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Word Prompt: Foreman
Plot Generator—Idea Completion: Dressing for success.
An idea or concept is presented. Follow where it leads you.
Not beta'd.
Last time, on In The Passenger Seat… {Just a little review, in case you've forgotten where we left off, and since I took an impromptu vacation break :)}
"Buckle up. We need to leave right now," he says. "I've already made you late, but if we hurry, you can still catch your second class."
I want to remind him that none of this was his fault, that keeping me safe and helping out the crash victims easily offsets a missed class. But 'm pretty sure he knows this. Instead, I say, "Okay," and do as he asks.
I give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before I speak again.
"So… you're a doctor."
"What gives you that idea?" he asks, as though I hadn't just witnessed him being all professional and, well, doctor-y. He'd see that I'm giving him stink eye if he'd actually look at me. Apparently, it isn't just this discussion he's trying to avoid.
"Are we really going to play this game?"
"We're playing a game?" His innocence is perfectly delivered. He's not just playing, he's playing to win.
"Touché, Doc. What gives me the idea you're a medical practitioner? Let's see… How about using the terms intracranial, cerebral contusions, and my favourite, subdural haematoma in general conversation?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You heard that?"
"Maybe you're not the only one who can read minds."
"You know what they say about eavesdroppers…" He's baiting me on purpose, a subtle attempt to change the subject.
"They have exceptionally good hearing?"
"Why don't you find something on the radio, or plug in my phone if you'd like. We need some tunes." The music is just another diversion.
He adjusts the settings on the stereo. I watch him carefully so I can do it myself next time, then I quickly press play, content to let whatever Masen was last listening to suffice. As soon as the notes come through the speakers, I bring the conversation back around to where we left off. "Are we really not going to talk about this?"
"Did you say something?" He's grinning at me. At least he's being adorable and evasive. It's better than just evasive.
"Well you certainly don't look like a doctor," I say sarcastically. "Physicians don't have good taste in music. They don't own smart phones or drive cool sports sedans or—"
"You think my car's cool?"
"Well, it's no Porsche. Come to think of it, doctors drive Porsches. Plus, they wear expensive suits and silk ties, not jeans and a Coldplay t-shirt. Maybe you wanted to be a doctor, but changed your mind because you didn't want to dress for success or drive a fuck awesome sports car." I realize my quip hits a little too close to home when he grimaces, and I instantly regret what I've said.
The iPod chooses this moment to shuffle to a metalcore song. The screaming vocals are raspy and offensive, clawing their way out of the speakers like a brutal growl. Try as I might, I've never been able to get into of this genre. Its appeal mystifies me. I do what I always do when I hear it: giggle.
Masen scowls at me. Instead of heeding his warning, it makes me laugh harder. He tries to remain disapproving and oppose my high-pitched cackling by keeping a straight face, but I can see signs of surrender at the corners of his mouth.
It takes thirty seconds before I'm beyond control, so consumed by the ridiculousness of the singer's caterwauling and my own behaviour that I can't get a hold of myself. My laugh is little more than shaking-shouldered, watery-eyed silence and gasping breaths. Either this level of goofiness is impossible to resist, or he stops trying, and I'm so relieved to hear him chortling along with me. At this point, I don't even care if it's at my expense. I'm just glad we're okay.
A ringtone plays over the sound system, causing the terrible music to fade into the background. Masen lays a finger over his lips and shushes me. I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle the noises I'm making, hoping I don't screw up his call and make him angry. He doesn't look mad. In fact, he's still chuckling when he taps a button on the stereo and says, "Hey, Foreman."
"Masen! Dude! Where the fuck are you, man? We're supposed to present our case in fifteen minutes."
"Sorry. I was a witness to an accident on I-91. I'm on way. Can you stall?"
"Any injuries?" the guy asks.
Masen rolls his eyes. "One: a potential TBI or SDH."
"No fucking way! Seriously?"
"Foreman, can you stall?" Masen asks again, his tone impatient.
"I'll try. Get your ass here ASAP. Ciao."
He ends the call and glances at me. "Sorry, I know it was rude to take that in front of you, and I normally would have ignored it. I just thought it was a good idea to let my group know I was on my way."
"That's okay. At least I know what you are now."
His expression is blank. "What's that?"
"A student."
A/N: TBI – Traumatic Brain Injury
SDH – Subdural Haemorrhage
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