27. When Enzymes Make Better Boyfriends
27
WHEN ENZYMES MAKE BETTER BOYFRIENDS
SOPHIE
M y Stanford interview prep notes mock me from their scattered positions across my desk, bed, and floor. I’m still waiting for them to reach out, but I know it’s imminent. To be ready, I’m preparing the standard questions: Why medicine? What makes you stand out? Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Yeah, great question. Ten minutes ago, I saw myself in California. Now I’m pathetically checking my phone for the hundredth time today.
My last text to Liam sits there like expired milk.
[Me] [10:47 AM]: Guess who got into Columbia AND NYU???
[Liam] [11:32 AM]: Congrats, angel. Never doubted you for a second.
[Me] [11:33 AM]: Thanks! Still waiting on Stanford to reach out about the interview next week... Could use a good luck kiss
[Liam] [2:15 PM]: You’ll crush it.
And that’s it. No flirty comeback. No suggestive emoji. No “when can I see you?”
What happened to the guy who couldn’t go two hours without texting me?
I scroll back through our messages from just last week.
[Liam] [6 days ago]: Morning beautiful. Dreamed about that little noise you make when I kiss your neck.
[Me]: Shouldn’t you be at practice?
[Liam]: Worth being late for.
[Me]: You’re impossible.
[Liam]: Impossibly into you.
Now? Radio silence. Well, not silence exactly. Just...distance. Like someone slowly turning down the volume. And didn’t he reassure me just last week that what we have is real? That he would never bolt on me?
I’m not going anywhere, Angel.
Right. Or did I imagine that conversation altogether?
Focus, Sophie. Stanford interview prep. Remember? Your actual future?
I grab the Columbia acceptance letter, running my fingers over the embossed letterhead. Full acceptance, partial scholarship. NYU’s is even better—tuition free all the way. Dad practically burst with pride when I called him yesterday.
“Did I mention Stanford’s interview is on February thirteenth?” I’d asked him.
“Only about twelve times, sweet pea.” He’d laughed. “And don’t worry about the money. You just focus on nailing that interview.”
Yeah, because the interview’s totally what I’m worried about. Not the fact that it’s on the day before Valentine’s Day and my maybe-boyfriend-maybe-PR-stunt hasn’t said a word about it .
My phone buzzes, and my heart does this pathetic little jump. But it’s just Jessica.
“Hey, baby sis,” she chirps when I answer. “How’s the future Dr. Novak?”
“Buried in interview prep,” I say, kicking a stack of medical ethics essays. “What’s up?”
“So, Valentine’s Day...”
My stomach clenches. “What about it?”
“The PR goddess in me is thinking it would be perfect for a public date with Liam. You know, romantic dinner, maybe that new rooftop place in Manhattan? The press would eat it up. ”
“Has,” I swallow hard, “Liam mentioned anything about it?”
“Nope. They had a few important games last week, so I’m sure he’s just distracted. But don’t you worry, my office will take care of all the details.” Jessica pauses. “Everything okay with you two?”
“Fine,” I lie, staring at his last brief text. “Just busy with med school stuff. It’s all happening at once and coming my way real fast. A bit overwhelmed, that’s all.”
“Right. Is he giving you the space you need to focus?”
“Totally,” I say, but my voice sounds fake even to me. “I should get back to prep. The Stanford interview?—”
“Is next week, I know.” I can hear her smile. “You’ve only mentioned it about?—”
“Twelve times?” I finish weakly.
“Try twenty. Love you, sis.”
I end the call and flop back on my bed, sending interview notes flying everywhere. One lands on my face: “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
Definitely not pathetically checking my phone for texts from a hockey player who’s clearly lost interest.
I knew it would happen.
I warned myself about it.
Then went for it anyway.
The door bangs open, and Jenna bursts in, practically vibrating with excitement. “You will not believe what Marc just texted me about Valentine’s Day!”
Great. More reminders of the holiday-that-shall-not-be-named.
