Remission by Ofelia Martinez

Chapter 5

La Oficina

Iwas well on my way to becoming an alcoholic, and I had precisely zero shame about it. The job could be so rewarding, but it could also suck your soul straight out of your body and shred it to pieces. I downed a tequila shot, wondering how in the hell I was supposed to go into Valentina’s room tomorrow. Yes, I was her doctor, and I was fighting for her life almost as hard as she was, but I just kept taking from her. I’d taken her autonomy, her pleasure, heck, her normal. Tomorrow, I would have to go in there and try to cheer her up as I took her hair.

She would not be the first one. I’d had many patients just like her, and many much worse. But Dr. Handsome’s words swam in my head. Some of them just get under our skin. Yes, they did.

I tapped the tiny glass on the bar. “Barkeep! Another!”

Sofia walked over to me, shaking her head. “Slow it down there, Doctor,” she said. “Sara isn’t even here yet, and you don’t want to outpace her. She’ll never forgive you.” Sofia grinned at me with those incredibly full lips of hers. If I swung that way, I would so dream about kissing her all day.

She wasn’t just the friendly neighborhood bartender. Sofia was one of my closest friends. Sara and I drank for cheap, and sometimes free, ever since I stitched up Sofia’s hand at no charge when she cut herself cleaning up a broken glass. We’d been friends ever since.

“You’re probably right, but at this moment, I’m the one mad at her, so I don’t give a rat’s ass—”

“Okay, okay,” said Sofia. “Who the hell am I?”

“And top shelf, darling. Something at the very least reposado,” I said. Sofia never broke eye contact as she filled the shot glass to the rim. “Has anyone ever told you that you are like a dark angel? I envision your wings covered with raven-black feathers that match your hair.”

“Are you already drunk? After your first drink?” Sofia asked only half-kidding.

“No. Bad day. I’m trying to distract myself. Just being silly.”

The second shot, I savored. I’d never down good tequila without savoring it. I smiled as the silky liquid hit my stomach, sending the tiniest heat wave through my body.

“You know—”

I heard his voice, and I turned to face him.

“They say a woman who can drink tequila without making a face comes from hell.”

Had he been there the entire time? And why was he everywhere? I laughed at his statement. “The person who said that never had good quality tequila. Also, they were sexist.”

“Drinking all alone?”

“No. I have friends.”

“The bartender doesn’t count.”

Sofia jumped to my defense. “Normally I’d agree with you, but this is one of those rare exceptions. Caro here is my girl.”

I laughed because Sofia said it so motherly, so protective of me, and it warmed my insides almost as much as the tequila had.

“Stand down, love,” I said to her. “We must be nice to him. He’s my boss, don’t you know?”

I brought up my glass and clinked it to his. “Cheers.”

Sofia pursed her lips, then reached her hand out to him. “In that case, welcome to La Oficina. I’m Sofia.”

He shook her hand. “Hector.”

I snorted and nearly spat my drink. “Hector?”

“Yes. That’s my name.”

“I’m sorry. I just assumed you introduced yourself to everyone as Dr. Medina.”

“Dr. Medina?” Sofia asked with interest. “Isn’t he the one you—” She stopped herself when she saw the daggers I was shooting her with my eyes. “I have some inventory I have to do in the back. Help yourself if you need anything else, Caro.”

Dr. Medina stared at me. “We are not at work. Why would I introduce myself by my professional title?”

I shrugged. “I guess I just assumed—”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Carolina, that you make a lot of assumptions about me?” He grabbed his drink and walked to another table, leaving me stunned. That was the first time I’d heard my given name on his lips, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I wanted to keep all my interactions with him professional. I wanted him to mentor me and work with me on my research, our research, but every time we were together, the universe played sick jokes on me, giving me foot-in-mouth disease.

I walked around the bar and poured two more shots of the most expensive tequila I could find. Sofia thankfully walked back out to chat with me, and in time, I completely forgot Dr. Medina was even in the room.

One hour into my drinks, I got a text from Sara.

Sara: Please don’t kill me. I can’t make it tonight. I love you forever. Kiss emoji.

“Let me guess,” Sofia asked as she carried out a case of beer. “She can’t make it?”

“Nope. One guess why.”

“Don’t go there, Caro. She’s a grown woman.”

“I know she is, but he is such a piece of shit. Why can’t she see she deserves so much better?”

“Give her time. She needs to see for herself what a piece of shit he is. The more we tell her to dump his ass, the more she will withdraw from us. And when this blows up in her face, she will need her friends. We can’t alienate her right now, no matter how much it kills us to not say anything.”

I told her what I’ve told her a million times before. “You sure you aren’t a clinical psychologist?”

Sofia laughed. “All bartenders are psychologists. Occupational hazard.”

“I’m heading out. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

I leaned over the bar and gave her a peck on the lips because I could never resist it. She smiled back at me. “Stay safe.”

“I will.”

I was grabbing my purse when I saw him again and remembered he was there. Dr. Medina was cleaning some of the drink that had spilled on his shirt, and I rolled my eyes. Poor guy couldn’t handle a simple peck on the lips by two women. This, ladies and gentlemen, was the man I chose to follow blindly into my career. I shook my head in disbelief and walked out of the bar.

