Grace
JUNE, YEAR 1
My hands shake as I reach for the steering wheel. The GPS waits patiently for me to start my route, but the spiraling butterflies in my stomach have me pawing at the door handle. I’m going to throw up.
The door opens, and I lean into the humid night air. A deep breath clears the nausea. Another calms the flutters.
It’s just a party.
The residency mixer is supposed to be fun, a way to mingle and party with my soon-to-be work family. I’ll spend more time with these strangers in the next few years than my real family in California.
This is how you achieve the goal, . This is what you’ve always wanted.
The dream of myself in that white coat—smart and successful and respected—has fueled my type A little heart since before I could remember. Being a doctor is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s the ultimate symbol that I’ve done something worthwhile, that no matter what anyone says, I’m someone to be taken seriously.
The thoughts don’t ease the crushing social anxiety that wraps around my chest like a corset.
What if they don’t like me?
I pull out my phone.
Me: I’m nervous
Mama: You’ll be fine, honey. Deep breaths.
I should’ve taken a beta-blocker. Instead, I’ve armed myself with the scarlet Louboutin heels I bought myself for graduation, and NARS Inappropriate Red lipstick. My long wavy hair has been styled into soft curls that fall down my back. My dress is, of course, red.
Anything but blue.
Sapphire.
With a slow breath, I back out of my parking spot and head to Dr. Chen’s house, where the residency mixer will take place. In the group text with my fellow interns, we speculated whether there’d be hazing, but Alesha Lipton talked to one of the second--years. Apparently, the welcome party consists of booze, camaraderie, and a lot of talk about vaginas—a staple in any conversation with gynecologists.
I have yet to meet my co-interns in person, but our group message leads me to believe we’ll get along well.
Pulling up to the corner lot, I grip my stomach while it reawakens with flutters. The street curb is clogged with parked cars, but I squeeze my Camry into a spot between a driveway and a blue SUV.
The house itself is a cozy cottage style, with lights glowing from every window. Mature trees dot the yard, and a quaint chimney rises to one side. A Japanese maple grows beside the stairs leading to the front door. I allow my hand to brush the crimson leaves as I pass.
My knock is likely drowned out by the chatter inside, and no one answers. With one last nerve-clearing breath, I let myself in. The room is packed. I force a smile at the first person I see—a handsome brown-haired man with a large grin, wearing a pink T-shirt. A cartoon uterus with buff arms is splashed over his chest. Beneath the uterus is the word Broterus .
I blink at it, a tiny laugh catching in my throat.
The man chuckles. “It’s breathtaking, I know.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Asher. One of the third-years.”
“Hi. . I’m .”
He glances behind me as I shut the door, like he expects someone else. “You with anyone?”
“Nope. Just me.”
His gaze roams my face. “You’re one of the interns, then? ?”
I smile. “ Rose.”
His eyes light up. “Ah. You don’t use your given name?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Laughing, he jerks his head toward the kitchen. “Let me get you a drink. What’ll it be?”
“Oh. Um. Wine, please?”
“Red or white?”
I wave a hand at my dress. “Red, obviously.”
He disappears into the crowd with a good-humored, “Obviously.”
The combined kitchen-living area is thriving with bodies. The faux-brick floors lend a Tuscan vibe to the space, and the custom finishes—from the marble countertops to the built in entertainment center—speak of wealth.
I lock eyes with a few people, smiling at each, but no one is eager to adopt me into their conversation. Wandering farther into the room, I examine the wood planks on the vaulted ceilings when my chest bumps into someone’s elbow.
A small splash of liquid on my ankle makes me wince. Not my shoes…
My gaze falls on the drink I knocked, a half-empty plastic cup, grasped in the most attractive hand I’ve ever seen.
Tanned, thin, long-fingered.
Elegant.
What a stupid thing to be attracted to.
As I take in the body attached to that hand, my skin flares with an odd, unexpected heat. He’s tall. Dark-haired. Dark-eyed. His jawline is like whetted glass.
He grins, little dimples appearing in his cheeks, kind crinkles around his eyes. “Hey.”
A portion of my anxiety unwinds. “Hi. Sorry.” I glance at my leg. “I’m wearing your drink.”
His dark stare locks on my ankle, then slides up my leg in a way I can feel , like his stupidly attractive hands are on my skin.
Whoa. Is it hot in here?
