Chapter Eight
Eight
When I walk into the control room of the cath lab that Monday, Pamela’s jaw drops.
“Excuse me for saying this,” she says. “But damn, Sullivan. You look good.”
“Umm, thanks,” I say, making my way to my computer to pull up my cases for the day.
Pamela continues to ogle as I scroll through the cath films for my first patient, a gentleman who has traveled from southern Illinois to have a particularly crunchy blockage in his left circumflex artery addressed.
It’s a case I’ll need a Palette representative for, and what do you know, Leila is on today.
“Did you get a facial?” Pamela continues, ever curious. “Score the world’s best concealer match?”
“No?” I say, a little self-consciously.
“Well, you’re glowing,” she says. Then wickedly, “Did you get laid?”
My ears burn, but I’ve gotten too good at controlling my face over the years to let my embarrassment slip.
“Is this sexual harassment, Pamela?” I deadpan. I take a sip of my espresso, made using Julian’s machine. It’s delicious, makes Brews and Beans taste like sludge.
“Oh you’re no fun,” Pamela whines.
She isn’t wrong that I look good. The woman I’ve been catching in the mirror for the last two days isn’t drastically different from the one I’ve gotten used to, not particularly older or younger or freer of crow’s feet, but she looks like an alternate version of me, one who doesn’t have a years-long sleep debt or worries like Will I kill a patient today?
I’m looking less like a beleaguered interventionist and more like the pampered trophy wife of a hedge fund manager who spends her days doing juice cleanses and chemical peels and whose only worry is whether her housekeeper did a good enough job cleaning the baseboards.
Brandon, on the other hand, looks a mess.
Since his wedding, he has only grown more haggard.
There are frown lines bracketing his mouth that I don’t remember being there before, dark circles under his eyes, and a patchy five o’clock shadow now omnipresent on his normally clean-shaven face.
He’s quieter than usual too, almost glum.
Brandon isn’t the most boisterous of our colleagues—that honor goes firmly to Shiv—but he is generally loquacious, and the cath lab feels sterile without the background droning of his friendly chatter.
Pamela tells me that he’s signed up to moonlight in other hospitals.
“He’s overworking himself,” Pamela says, as we both watch him trudge into his lab for his next case, responding to all Larry’s questions with grunts of affirmation. “He needs to slow down.”
I respond with a noncommittal “Hmph” that I hope communicates my lack of interest. Ever since the dissection incident, I’ve been determined to mind my business.
I’ll help Brandon if he asks, jump in if I’m needed, but he’s made it clear that my opinions aren’t welcome.
We work, as we have for the last couple of weeks, not together but in parallel.
But I do watch him and wonder what’s changed and if Sophie has noticed it.
Winona says her daughter has become oddly mum about her trips to her father’s West Loop loft, and I hope that the coldness he’s displaying here doesn’t persist—or worse, turn to hot anger—when he’s home with her.
I pull out my phone and send my goddaughter a quick text: checking in on you, nugget. We’re overdue for a girls’ date.
Sophie responds immediately, even though I’m pretty sure she’s in the middle of class. Let’s get sushi. Or ramen. Or both. You’re coming to my recital, right? Did you watch the video I sent?
Wouldn’t miss it, watched the video, we can go somewhere that serves both, pay attention in class, I type back with one hand.
The door from Brandon’s lab into the control room bangs open, and I jolt, tucking my phone back into my pocket like I’ve been caught looking at something questionable. But it’s only Shiv, beaming down at us with his hands on his hips and a plan he clearly intends to execute.
“You guys coming to SCAI next month?” he says. “And more importantly, you coming out Saturday night for the after-party?”
SCAI, or Society for Cardiovascular Angiography and Interventions, is an organization for interventional cardiologists and industry representatives that hosts an annual conference to share new innovations.
This year, it’s being held in Chicago, which means that many of my colleagues in the city will be leading the sessions and planning the after-hours events.
A few of my fellows will be presenting their research, so I intended to go to support them anyway, but I know that my attendance is as good as mandatory.
