The Devil You Know (Dr. Jane McGill, #2)

by Freida McFadden

I was with him when he bought this sofa, and he got a kick out of the fact that the number of digits in the price tag made me gasp out loud.

“So… just do what you need to do with him.” Ryan nods his head like he’s just come upon a brilliant solution. “Then come back to me.”

I really, really like him. I don’t quite love him yet, but something firmly in the middle between “really, really like” and “love.” I loke him. I lovike him.

“What a stupid name! I can’t believe you’re dumping me for a guy named Ben.” “What’s wrong with the name Ben?” There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ben. It’s a perfectly nice, normal name.

Yeah, right. In a year from now, Ryan won’t even remember my name.

This room looks like it’s one Frozen play-doh set away from being condemned by the Board of Health.

Generally, the next step in the testicular exam is transillumination. To do this, you turn off all the lights in the examining room and hold a bright light to the posterior of the testicle with one hand. If you’re a female, you should probably be holding a rape whistle at this point.

God, I hope whatever they’re selling in the cafeteria is edible.

Ben has a big jar of chunky peanut butter tucked into the crook of his arm. Leah has Frozen and my husband has peanut butter. I’ve never seen a grown man who could just eat peanut butter straight out of the jar the way he does. I’ve seen him polish off an entire jar of Skippy in an hour.

Of course, he doesn’t just eat plain peanut butter. Our cabinets are stacked with an assortment of gourmet peanut butters: chai spice peanut butter, maple bacon peanut butter, blueberry vanilla peanut butter… you get the idea. Whenever he finds an interesting new peanut butter online, he’s got to have it. On his last birthday, he went totally crazy over this toffee crunch peanut butter I bought for him. Right now, I can make out the label on the jar of peanut butter he’s holding: coconut lime peanut butter.

Coconut lime peanut butter? That can’t possibly taste good. “Ew,” I say as I drop my purse on the floor of the living room, which is its official place in the house. “Coco...

Lisa and I call them “eyebangs.” I generally find excessive eyebrow grooming to be ridiculous, but Dr. Kirschstein could definitely use some eyebrow grooming.

I don’t doubt that. My salary is nothing to get excited about. I still can’t afford that sofa Ryan used to have in his bachelor pad.

“Your freckles are adorable,” Ryan says in a low voice, almost in my ear. “Remember when I used to count them?”

There’s absolutely no sign that he might be dying.

The only thing I can make out is Leah mumbling, “Frosty Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy…”

I consider getting out my phone to record this. I probably should. But considering Leah is basically just standing there chanting “Mommy” to herself, I’m not sure it’s worth it. Plus the video quality on my phone is terrible.

Leah isn’t singing at all at this point. She is, in fact, standing in front of the room, picking her nose. Yeah, I’m definitely not taking a video of this.

And then… it’s over. How can it be over already? I took off half a day of work to watch my daughter pick her nose for six minutes?

Doesn’t he ever get tired of being wrong all the time?

He hates McBastardization of food names.

And that’s when I lost it. Let me tell you, if you are a man, never ever tell your wife to “just chill out.”

If I have to stick around this place for another hour, I might slit my wrists.

LMFAO ME AF

Except the reality is that smoking will inevitably mess you up, no matter what. Nobody escapes it. It ages you well beyond your years—it makes your teeth yellow and your skin wrinkled. It causes strokes and heart attacks, and it could land you with an oxygen tank you’ll have to lug around everywhere you go. And hey guys—it can cause impotence. Also, it causes lung cancer. That too.

I walk briskly down the hallway to the elevator, hoping that maybe I’ll air myself out. I don’t know how to get the stink of cigarettes off me. It’s permeated my hair molecules. I feel like I need a shower. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think though.

I get into the elevator with George the Elevator Operator and I can see his nose wrinkle up when I step inside. He looks like he wants to wave his hand in front of his nose. Damn, it really is bad.

I order my salmon burger with fries and then fill a cup with tap water instead of one of the soft drinks. That’s me being healthy. Well, at least I don’t smoke.

