outlet mall. Parking was an absolute nightmare. I kept driving around and around until I could swear that I was starting to get dizzy. My head ached from a sudden coffee crash, and looking at my watch to see that it was only five minutes to eight didn't help. I didn't find a spot until I was already ten minutes late. It wasn't even a great spot, at least halfway across the parking lot to the nearest building. I made the call to switch into my gym shoes, and what did I do? I fucking ran. In a business suit and Nikes. I was anal enough about punctuality that I couldn't stand running even a second later than I already was. God help me.

I was bent over clutching a stitch in my side in front of Saddleback Ranch when I heard a choked laugh.

"Looks like you're running as late as I am."

I looked up and saw Wes, breathing heavily to catch his breath, wearing hospital scrubs with an M.D. title after his name on a security badge. That really threw me off.

"What the fuck?"

"What?"

"You're a doctor."

He reached up a hand to scratch the back of his head nervously.

"Let's not talk about it," he said with a grimace.

"Kind of hard not to."

"You're in a business suit."

"Let's not talk about it."

"Kind of hard not to," he said with a smirk.

"Okay, Dr. Westley Spenrath. What the hell kind of name even is that?"

"Shut up. You hungry or not, Gutierrez?" he asked, reading off the security badge still clipped to my blazer. I pulled it off and shoved it in my pocket.

He seemed to like my idea. He unclipped his badge and stuck it in his own pocket.

"We look so weird," I said, looking down at my clothes. Wes walked over and touched my blazer, fixing the lapel that had become crooked after I'd snatched my badge off.

"Still haven't picked up on that personal space thing, I see."

"I still don't see you pulling away."

"I'm leaving."

He laughed.

"Let's go inside. I haven't eaten in fifteen hours. I'm starving."

Outside of a bagel that I'd stuffed in my mouth on the way to work in the morning, I hadn't really had anything to eat either. Just coffee. Too much coffee. Food sounded heavenly right now.

We asked to be seated in the absolute darkest corner of the restaurant. It left a lot of options since Saddleback Ranch pretty much just turns into more of a dark bar at night anyways. The hostess eyed Wes hungrily, her eyes traveling to places that made me feel uncomfortable. It was kind of disgusting. I didn't know Wes, but I knew that he didn't deserve that.

Or maybe I was just being dramatic. I didn't need to get offended on his behalf. He was probably used to it anyways.

"You know, I thought it must've been fate when you said you wanted to meet at the Block," Wes said, sliding a menu in front of him once we'd been seated.

"I live close by," I said.

"And I work close by."

"Where? UCI Medical Center across the street?"

"I thought we agreed not to talk about it."

"So you're what, embarrassed that you're a doctor?"

He smiled that Hollywood smile. I tried not to let it affect me.

"It kind of makes me look like a nerd."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"It's a touchy subject for me," he said, laughing. "Why don't you tell me what you do for a living? I really want to know what kind of job requires a business suit paired with running shoes."

"I put on the shoes to run here from the parking lot. I really hate being late."

"No shit," he said. "I ran here too."

"We're twins," I said without thinking.

"No, no, no," he said immediately. "I really don't want to imagine you as my sister, Dion. It ruins all the fantasies I've been having of you."

"Stop calling me that," I said. "And what the hell kind of fantasies have you been having? Pervert."

"The kind of fantasies that ruin second dates. I don't want you throwing a glass of water in my face and storming off."

"I'm considering it."

"Tell me where you work," he said. "I'm genuinely intrigued now. I wouldn't have taken you for a business suit kind of girl."

"First of all, I'm a woman, not a girl. And secondly, it's none of your business."

"The whole point of a date is to get to know each other."

"I thought we agreed not to talk about it."

"I'm curious."

"Tell me where you work then."

"CHOC. Now pay up. Where do you work?"

The Children's Hospital of Orange County? It was hard to imagine that this avocado-cradling weirdo actually treated sick children for a living. But maybe avocado-cradlers are just the kind of people best suited for a children's hospital. It kind of changed my whole perception of him, but I wasn't going to admit that to his face.