“Not a problem,” he says. “Though I think I ruined your shoes.”
I groan, staring at the sad stain in the silk bow at my ankle. “I loved these shoes.”
He winces. “I could spill some on the other shoe. Make it match?”
“Oh, you’d be good enough to do that for me?”
“Anything for you, er—” He lifts his eyebrows, clearly hoping for a name.
“Oh, I’m .”
He holds his hand out, smiling. “Julian. Ruiner of shoes. Just please don’t tell my sister. If she finds out I killed a pair of heels like that, she’ll disown me.”
I give him a little laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me. So, wait. Are you Julian Santini?”
His smile falters, and his warm hand falls away from mine. “You’ve heard of me?”
I give him my full grin. “Of course. I’ve memorized all my co-intern’s names. You’re Julian Santini. The email said you went to LECOM?”
“The Bradenton campus.” Those dark brows knit together. “You’re one of the interns? You said your name was ?”
An awkward giggle bubbles in my chest, and heat rises in my cheeks. “Oh. I go by my middle name. My parents are hippies. They named me Sapphire.”
The smile drops off his face. His entire demeanor changes as he straightens. “ You’re Sapphire Rose?”
“Er… Yes.” I take a step back.
A disbelieving laugh precedes a sharp, almost cold appraisal of my face. “Of course you are.”
My head jerks at his sardonic tone. “Of course—what?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Nice dress, by the way. Matches the shoes. Sorry about that.” He lifts his near-empty cup and retreats. “I have to refill—”
The crowd swallows him before he finishes.
Shocked, I glance around, meeting the eyes of a few strangers who smile politely before returning to their own conversations.
He…he left? Why?
The knot of anxiety in my chest tightens, then tugs on my tear ducts. I paste on a smile and make my way through the kitchen, passing by Asher with my drink. I lift a finger to keep him from following as I slip into the connected dining room and outside to the empty patio.
A firepit roars beside a table full of ingredients for s’mores. I bypass it all and step around the side of the house, letting the warm brick dig into my back.
Two tears spill, and I swipe at them, breathing through the bleak sense of loneliness and affront. What was that?
Around the corner, the door opens, and the voices of a few party guests drift toward me. I shrink farther into the shadows at the side of the house.
“Dr. Levine is lit tonight,” says a female voice.
A deep contemplative voice answers. “It’s taken me three years to decide, but I’m positive he and his wife are swingers.”
A few chuckles follow.
“She propositioned me at a party once,” says another male.
“Shut up,” Deep Voice says, the eye roll apparent in his tone.
“What happened to the red dress, Santini? Thought I might have an opening, then she talks to you and disappears.”
“That was Sapphire Rose. She introduced herself, and I left to get a drink. I don’t know where she went after.”
Another tear falls when I squeeze my eyes shut. He’d dismissed me. Surely he understands that’s not polite behavior?
Ugh. Why am I crying about it? Parties are too stressful.
“I know who she was,” says the first voice. “I was getting her a drink, cockblocker.”
Oh. It’s Asher.
“The rumor doesn’t bother you?” Deep Voice asks.
What? What rumor?
“Um. Did you see her? I’d give her a spot too if she’d put that mouth around my di—”
“Shut up , Asher,” Deep Voice says. “My wife is here.”
Wait, what the—
“I don’t mind,” comes the amused female voice. “Could she even find your dick, Asher? Like one of those stir straws, right? Girl would probably need a magnifying glass.”
A chorus of laughter breaks out, and a smile touches my lips. I’m glad I didn’t accept a drink from that douche.
“Yeah, yeah, Cat.” Asher’s voice is tinged with amusement. “You’re hilarious.”
Her feminine laughter drifts away. “Let me get you a refill, string bean.”
The door opens and closes.
Deep Voice sighs. “You’re such an asshole, Asher.”
“I know. But hey, if Dr. Rose fucks to get ahead, I can show her all the fast lanes. She’ll have the easiest intern year ever.”
My mind spins in a million directions. Fucks to get ahead. Why do they think that about me?
I glance at my red dress. My red heels. Maybe—
No. It’s not about tonight, or the way I look. These are preconceived notions.
Except, I don’t have sex to get ahead in life. I don’t have sex at all—not for the past two years. The last time had ended catastrophically—
It’s like fucking an ice queen.