Is it terrible that I think my three-year-old daughter is a liar?

“Want some peanut butter?” he asks me. “What kind is it?” “Lime chipotle.”

out. Oh my God, that’s awful.

“Whatever you’re getting,” he said, “it’s my treat.” “I’m actually purchasing a small automobile,” I said. (That was a joke. I was getting a Kahlua and Cream.)

After discussing the contestants most likely to win on the latest season of Top Chef, we got to talking about a recent episode of Iron Chef where the secret ingredient was duck. “I can’t believe they made Peking duck in an hour,” I mused. “Okay, now you’re making me want to eat Peking duck,” Ben said.

I’d been up since six in the morning and I was tired as hell, but there was something about Ben Ross’s sexy smile that made me want to go find Peking duck. He made me want to spend the whole night looking for it with him, if that’s what it took.

“I couldn’t really focus on the duck because the whole time I was in there, I kept thinking about kissing you.”

“You were eating and I didn’t want to bother you. Also, we were the only customers in there and the waiters were all staring at us. Plus… I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it.”

I do the thing that you should never, ever do in the middle of the night, which is I count the hours till I have to wake up in the morning. My alarm will go off at six-thirty, so if I manage to fall back asleep right this instant, I’ll get five and a half hours of sleep. It’s a lot of pressure.

“You should just…” I kick my feet against the blanket, which feels stifling on my legs. “You should cuddle with a pillow. There are like five extra pillows in the closet.” Ben stares at me. “Fine,” he says through his teeth. “I will cuddle with a pillow from now on. I’ll never try to cuddle with you again. I’m a monster.” I sigh. “Now you’re trying to make me feel guilty. I mean, I just want to sleep. That’s all.”

Glitter is just like herpes. It’s not dangerous or deadly, but it’s super annoying. You think it’s just in one place, but then it spreads to other places. Most of the time, you’re not even sure where it came from. But once you’ve got it, it’s nearly impossible to get rid of. And you can give it to anyone you have contact with. Even if you just touch them. So really, it’s worse than herpes.

I said this once in hs and my teacher yelled at me and called it offensive because she has herpes 🤷

I can’t go to work dressed like Beyonce!

As we approach the sixth floor, George looks down at the ground where I was standing. He frowns at me. “You got glitter all over the floor.” I look down. He’s right. There must have been a glitter pocket trapped in the sole of my shoe, because there’s now glitter all over the floor of the elevator. I’m telling you—worse than herpes. “Sorry,” I mumble. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Aren’t you going to clean that up?”

I’m not cleaning up this glitter. Even if I wanted to clean it up, I’m not even sure how I’d do it. Does he expect me to find a janitor and borrow a mop?

I practically run out of the elevator. As the doors close, I check the soles of my shoes, which are absolutely covered in glitter. Oh God, it’s probably all over the floor of my car. Worse—I probably tracked it into the daycare and now Mila’s never going to let me hear the end of it. And the worst part is that it’s still all over my clothing.

Just like there should be a rule about not smoking prior to a doctor’s appointment, there should be a rule about washing your feet prior to a doctor’s appointment to discuss your feet. I’m breathing through my mouth.

You never know when an ACE wrap will fall down on your head and knock you unconscious.

I wonder who was changing the rolls up to this point. The paper roll fairy? And why did they suddenly stop?

Ryan has two older siblings. He has a sister who was tested for the gene and found to be negative. He has a brother who was tested and found to be positive, and it ruined his life. Ryan decided he didn’t want to know.

But no. He was adamant. He didn’t want to know. So I left.

Herpes. A terrible disease but not as bad as glitter.

“This new potty is going to work,” I insist. It has to. Because I refuse to change a four-year-old’s diapers.

So when I’m taking eighty-two-year-old Joseph McAuliffe’s blood pressure and the result reads 238/115, I assume the damn machine must finally have broken on me. Well, at least we still have electricity and running water. “What’s wrong?” Mr. McAuliffe’s daughter asks me. “Is that high?”