Fewer than 5 percent of interventional cardiologists are women and an infinitesimally smaller percentage also Black, which means that my institution will be sure to parade me around the exhibition halls as a singular symbol of their progress.
I’ve already gotten three insistent emails from Krause double-checking that I’ll be present for the Broadview SCAI photo, where I will be positioned in the center, as I have for the last four years.
“The after-party?” Brandon says glumly from his side of the room. The sound of his voice alarms me; I realize that it’s because it’s been some time since I last heard it.
Shiv waves him off.
“I already got confirmation from your better half, so you’re handled,” he says. He turns hopefully to me. “Sean? You in?”
I wince. I enjoy SCAI—interventional cardiology is a small world, so I’ll get the chance to meet up with some old friends—but the after-parties are another story: too much alcohol, too many hot pharma reps in designer clothing, too much potential for mess.
Last year, a very married interventionist from Tennessee, emboldened by two Long Island iced teas and the egging-on of his coworkers-turned-regressed-frat-boys, spent the better part of an hour trying to convince me to go back to his hotel.
Leila had been the one to rescue me, with the excuse that my colleagues were taking a group picture.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Unfortunately for me, Shiv refuses to accept defeat.
“Aw, come on, Sullivan, I’m smart enough to know when I’m being let down easy,” he says.
“I’m a hermit, Shiv, remember?” I remind him.
“Well, come out of your shell,” he insists. He gives me a pleading smile. “Just make an appearance. Twenty minutes! I’ll buy you a drink. And you can even bring a plus-one!”
The words have barely left his mouth before the door to the control room swings open again and Leila springs inside, throwing her hair into a neat bun as she crosses the room. She lifts her head, grinning when she sees Shiv.
“Are you being bullied into going to Shiv’s after-party?” she asks.
Shiv huffs, affronted.
“I’m not bullying anyone—” he insists.
“You should come,” Leila says to me. Then, brightly, “You can bring Jules! He’ll be an excellent meat shield.”
Brandon and Shiv exchange a glance, and I’m not sure if their confusion stems from learning that I might actually have a plus-one to bring, recognizing that Leila is referring to her man of honor, or wondering what Leila means by a “meat shield.” Either way, my stomach drops at the mention of Julian’s name.
There is nothing technically off-color about our relationship, but I’m not quite ready to bring the rest of the world into it yet.
Maybe because it’s so new. Maybe because he’s so young, and the curious stares we have occasionally gotten in public are more bothersome than I’d like to admit.
Maybe because the voice note he left me this morning reflecting on my opinions on his investments and suggesting a trip to the Hyde Park Art Center to view their recurring New Art ground-floor exhibition left more stirrings in my belly than the searing kisses he’d given me in his back seat.
Or maybe it’s because I can sense that I’m catching feelings and don’t want to throw our fledgling dalliance off course by suggesting something so intense as meeting my entire professional network.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Leila adds, softly, “He would probably really like it if you asked.”
I narrow my eyes in her direction.
“Does he already know it’s happening?” I ask.
Leila’s cheeks pink, and she makes a show of tying on her surgeon’s cap to avoid meeting my eyes.
I am about to bury myself under the tile when Pamela, of all people, comes to my rescue.
“Woop, your patient’s here, Sullivan,” she says. She hops out of her chair and all but hoists me out of mine. “Enough chitchat. Time to suit up.”
“Thanks for the save,” I whisper as she ties my gown five minutes later.
I can’t see her face, but I can hear the shit-eating grin in her voice.
“I didn’t do it out of the goodness of my heart,” she says. “I’m going to need you to spill the deets about this ‘Jules’ guy later.”
Behind my mask, I bite my cheek, but I don’t dare to protest.
Over the next two weeks I see Julian more than I have seen any one person since graduating from medical school.
He melds into my life seamlessly, inviting me for impromptu meals at restaurants around the city, joining me at the gym during my evening workouts, and even occasionally misusing his hospital visitor pass to drop off lunch for the entire cath lab.
To my relief, he never surprises me on days when Brandon or Leila are in the lab, and my colleagues who’d attended their wedding don’t look at him for long enough to register where they’ve seen him before.
Thus, our entanglement remains something of an open secret.