Flipping the Script

“Alright, Mrs. Stevens, I’ll get you on the books with Dr. West next Monday. What time were you thinking? I have 11 AM or 3 PM.” I mindlessly tapped at the keyboard, filling in patient details, while the office phone sat snug between my ear and shoulder. The speaker just barely pushed the sharp end of my earrings into my neck. The pinprick reminded me I actually had to listen to the middle-aged woman droning on about chemical peels and Botox. I muttered some vaguely polite response about her healing time into the receiver. “Ok then, we’ll see you at 11 AM on the 15th. You have a lovely rest of your day, Mrs. Stevens. Thanks for calling.” I hung up the phone and leaned back in the overpriced desk chair and stared up at the fluorescent lights of the office. I rocked lightly in the chair and listened to the faint creaking noise it made. My mind wandered for a moment until I heard the exam room door open.

“Hey Daphne, dear, can you get Ms. Chester checked out?”

“Yeah, no problem, Dr. West,” I replied.

The woman approached the desk, far more swollen than when she first arrived. I spent the next ten minutes discussing topicals and scheduling a follow-up for next week. I spent the rest of my shift returning voicemails and organizing overpriced serums. Three hundred dollars for some dimethicone, fillers, and only five percent AHA- that’s not even enough to be useful. Once our last patient left for the day, I put my headphones in and tidied up the front of the office. The audiobook I had restarted on my walk over this morning played quietly in my ears. The narrator’s voice was deep and pleasant. A welcome difference from the women I spend hours at the desk with each day. He narrated the mildly obscene thoughts of an impossibly hot and rich man pining over a woman. I had listened to The Billionaire’s Obsession at least five times. It’s just one of those stories I always find myself going back to whenever I can’t decide on a new book from the ever-growing list I have. I wasn’t paying attention to the specifics as I watered the plants, swept the entryway, and refilled the brochure stands. I heard Dr. West’s signature heels click as she walked towards me. I pulled one of the headphones out as I turned to face her.

“Daphne, remember the office is closed until Tuesday. My kids have a field trip for their history club that I just have to attend. Enjoy the long weekend; hopefully you’re not knee deep in third graders who have never visited the capital before.” Dr. West spoke with an air of annoyance, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

I chuckled in response, “I’ll see you on Monday. Good luck; it sounds like you’re going to need it.”

“I will. The twins tend to cause enough trouble for three kids instead of two. I’m sure I’ll have to pull them off Lincoln’s shoes at the memorial or something. You’d think I would’ve raised them to have some decorum.” She laughed again and turned on her heels to head back into her office.

“Tell Liam and Lucy I said hi,” I called as she walked off.

“Will do,” she replied without turning back around.

Dr. West is nice enough, and working at a med spa has its perks, but this is not exactly what I pictured for my dazzling post-grad life. It’s been two years, and I’ve done nothing spectacular. Moving to Chicago was supposed to shake something loose, give me a real opportunity to use the chemistry degree I’m still working to pay off. Yet here I am, bearing freezing winters in pink scrubs, sitting at a desk, and faking a smile. I’m a big fan of the free facials, though; they work wonders against the cold, dry air. I resume my book as I pull on my coat and head for the exit. The large gold handle was cool in my hand as I pulled the heavy glass door open. I was met with a bitter wind across my face as I stepped out. I looked down as my feet hit the sidewalk. What was I thinking, wearing these damn clogs without socks in November? I clumsily shuffled the few blocks back to my apartment, fighting to keep the minimal feeling I had left in my toes. I swiped into my building and fumbled with my keys to open the door. I tossed them into the ceramic bowl by the entryway- a lopsided attempt from a pottery class I took to fill an elective. I kicked off my shoes and made a mental note to put socks on next time. I pulled off my scrub top as I walked into my room and searched for the clean-ish clothes I left on the floor this morning. I took off my bra with a sigh of relief and pulled on my pajamas. Finally, I shook my hair out of the claw clip it had been trapped in all day.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a wine glass from the top shelf of a cabinet. The pack of cigarettes I had hidden from myself, for my own good, taunted me from beside the glasses. I rolled my eyes and shut the door abruptly. I pulled the cheap bottle of white out of the fridge and poured some into my glass. As I went to put it back on its shelf, I grabbed the orange juice too. I placed both down on the coffee table and turned on various small lights, including the lava lamp from my childhood bedroom that managed to survive more than one move. The thought of turning on the large fluorescent landlord special in the living room gave me a headache just thinking about it. I sank into the old Facebook Marketplace couch I had snagged a few months ago. I flicked the TV on and scrolled over to the continue watching icon. Another good old-fashioned Scooby-Doo rerun, easily digestible television. I barely had one sip of my wine before my ringtone broke the peaceful moment I was attempting to have. I paused right as a neon alien chased Scooby-Doo off the screen, pulled the phone from my pocket, and answered the call.