I told him the name of the insurance company I worked at.

"I have my car insurance with them," he said. "Small world."

"Not that small considering that we have 8 million policy holders in Southern California alone."

"You look really corporate."

"How perceptive of you. I work at headquarters."

"What do you do there?"

"I'm the call center site manager. I run Southern California, servicing policies everywhere beneath Bakersfield and above the border."

He let out a low whistle.

"Oh, stop it," I said, waving him off. "You're a doctor, for fuck's sake."

"Still pretty impressive for a young woman. How old are you? You still look like a teenager."

I scowled.

"Thanks for that. I'm twenty-eight. Not exactly a prepubescent teen."

"Most people take it as a compliment when they're told that they look younger than they are."

"I'm not most people."

"That's why I asked you out."

So he did come here just to pull my leg. Good. I could pull his back.

"How old are you? If you look younger than you actually are then you're probably an old pervert for asking out a woman that you mistook for a teenager."

"Thirty-one. Close to thirty-two, though."

"God, you pedophile."

He laughed.

"I didn't actually mistake you for a teenager. I just thought you looked young."

"You're a predator."

"And yet you agreed to go out with me."

"I'm starting to wonder why I did."

"Because I let you be mean to me."

"I'm mean to everyone."

"You know, I can read most people, but I can't read you at all," he said with another one of those annoyingly charming smiles.

"I'm not a book."

"How do I get you to lighten up?"

"Buy me a drink," I said, smiling despite myself. I don't know why, but I was actually kind of enjoying this. Most people were too scared of me to hold a conversation this long. He was giving as good as he got.

"Deal. You really do have to lighten up though."

"Better be a strong drink."

Jesus fucking Christ. His smile was ridiculously gorgeous. It was a goofy sort of smile, the kind that you usually reserved for children. I felt like I was one of his patients and his smile was a lollipop. Or a sticker. I don't know if they still hand out lollipops.

The waitress was a tiny thing, blonde and with a pixie face and haircut. She looked like Tinkerbell. She didn't act like the horndog hostess. I guess people who expect tips know better than to check out somebody else's date.

"Order a strong drink," Wes said. "Really strong."

"I'll have the Ranch Mai Tai. Make it extra special. I want the Bacardi."

Wes grinned.

"Same for me. I want to know what that tastes like."

"Coming right up," the waitress said, walking away.

"That's a chick drink," I pointed out.

"Didn't take you for a sexist."

"I'm not allowed to make a joke?"

"I can't believe you're making a joke at all," he said with a laugh. "You're always so serious that I didn't even catch it."

"I'm just trying to lighten up."

"So is it a defense mechanism?" he asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"This. Being mean all the time."

"Don't you try and psychoanalyze me."

"I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm just trying to figure out what made you the way you are. Not that there's anything wrong with your attitude. I just want to know why."

"I don't really have an answer for that. I've just always been this way."

"What was your childhood like?"

"You want my full family history too? Cancer in the family? Diabetes?"

He laughed.

"You're a smartass."

"I might have heard that once or twice in my life," I said, remembering our conversation from the other day.

"Once or twice. Sure."

"Maybe a few more times than that."

He held my gaze, a soft twinkling haze glowing in his dark eyes from the lights hung on the ceiling. The expression on his face was one of amusement, but I had a feeling that he wasn't amused by me per say, just by our conversation. It was off-setting.

He didn't miss it.

"Are you still creeped out by me?" he asked.

"No."

"Then tell me about your past. I'm a doctor. You can trust me."

"You're not my doctor."

"We can pretend."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope," he said, grinning.

"You're annoying."

"That's a new one."

"I'm sure you've heard it before."

"Once or twice."

And then I was laughing too. It wasn't that there weren't witty people out there, but I met very few that had the patience to take me on. I had a few friends that tried, but they struggled to keep up. Wes wasn't struggling. He was fighting like hell.

