Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan’s voice gained the flat tone of rising anger. “You’re coming close to insulting me again.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that in a ‘surgeons are better than internists’ way. I meant it in a ‘surgeons are dickheads’ way.”

“So . . . I’m a dickhead.”

The neurosurgery resident buried his face in his palms and tried again. “I’m not saying you are a dickhead. Just that you’d make a good one. I’m trying to say you have . . .”

“Balls?” Susan inserted.

“I certainly hope not.” Remington mocked being scandalized, his eyes as round as coins. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that, on the PIPU, he had suggested she might have sixteen of those anatomical appendages. “How about chutzpah?”

Susan accepted that as inoffensive. “Chutzpah it is. I even like saying chutzpah.” She emphasized the guttural “ch” as she repeated the word. “Chhhhhutzpah.”

“Chutzpah is the only thing that impresses surgeons, and then only if it’s backed up by competence. And that’s what I like about you. You have both in spades.”

It amazed Susan how quickly Remington had turned what started out as an insult into the ultimate compliment. “Are we back to the celebrity of getting the greatest neurosurgeon in the world to return my call? Because it wasn’t that big a deal. All I did was demand he treat me with a little bit of respect.”

“And therein lies the magic.” Remington raised his hands as if preaching. “Most surgeons have this idea the world exists to serve them and that anyone beneath them should behave in a servile manner. And most do. So, when someone dares to stand up to them, they take notice. If it’s backed up by ability, they respect. If it’s all air, they attack. One false move, and you turn from equal to prey in an instant.”

At that moment, the food arrived. The server placed their selections on the table, along with rice, glasses of water, teacups, and a pot of steaming tea.

“Most surgeons,” Remington said, “are simple to understand.” He ladled rice onto his plate, followed by dollops of chicken broccoli and house lo mein.

Susan took smaller portions of the same food. “Are you simple to understand?”

Remington only nodded until he swallowed a bite of food. “For the most part. I have a bit more insight into what I want for my future, though.”

“Oh?” Susan pressed.

“I want a woman who can and will challenge me, not a young puppy whose only attributes are bleached-blond hair, round buttocks, and enormous breasts. I want to come home from work and share my day with a wife who not only has a life of her own, but can help me when I’m missing something that could save or lose a life.”

Susan smirked. “You don’t like breasts?”

“I’m a man. I love breasts, but they have to be attached to an intelligent woman for me to want a relationship.” Remington ate some more. “So many of my older colleagues marry for nothing but looks and willingness to obey orders; and, at fifty-five, they have no problem trading their forty-year-old spouses for two twenty-year-old mistresses.”

Susan had food in her mouth and, so, did not reply. She wondered if the same thing applied to female surgeons and supposed it did. Otherwise, he would have used the word “wives” instead of “spouses.”

“They don’t understand why their love life has gone stale, why they lost the excitement. So they try to find it in younger and younger men or women, never realizing what they actually seek is some emotional and intellectual stimulation, not kinkier sex.”

Susan cut to the chase. “Are you asking me out on another date?”

Remington chewed thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. Was that a psychiatry trick?”

“Not really. I’m just good at recognizing a description of myself. Average looks, and too smart for her own good.”

Remington dropped his chopsticks. “By whose description? I find you very attractive, and I believe I told you so when we first met.”

Susan recalled. When their fingers had accidentally touched, he had said, “I’ll take any excuse to hold hands with a pretty woman.” “I thought that was just a line.”

“Then I’ll say it again.” Remington took Susan’s empty left hand and clasped it briefly in his right. His gaze found hers and held it, expressing all sincerity. “I find you very attractive, Dr. Susan Calvin.”

Susan did not know what to say. She could feel her face warming uncomfortably. “Thanks, Remy. I don’t imagine I have to tell you you’re a handsome man.”

Remington reclaimed his hand. “Of course not.” He smiled broadly. “I’m a surgeon. I know I’m perfect.”

Susan laughed and ate, trying for ladylike grace as she did so. The chopsticks didn’t help.

Remington used his like a professional, handling individual grains of rice without difficulty. Susan wondered if that came from experience or naturally fine motor skills. She wondered if the decision to enter surgery had as much to do with hand dexterity as temperament.

“So, your father collects guns.”

Mouth full, Remington only nodded.

“Does he go hunting?”

Remington swallowed. “Not often. He’s more of a shooting range kind of guy. He spends more time reading about guns and cleaning those he has. I think he gets a kick out of taking them apart and reassembling them.”

Susan liked that answer. She had always planned to have a home free of firearms. One date, and I’m already thinking through a marriage to this guy. Though it seemed premature, Susan knew her thoughts were normal. Surely most women in their late twenties considered the future whenever they dated. “Do you shoot?”

“I have.” Remington studied Susan, clearly trying to read her opinion on the matter. “Could you imagine the jokes? A man named Remington never firing a . . .”

“Remington?”

“Yeah. I’ve hunted many times.”

“Oh.” Susan tried not to sound disappointed. She wondered if she could ever learn to live with a man who shot innocent animals for sport.

Chopsticks hovering, Remington continued to study Susan. “You didn’t ask the follow-up question.”

Susan had no idea what he meant. “Follow-up?”

“Have I ever shot anything?”

Susan put the ends of her chopsticks in her mouth to savor a few clinging grains of rice. “Well, I just assumed . . .”

“Never.” Remington’s gaze went distant. “I love crouching in the tree stand, looking down on the forest. After a half hour or so, the animals come back. The birds sing in a way you never seem to hear when you’re just hiking. They land on the stand itself and look right through you for bugs and crumbs. The squirrels chatter and play, without hiding on the far sides of the trees. The deer browse, nibbling at the trunk, at the greenery. This one’s too small, that one’s a doe, the other’s a buck without enough points to bother shooting. Don’t want to waste my tag on just anything. When a large buck does come along, it’s never in quite the right position for a clear shot, you know?”

Susan could not help grinning. “I know. You’re more of a deer watcher than a deer hunter.”

“Besides, the report might scare away the even larger buck that might come along next.” Remington smiled crookedly. “My dad says I’m hopeless.” He returned to his food, finished his plate, and added a bit more of everything.

Still on her first serving, Susan gestured at the serving dishes. “Have as much as you like. I won’t be able to eat seconds.”

“I’m good now.” Remington dexterously worked on his plate.

When the bill card arrived, Remington grabbed it, looked, and pulled a bankcard from his wallet.

“Split it?” Susan suggested.