“Hey Becca, what’s going on?”

“My life is over, Daph. Absolutely over,” Becca’s voice trilled through the phone.

“Ok, slow down. In normal English, please explain the catastrophic issue, Bex.”

“My voice actor has fucking laryngitis. I have weeks’ worth of non-refundable studio time booked and no female lead. I’m going to throw up. Actually, I might just drop dead!” She basically sobbed into the phone.

“Why don’t you try calling the studio and rebooking? I’m sure this has happened before.”

“Don’t you think I already tried that? Despite the fact that I have recorded two of my books there and made them plenty of money, they refuse to rebook me because of some new manager this and that bullshit. Daphne, I need a huge, massive favor.” The desperation in her voice was practically a third person on the call.

“If you’re about to ask me what I think you’re about to ask me, don’t. I’m so proud of the fact you managed to get another book published, but there is no way on god’s green earth that I-

“Daphne, please!” Becca’s voice cut me off. “I’m actually begging you. I’ll pay you the same amount I was going to pay Harley, or-or I’ll buy you dinner every night for the foreseeable future from that damn Thai place you keep in business with your appetite.”

“No way. Never going to happen. I will not spend my weekends narrating smut in some stuffy recording studio. Becca, there must be literally any other human on the face of this Earth that could fill in for Harley. What about the girl from the last book, Samantha, whatever? She was pretty good.” I offered. I took a too-big sip of wine and washed it down with juice straight from the carton.

“I already asked her; she’s booked on some other project for the next month. Daphne, please, I’m beyond desperate. I can’t afford this much of a setback. The royalties from the last book are great and all, but not that great. I don’t have the time or resources to do casting calls, etc. I’m asking my best friend for help. The one whose read every first draft and critiqued the terrible cliches I added whenever I wrote after drinking too much.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples with my free hand. Was I actually considering this? “Becca, I don’t want to leave you in the dust, but I have no experience with this, other than listening. Everyone says I have a weird accent anyway; you don’t want me in your book.”

“Daphne, you listen to more audiobooks than any sane woman would. You’ve consumed enough smut to handle this. Your weird Philly-adjacent accent is charming! The listeners love charming. Pretty please. It’s only weekends for like a month, and I promise to make it worth your while. I know you have some extra days off this week. Please,” Becca dragged out the e at the end of please for way too long.

“Oh, my god. Fine. You’re going to regret this when you have to rerecord my part anyway because it’s horrible.”

“Thank you, thank you, a million times thank you! I owe you my life, Daph, seriously, anything you want. My firstborn child is yours.”

“Please keep your potential offspring to yourself. Thai food will suffice,” I responded.

“Ok, I’ll send over the script tonight so you can take a look before tomorrow morning. It’s a dual POV, but the other narrator isn’t coming in for a few days. You’ll have the studio to yourself. I’ll meet you there around 10. Seriously, thank you!”

“Yeah, yeah, anything for you.” I groaned and let my head fall back onto the couch. I must be losing my ever-loving mind if I agreed to do this. “I’ll see you in the morning. Please bring me an iced tea or something, since I have to get up early on my day off.”

“Oh absolutely, matcha, chai, chamomile, Earl Grey-

“Stop listing teas, Bex! I get it, I will see you then.”

“I love you, Daph, thank you! Goodnight.”

The line clicked off, and I put my phone down on the table. I finished my glass of wine in one dramatic gulp and followed it with the last swig of juice. I’ve got to stop buying the cheap stuff. I looked around the room absentmindedly as I waited for the script to come through. My eyes fixed on the lava lamp, which had just begun to move. I watched as the pink globs slowly came to life inside the transparent purple liquid. I turned my attention back to my phone when I heard it buzz. The email from Becca with the script popped up on my screen, much faster than I had anticipated. She knew I would agree to this. I guess I really am predictable. I glazed over the first chapter of The Penalty Box, remembering most of the plot from my last read-through right before it was published. The storyline was predictable, which is not a knock at Becca; people eat this stuff up, me included. It’s hockey smut. The captain of the team, Connor Evans, falls for the rival team’s manager, Maisie Williams, who I guess I will now be the voice for. It’s a classic enemies to lovers, hate sex in the locker room, weekend read. Becca has gotten more attention from her series than any of us expected. She has two other books about hot, completely unrealistic, emotionally available college athletes that actually made it on a few best-seller lists. She started writing these in our freshman dorm after having her heart broken by some guy on the football team, and it all snowballed from there. I stood up from the couch and placed my glass in the sink, along with a few too many other dirty dishes. Shit, I really need to wash these. I headed for the bathroom to get ready for bed. Eventually, I lay down under the cool sheets and rolled onto my back. I stared at the ceiling fan for a little too long, sleep slowly taking over. Right before I drifted off, I realized I never asked Becca who the other narrator is.

Who’s going to play Connor?