2. Joseph #2
"Fine. But I'm right, and you know it."
"Noted. Now, is there an actual reason you came to find me, or was this purely a surveillance mission?"
Her face shifts. She uncrosses her arms and leans against the counter next to me, and the teasing drops away.
"Harper fractured her ankle," she says. "Playing in the yard. She landed wrong on the trampoline."
Harper. Connor's little girl. She's pure energy with Connor's blue eyes and an opinion about everything.
"Connor looked at it," Sarah says. "He says it's a minor fracture, and I know it's minor, and I know she'll be fine. But..."
"But you're still worried. Even though you're both doctors, you're still her parents. Makes sense."
She nods. "Yeah."
I walk her through it—what to look for with the swelling, weight-bearing timelines for her age group, when to call me versus when it's just normal healing pain.
Sarah listens carefully, even though she probably already knows all of it.
But asking means someone else is paying attention, and sometimes, that's all a parent needs.
"Keep her off it for two weeks. Ice, elevate, the usual. And tell Harper that if she needs a cool cast, she knows who to call."
Sarah smiles. "Thanks, Jo."
"Anytime."
She heads off to her shift. I rinse out my coffee cup, toss the empanada container in the recycling, and head back to the floor.
The rest of the day runs on its usual rhythm. Rounds. Consults. A follow-up with a knee replacement patient named Mrs. Aguilar, who is two weeks ahead of her rehab schedule and very smug about it, which I encourage because smugness is an underrated motivator.
A third-year resident freezes mid-exam on a shoulder assessment, panic locking her hands in place. I step beside her, talk her through it low and steady, and let her finish. She thanks me afterwards, embarrassed. I tell her the good ones freeze and then keep going. She keeps going.
End of shift. I say goodnight to Dani at the nurses' station.
I bump fists with Ray on my way past maintenance.
I wave at Carl at the security desk. He asks if I caught the Patriots game.
I did not—I've never voluntarily watched a full football game in my life—but he asks every single time, and every single time, I give him the same answer, and somehow neither of us has gotten tired of the bit.
"Missed it, Carl. Next time."
"You always say that, Doc."
"And I always mean it."
He shakes his head. I push through the doors into the parking garage.
The drive home is the transition. The hospital version of me, the one who's always on, always filling silence before it settles, gets quieter with every mile. By the time I cut the engine, it's just me.
The apartment is quiet. It's always quiet. I used to like that. Lately, it just feels like a room with nobody in it. I drop my keys on the counter. I heat up leftover rice and cook some quick stir-fry.
I think about what Sarah said, about dating seriously and letting someone in. It's easy for her to say. She found Connor. She found the love story and thinks everyone should have one.
And I want one, that's the part I don't say out loud. I want the person who makes the quiet feel like something other than empty.
But my schedule is already carved between the hospital and my family, and my family is not simple.
I already have one woman in my life who needs me in ways I can't predict, and I love her, and I'll never stop showing up for her, but sometimes I wonder if there's any room left.
If there's a version of my life where I get to be somebody's priority instead of everybody's support system.
I don't have to figure that out tonight.
I pull out my phone and open a dating app.
I use it from time to time when I need to think about something other than my life and work.
I'm good at dates. I'm good at making someone laugh over dinner and walking them to their car and texting them the next day to say I had a great time.
I'm also good at never texting again after that, though I make it clear I'm not looking for anything serious.
I swipe through and go with the usual rotation.
Bikini on a boat. Gym mirror selfie. Tight dress at a rooftop bar.
Group photo where I have to guess which one she is.
None of it is wrong. I'm not judging. It's just that after a while, every profile starts to look like a different version of the same person.
Then I stop.
She's standing in a garden in a ruffled dress, ribbon at the collar—soft, old-fashioned, something about her feels like she belongs in a painting. The late-afternoon sun catches in her hair, light brown and loose, half of it spilling over one shoulder.
Her eyes are so blue and wide, they make her whole face feel like an open window. And in every photo, she's smiling. Never posed, never the practiced chin-down-eyes-up of a bathroom mirror. She's smiling like someone just said something funny and she caught it a beat late and couldn't help herself.
She looks like a doll. She looks like she'd be fun to be around. I don't know how I know that from a screen, but I do.
I read her bio. Short, dry, funnier the second time—which is why there's a second time.
She's a musician. I like music. That counts. I swipe right.
We match.
I stare at the screen for a second. Then I type.
Joseph
Okay, so I need to be upfront about something. I can't play any instruments. I tried the recorder in fourth grade and my teacher asked me to consider other hobbies. Just want to set realistic expectations.
I hit send. I lock my phone. I put it facedown on the counter like I'm not going to check it in thirty seconds.
I check it in thirty seconds.
Millie
The recorder is barely an instrument, so I wouldn't count that as a failure. More of a public service.
I grin.
Joseph
Wow. Brutal. I poured my heart out about the recorder and you dismissed my entire musical journey in one sentence.
Millie
To be fair, it wasn't much of a journey if you barely started.
Joseph
You know what, that's fair. So what do you play? Wait, let me guess. Based on your profile and musical expertise, I'm going to say a kalimba.
Millie
So close. Violin.
Joseph
That was going to be my second guess.
Millie
Sure it was.
Joseph
It was. I had a whole list. Kalimba, violin, that big gong thing they hit in orchestras. In that order.
Millie
The fact that you called it "that big gong thing" tells me everything I need to know about your musical education.
I'm laughing out loud alone in my kitchen. She's quick. She doesn't miss. And there's a sharpness to her humor that makes me want to keep going just to see what she says next. We end up chatting for hours, talking about the most random things.
Joseph
Okay, serious question. What's your most useless talent? And don't say something boring like being double-jointed. I need something I can respect.
Millie
Perfect pitch.
Joseph
What does that mean exactly?
Millie
Play me any note, and I can tell you what it is. Any sound, really. Car horns. Doorbells. Someone's phone ringing across a restaurant.
Joseph
No way. I'm testing this.
I send a voice note. Just me going "laaaaaa" in my kitchen for about three seconds. It's not good. Not even a little. But I commit to it.
Millie
That's a G. A very flat G. But G.
Joseph
How do I even verify this. I don't own a piano. I don't own anything with notes on it.
Millie
Download a tuner app. Or just trust me.
I'm way too invested in this. I download a tuner app, pull up a random note on some online piano site, and send her the audio.
Joseph
Okay, what's that one?
Millie
E flat.
The tuner app says E flat. I stare at my phone.
Joseph
What the hell. Do another one.
I send another.
Millie
C sharp.
Joseph
This is witchcraft. And this isn't even useless.
She sends me a GIF of a woman flipping her hair, and I smile.
Millie
So, what about you? What's your useless talent?
Joseph
I can guess someone's coffee order.
Millie
That's not a talent. That's just being judgy.
Joseph
It's profiling. There's a science to it. And I'm guessing yours is either a vanilla cold brew or an iced chai latte.
Millie
That is genuinely unsettling.
Joseph
Told you. Devastating charm and one very specific superpower.
Millie:
'll believe the superpower. The charm is still on trial.
Joseph
So, why don't you confirm it? Are you free Saturday night, seven p.m.?
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Millie
Sure.
Joseph
Great. Excited to meet you.