"Alright, I think you've earned an answer," I said. "I'm like this because I'm closed off."

"You're protecting yourself," he said. "From what?"

"I don't trust people."

"You're trusting me."

"Only because you're forcing me to."

"Keep talking. Tell me about your childhood."

I sighed.

"I mean, I just have to say three words and it'll all make sense."

"Don't tell me you love me already," he said with a smug smile. "Although I am pretty lovable so I can't blame you."

"So full of yourself," I muttered. "Foster care system. Those are the three words."

That knocked the smile right off his mouth.

"That does explain a lot. You grew up fighting the world," he said. "You still are."

His eyes had softened.

This was starting to get too heavy for me. I couldn't even recall the last time I'd told someone I'd grown up in the system. I couldn't remember the last time I'd told someone anything even remotely personal at all, for that matter.

I really needed that drink.

"Tell me about you," I said, changing the subject. "Are you a pediatrician?"

"No."

"That's it? No explanation?"

"I don't really like to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"It changes how people look at me."

"Don't tell me you're a foot doctor or something."

He laughed.

"No, podiatry's not really my thing."

"I thought the whole point of a date was getting to know each other," I said, using his own words against him. "Now spill."

"I'm licensed to practice medicine, but I haven't completed my residency. I still have a fellowship following residency before I'll be ready to sit the specialty boards."

"I didn't understand half the things you just said."

He laughed.

"Sorry, it's easy to forget. I'm usually only around medical professionals."

"You gonna explain any of that to me?"

"Sure, if you're interested."

"Obviously, or I wouldn't ask."

"Which part is it that confuses you?"

"All of it. Hit me with the basics, doc. How does one become a doctor?"

"Okay, let me try to simplify it," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "The M.D. title on my badge stands for Medical Doctor. I earned that title after completing medical school and acquiring my medical degree. A medical degree doesn't really mean shit, though. You can't practice medicine with a piece of paper. After you get your medical degree you have to complete a one-year internship before you're eligible to sit the board exam to get your medical license."

"So that's it? Medical school, a year of internship and then boom, you're a doctor?"

"Yes and no. A medical license is practically worthless without the residency that comes after."

"You said you're completing your residency. So this is the step you're in now?"

"Yes. Completing a residency program is how you can call yourself a member of a specific profession within medicine. You wouldn't be able to call yourself a pediatrician, podiatrist, gynecologist, psychiatrist—any specialty—without completing a residency program. Some specialties will require a fellowship after residency. Once you're done with all of that you can sit the specialty board exams to get board certified. Then you can finally call yourself a qualified doctor."

"Wes," I said. "I just realized something."

"What?"

"You've been beating around the bush this whole fucking time. You still haven't told me what your damn specialty is in. Don't think I didn't catch that."

He ran a hand down his face and groaned.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"It's my turn to be pushy."

"My clinical interest is in pediatric surgery."

What the hell?

"So I've been sitting across the table from a surgeon this whole time."

All he did was shrug. Jesus, it was almost like he hated his profession.

"Why don't you like telling people? Sounds pretty impressive to me."

"That's the point," he said. "I'm not just my profession."

"I thought surgeons were supposed to be really full of themselves."

"Most of them are. I'm not."

"Why not?"

"I don't tell people I'm a surgeon because then I just get written off as a surgeon and nothing else. People don't care who I am, just what I am. I hate it."

Okay, that made me feel pretty bad. I probably shouldn't have bullied it out of him, but whatever.

"I get that. I wrote you off as some creepy hot guy at first. Must be worse to just be written off as just your profession. People probably don't take the time to get to know who you are as a person."

"You think I'm hot?"

I kicked him under the table and he winced. Why did I ever let myself believe that this guy wasn't full of himself?

"Alright, I deserved that," he said. "I appreciate what you said. It's true. My hectic schedule doesn't really give me the opportunity to make many friends, and even when I do make any outside of the hospital I just always end up being treated like I'm better than I am."