“He’s taking me to that new speakeasy in Manhattan,” she gushes, flopping onto my bed and scattering my Stanford notes even further. “The one with the hidden entrance through the bakery? And then—” She stops mid-sentence, finally noticing my face. “Oh shit. Has Captain Hotness still not mentioned V-Day?”
I busy myself gathering up my scattered papers. “We’re keeping things casual, remember? Focusing on our careers?”
“Right.” Jenna rolls her eyes. “That’s why you’ve been staring at your phone like it holds the secrets to the MCAT.”
“Speaking of which,” I say, desperately changing the subject, “we should head to the library. The biochem exam is going to destroy us if we don’t start reviewing metabolic pathways.”
“Smooth subject change, Novak.” But Jenna’s already grabbing her backpack. “Fine, let’s go be responsible students. The study group’s probably waiting anyway.”
As we trudge across campus through the February chill, I give myself a stern mental lecture to get it together.
I’ve got my Columbia acceptance. NYU’s a full ride. Stanford interview next week. This is everything I’ve worked for. It’s happening.
So why does it feel like something’s missing?
Because I let myself get distracted by a pair of blue eyes and a hockey player’s smile, that’s why.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Earth to Sophie!” Jenna waves her hand in front of my face. “You just walked right past the library entrance.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Just...thinking about enzyme kinetics.”
“Sure, you are.” Jenna links her arm through mine. “And I’m thinking about the Krebs cycle, not Marc in a suit.”
I manage a weak laugh as we head for our usual study spot. Time to lock these feelings down and focus on what matters.
The med school library’s study room is our second home these days. The whiteboard’s covered in biochemical pathways that look like a drunk spider tried to play Pictionary. Empty coffee cups and highlighted notes litter the table where our study group—me, Jenna, Taylor, and Priya—hunker down for another marathon session.
“Okay, but can someone please explain why glycolysis produces a net of two ATP when—” Taylor stops mid-sentence as Priya’s phone lights up and she lets out a gasp that could wake the dead.
“Oh my God.” Priya’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Sophie...um...”
My stomach drops before I even look at her phone. Something in her voice.
“What?” Jenna leans over, then sucks in a sharp breath and looks at me with terror in her eyes. “Holy shit.”
I force myself to sound casual. “What’s the drama?”
Priya slides her phone across the table like it’s a bomb. “ DeuxMoi just posted this.”
The photo’s grainy, typical celebrity gossip quality, but there’s no mistaking Liam’s broad shoulders or the way he’s guiding pop superstar Olivia Carrington into Catch. His hand rests on her lower back, familiar and intimate in a way that makes my insides twist. She’s glowing up at him, all perfect teeth and glittering eyes.
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
“Maybe it’s not what it looks like?” Taylor offers weakly.
“Wait, there’s more.” Priya swipes to another photo. This one’s from Olivia Carrington’s Instagram story—a perfectly manicured hand wrapped around a martini glass, NYC skyline in the background. The caption reads “Reunions are sweet.”
Reunions. As in, they have a history.
But I knew that.
“Soph,” Jenna starts, her voice gentle .
I slam my biochem book open with more force than necessary. “It’s fine. We’re not exclusive. Hell, we’re barely even dating. It’s just PR.”
“But—”
“Really.” I start taking out notes from my bag, proud that my hands aren’t shaking.
Much.
“We should focus on this exam. The citric acid cycle isn’t going to learn itself.”
My friends exchange looks that scream “we’re not buying it,” but bless them, they drop it. We dive into metabolic pathways and enzyme kinetics, and if my voice is a little too bright, my laugh a little too sharp, no one mentions it.
This is good , I tell myself. Space to focus on your future.
But as Taylor walks us through electron transport chains, all I can see is Liam’s hand on Olivia Carrington’s back, that same hand that held me like I was precious, that traced patterns on my skin in the darkness of his bedroom.
“Sophie?” Priya’s voice breaks through my spiral. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that same diagram for ten minutes.”
“Yeah, just,” I gesture vaguely at my notes, “complex IV is giving me trouble. I need coffee.” I stand up abruptly. “Anyone want anything?”