I searched for the car service app on my phone. I’d hit my self-imposed three-drink limit, so even though I felt mostly sober, three drinks were too many to drive. Sofia didn’t even ask, because she knew me well enough, but given how quickly Hector, I mean, Dr. Medina, found himself outside with me, he clearly didn’t trust that I wouldn’t drive. He grabbed my arm above my elbow and started leading me away from the bar.

“I’m driving you home.”

“No, you are not.”

“Yes, I am. You’ve drunk too much.”

“I know.” I searched his eyes. “I’m not driving. See?” I showed him my phone and the app I was scrolling through when he found me. He sighed, and his features softened.

“Good. I’m glad you weren’t going to drive. But I’d still like to drive you home.”

“It’s really not necessary.”

“You would really rather pay for a car service than take a free ride?”

He had a point. I relented and let him lead me to his car. I was surprised to find he didn’t drive a ridiculously expensive sports car like most doctors of his status. The newer model Honda sedan was discreet and unassuming.

We spent the first part of the ride to my apartment in silence, and oddly, it felt comfortable. Halfway there, he said, “I liked that bar.”

“The bar orSofia?”

“Why would you say that?”

I shrugged. “Every man who meets Sofia falls head-over-heels in love with her. I couldn’t blame you if you did. It’s almost inevitable. Hell, I’m completely straight, and I’m half in love with her.”

He side-eyed me. “No. Not Sofia. She was nice, but I like the bar. The name is . . . interesting.”

“La Oficina? Yeah. It was great when it first opened. We could always just say, ‘hey, meet you at the office,’ and anyone would think we meant we were working. The city smartened up, though, and now it has backfired.”

“Backfired?” he asked.

“Yeah, now everyone knows about the bar named the office, so you have to be careful. If you say you’re meeting someone at the office, people can assume—”

“Got it. So, meet you at work is the accepted vernacular.”

“Correct.”

“This is a strange city.”

“Your first time in Kansas City?”

He nodded. Even though I told him it wasn’t necessary, he insisted on walking me to the door of my apartment building.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to—”

“Good night, Carolina.”

The temptation tosearch for him online had never won me over. Not even when I was a teenager and a devout disciple of his work. It had always, always been about the work, about the magic of his brain, never about the man himself. To me, he had only been a brain—a disembodied organ innovating genius advancements in medicine, improving cancer treatments for all patients. Back then, I knew, just knew it in my gut, that he would have saved her if he had been her doctor.

But now I had met him. The man, not just the words he typed onto a keyboard hundreds of miles from where I stood. He was also now my boss, and knowledge about him could only serve to help me in my professional relationship with him. Tell yourself whatever you need to do the deed, Carolina.

I got ready for bed and curled up with my tablet.

Surprisingly, there was quite a bit of information about him, probably because of his wife. Andrea Medina. According to the search engine, she was the daughter of a prominent philanthropist. They attended many of his fundraiser events in Maryland, where they lived, and in New York and Washington.

I found a picture of them at a charity event for children’s cancer research. She was leaning into him, her whole body pointing to him, and wearing a wide smile that spread to her eyes. He had his arm around her waist, and his head was bent as though she was whispering something in his ear. She was gorgeous. I had to admit it. She was a tall, slim, leggy, blonde with beautiful green eyes and delicate features.

He certainly had a type, so I didn’t have to continue to feel awkward around him. I’d barely admit it to myself, but there was the tiniest bit of a barely-there crush somewhere in a dusty corner of my heart. But knowing it would never be reciprocated actually made me feel better about working with him and seeing him day in and day out.

Then I saw it, and my jaw dropped—a picture of them holding hands walking in New York City. He held one of her hands, and she grabbed her enormous pregnant belly under a beautiful blue sundress with the other. They both looked incandescently happy. I smiled at the picture of them, hoping my future held that kind of love.

He had to be a good man if his wife looked that happy. I scanned the screen for a date on the picture; by my math, his child would be about eight years old now. I usually find it in horrible taste to search for celebrity children. Even if he wasn’t a true celebrity, I had the same feeling about looking up their child. But I wasn’t looking for a tacky tabloid. It was purer than that. I wanted to see the human manifestation of the happy couple in those pictures.

In the search bar, I entered: Andrea Medina and Dr. Hector Medina daughter. I smiled, thinking about a little girl with his tanned skin and her bright green eyes popping in contrast, but nothing came up. Next, I entered: Andrea Medina and Dr. Hector Medina son.

There it was—the first hit—a headline from two years ago. Intense grief snaked into my bloodstream and latched on to my heart. I forgot how to breathe for several seconds as I read the headline: Six-year-old grandson of prominent Maryland philanthropist dies in freak accident. Two years ago.

My hand came up to my mouth, and I couldn’t hold back the sickening feeling gripping me. I couldn’t bring myself to click on the link. When I searched for his family, I wasn’t expecting to see this kind of tragedy. I couldn’t bring myself to pry into his private life any further than I already had. His loss wasn’t for entertainment. I shut off my tablet and tried to fall asleep.