Chapter 12
Selene
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I blurt out the moment we exit the boardroom, my heart thundering against my ribs.
I've always been terrible at this kind of thing. Even though we've made love and my heart skips several beats every time this woman looks at me, I get the impression she's hesitant to take the next step.
She freezes mid-step, her eyes widening in surprise, her thumb suspended over her lucky pen. I can almost see the gears turning in her mind as she searches for an excuse to say no. Right now, even a simple “I'm too tired after surgery” would suffice. I'd get the hint.
“Are you serious?”
“Um… yeah, of course. But only if you'd like to. Maybe you'd prefer to rest and…” I'm an idiot, practically handing her reasons to decline.
“I'd love to,” she admits, her voice dropping to a soft murmur.
“Really? I mean, great! I know this little place in Brooklyn that serves the best Italian food outside Italy. At least according to an old army buddy whose family was from Naples.”
“There aren't any escalators involved, right?”
Her face is so serious that it takes me a moment to realize she's joking.
“Don't judge until you try the food,” I warn when I notice her studying the small restaurant, tucked between a laundromat and a 24-hour convenience store. The Christmas lights framing the door blink erratically, without rhythm, giving the place a chaotic charm.
“I haven't said anything. This place is…” she pauses, perhaps searching for a diplomatic word.
“I know it's not up to the country club standards you're probably used to on weekends, but I swear the food is incredible.”
“I was just going to say it's unexpected, and I rarely go to the country club — only when I'm with my family in Connecticut.”
Inside, the warmth envelops us, a welcome respite from the street's chill. The aroma of tomato sauce, garlic, and fresh-baked bread makes my mouth water.
“Selene! La mia bella pilota !” Marco exclaims as I enter. “And who is this bellissima donna with you?”
“This is Dr. Alexia Winters. She's a surgeon I work with at Watson Memorial.”
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should introduce her as “my girlfriend” or if that would be too formal, since I'm not even sure where we stand. Marco attempts to hug her, as he did with me, only to be met with a stiff, cold handshake.
“Ah, a dottoressa ! Come, I have the perfect table. Away from the door — we don't want the doctor catching a cold.”
He leads us to a small booth in a corner, partially hidden behind a wooden partition covered with vintage photos of southern Italy, and leaves a carafe of wine we haven't ordered.
“Tell me something — do you always carry that pen, or is it just for special occasions like unauthorized helicopter flights through snowstorms?” I ask, attempting to break the ice.
“It was my friend Laura's. She gave it to me the Christmas when… well, you know. Said I'd need it to write prescriptions when I became a doctor, but I've never actually used it. I'm not even sure if it still writes,” she confesses, her voice dropping with a hint of sadness.
“I'm sorry. It's beautiful that you carry it. My sister Emily had a small stuffed penguin. She slept with it during her hospital stays. It's been with me on every flight,” I admit.
Before we can continue, Marco returns with a basket of fresh bread and two plates of Gorgonzola scaloppini that smell divine.
“For the Watson Memorial Hospital heroines. On the house,” he announces proudly. “Selene, if you need more bread for the sauce, just say the word.”
“What's this? How did you know that…?”
“You're on every news channel!” he exclaims with exaggerated hand gestures. “The brave pilot and the brilliant surgeon who flew through a Christmas snowstorm to save a little girl's life. A beautiful story,” he adds before disappearing back to the kitchen.
“I swear I'm going to kill Arya,” Alexia mutters, rolling her eyes.
The conversation flows naturally, as if we've known each other forever, and this is starting to feel more and more like a romantic date.
“Can I ask you something?” she suddenly inquires.
“You just did,” I tease, hastily swallowing a piece of bread soaked in Gorgonzola sauce.
“There's been rumors for weeks that you're leaving New York,” she whispers.
“For weeks?”
“Well, I might have asked about you a few times before we started talking,” she admits, blushing.
“Boston's offering better pay,” I confess.
“So you're leaving?”
“I told them no. I'm staying in New York.”
“Is it because of the coffee at Watson Memorial?”
“And because of a certain brilliant doctor who makes nurses cry but saves seven-year-old girls' lives and isn't afraid of snowstorms,” I acknowledge with a wink.
“I don't make nurses cry.”
“But you are kind of strict, and they're sometimes afraid of you. Well, often.”
“You're impossible. You've left me speechless. I don't even know what to say.”
“I hope you'll at least say you want to try this with me because otherwise, I'm making a bad business decision staying,” I joke, shrugging.
The kiss she gives me is interrupted by Marco again, bringing us the house's famous tiramisu, which we also didn't order, insisting on taking a photo with us for the restaurant's Instagram.
Hand in hand as we walk toward her apartment, Manhattan's streets seem different. It's strange how everything changes when you're with someone who matters.
“This is it,” she announces, stopping in front of a red-brick building. “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”
“Is that what they're calling it these days?”
“You're quite the comedian tonight. You're starting to sound like Arya. But truthfully, I'd like you to spend the night,” she confesses, her voice lowering as a slight blush colors her cheeks.
Her apartment is exactly as I expected — meticulously organized, minimalist, yet somehow warm and inviting. Several medical journals rest in neat stacks on the dining table, and a framed photo hangs on one wall. The same one from her office, but larger. Laura and her as children.
“Sorry if it's a bit messy,” she apologizes. “Nobody usually comes in here,” she admits, vaguely gesturing around with her finger.
“Messy? Wow! You should see my apartment. That's what I call messy.”
Sitting on the couch, fingers intertwined between kisses and gentle caresses, we talk about everything and nothing. Our families, our dreams. Our fears too. Alexia tells me about her childhood in Connecticut, about the pressure to succeed, about the emotional distance she turned into her shield. I describe growing up in a small Brooklyn house with five brothers, all boys. About the pain of losing my only sister, about the peace I find when I'm flying.
As the night progresses, our conversation becomes more intimate. We discuss our fears, the vulnerabilities we try to hide. Alexia confesses her fear of failure, of not being good enough because of the insecurities her mother instilled in her since childhood. I admit my fear of losing someone else, of not being able to protect them. It's strange how easy it is to be honest with her, to lower my guard and show her the parts of myself I usually keep hidden.
I acknowledge I came up to her apartment thinking about sex, but somehow, this is even more intimate. And as we drift off to sleep, her head resting on my chest, I'm starting to be certain that I've finally found the perfect place to land.