They all shake their heads, concern written all over their faces . I try not to cry.
I rush to the bathroom and lock myself in the biggest stall, sliding down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. My legs won’t hold me up anymore, so here I am, having a good old-fashioned breakdown. At least it’s a clean-ish bathroom—the one where future doctors stress-cry between exams.
I must look pathetic, my mascara creating tribute art to Jackson Pollock as it runs down my cheeks. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and for one stupid, heart-stopping moment, I think it might be him.
It’s not.
Stanford Medical School
Interview Confirmation
February 13th, 9 AM PST (virtual)
The email I’ve been refreshing my inbox for all week. The interview that could decide my entire future. My dream school.
A laugh bubbles up, the kind that sounds worryingly close to a sob.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Here’s my shot at everything I’ve worked for, and all I can think about is Liam O’Connor’s hands on another woman’s back. .
I swipe angrily at my cheeks. This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved. Why I tried to keep my distance. Med school applications, interviews, my future career—these are the things that matter. Not some hockey player with a revolving door of gorgeous women that will swallow me whole.
I lean my head back against the bathroom wall, closing my eyes. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, steady and unchanging, unlike everything else in my life right now.
“Get it together, Novak,” I mutter to my reflection as I finally stand up. “You’ve got an interview to prep for.”
My phone buzzes one more time. It’s Jenna.
[Jenna]: You okay in there? Need me to come stage a rescue ?
[Me]: All good. Just got confirmation for my Stanford interview.
It’s not exactly a lie.
It’s just not the whole truth.
Kind of like whatever Liam and I had.
Or didn’t have.
Or...whatever.
I splash some cold water on my face, wipe away the smeared mascara, and straighten my shoulders.
Time to go memorize the Krebs cycle. At least biochemistry makes sense. Enzymes would never ghost you for a pop star.
When I return to our study spot, my friends are deep in discussion about ATP production, but their eyes track me like I might shatter at any moment.
“Miss anything important?” I ask, sliding into my chair with a smile so fake, it hurts my face.
“Just Taylor finally understanding substrate-level phosphorylation,” Priya jokes tentatively.
“Hey!” Taylor protests with a shove to her arm, and just like that, we’re back to biochemistry.
For the next two hours, I throw myself into metabolic pathways with the kind of intensity usually reserved for Olympic training. Every formula memorized is one less second spent thinking about Liam’s hand on Olivia’s back. Every reaction chain mastered is another brick in the wall I’m building around my heart.
Sometimes your gut tells you something’s wrong, and you’re an idiot not to listen.
My phone buzzes. Jessica again .
[Jessica]: Have you seen the photos? We need to get ahead of this PR nightmare. What’s going on???
Heat flares in my chest.
[Me]: Not my problem. Ask your star player. I’ve got a Stanford interview to prep for.
[Jessica]: Sophie...
[Me]: Look, I was happy to help with the team’s image, but I’m done. I need to focus on my exam and the interview.
There’s a long pause before her reply comes through.
[Jessica]: You’re right. Focus on Stanford. I’ll check in with you later.
Well, that was easy.
Another hour later, my brain is fried, and I pack up my study materials to head back to my dorm. The Stanford prep materials are right where I left them, scattered across my desk like academic confetti. I should review the sample questions again. Practice my “why medicine” speech. Maybe work on?—
But my thumb betrays me, opening Instagram before I can stop it. The photo’s still there. Liam and Olivia. His hand. Her smile. His familiar smirk that made my knees weak but now just makes me feel stupid.
This is better , I tell myself, closing the app with shaking fingers. Better now than later. Better before I got in any deeper.
But as I stare at my interview notes, the words blur together until all I can see is his face, his hands, his?—
Focus.
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Definitely not here, sitting in my dorm room with a broken heart while Liam O’Connor wines and dines his way through Manhattan’s A-list.
Then get to work, Novak.
Because Stanford isn’t going to accept me based on my ability to fall for hockey players with wandering eyes.