Yeah. No thanks to repeating that. The switch on my libido is flipped to a permanent OFF.
Well, it was off until that demonically tempting hand flaunted itself in my face not ten minutes ago. Who knew hands could be so alluring?
But then he just walked away…
Oh, my god. He knew about this rumor, didn’t he?
My fingernails dig into my palms. The knot in my chest has my skin prickling, but my rising temper and the reminder of my last boyfriend has turned the butterflies to daggers. I step into the light, setting a hand on my cocked hip.
Julian’s dark gaze glints my way, catching on my face. He elbows Asher, who turns toward me, grin fading. Two other men stand with them. Other residents.
“What was that now?” I ask.
None of them speak. The fire crackles between us. Heat and smoke permeate the air with burned cedar.
“Who told you I screw people to get ahead in life?” I ask.
“Um—” Asher rubs his neck and glances at the other men. Does he think they’ll have some magical lifeline for him? Nuh-uhh, buddy. You’re screwed. “I think you misheard—”
I shake my head. A tear falls. “No, I think I heard quite clearly.”
None of them answer.
“It’s not true,” I say, swiping the tear away.
Julian turns away. The sharp edge of his jaw throws shadows over his throat. The others exchange glances, clearly perturbed by the irate female in their presence.
I stomp toward them, my heels clacking on the travertine pavers. “What exactly did you hear?”
Asher adopts an expression like someone asked him to inform his girlfriend he has an STD—one he didn’t get from her. “I don’t—know?”
The tallest of the four meets my eyes. I recognize him from his Instagram. Kai Campisi, fellow intern. “They said you got your spot by less than upstanding means.”
He’s an intern—hasn’t even started—and he already heard this about me?
My heart thuds as blood drains from my head, making me woozy. Four vaguely human figures waver in the heat above the fire, and the world fractures into starbursts as tears collect.
Years of similar incidents flicker through my mind. High schools boys snickering about giving them a striptease. College friends flippantly hinting I’d never need student loans. A bouncer at a club, upon checking my license, wondering whether I was the Sapphire Rose from PornHub.
Then med school. Oh, med school. And Matt .
“I didn’t screw my way into this program.” I cringe at the waver in my voice, but I want these words spoken, even if they don’t believe them. “I have no idea who said that about me, or why, but I worked hard to be here. My GPA was perfect and my test scores were solid. I did everything I was supposed to do, and I earned my spot fairly. Even if my name is Sapphire Rose. ”
Kai tilts his head, studying me with a small smile. “Get ’em, girl,” he murmurs.
Asher’s face pales. “Whoa. Chill out.”
“Chill out?” I stomp my foot. “Seriously?”
The man I assume is Deep Voice stares at the ground, buff arms crossed.
Julian stills, the firelight glittering in his eyes like the flames of hell. Mouth tight, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, he taps his finger against the refilled plastic cup in his hand. I fantasize briefly about yanking it from his grasp, sloshing it in his face. Red wine would drip over that cut jaw and soak into his gray button-down. Ruin his clothes.
Would serve him right, since this is clearly why he walked away. He was kind and smiley, flirtatious even, then he heard my stripper name and made a snap judgment based on unfounded rumors.
What a dick.
I throw him a fiery glare. “I did nothing to you. You know nothing about me, and you judged me based on a rumor? Jerk move.” Heart pounding, I turn on my heel and clack away, traveling around the back of the house so I won’t have to face the partygoers inside. My ruined heels puncture the lawn as I hurry for my car, tears flowing freely. Why didn’t I think to wear waterproof mascara?
I’m in the street beside my car when my name stops me cold. A glance over my shoulder shows Julian trotting toward me.
“Sapphire—”
“It’s .” I swipe at my tears.
“Right. Shit.” He throws his plastic cup to the ground, spilling the liquid inside, and offers me the remaining cocktail napkin. “Look, I’m sorr—”
“Who was I meant to have screwed?” I stare at his peace offering without taking it.
He stops short, three steps away. “What?”
“What bigwig was I meant to have screwed to get this spot?”
He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the strands that lay over his forehead. “I don’t know. That doesn’t matter—”
“It does matter, actually. Funny that you didn’t judge the fictional man in this scenario. Only the woman.”
His dark eyes go wide. Incredulous. “That’s not—how would you know who and what I was judging?”
“Because you walked away from me mid-sentence. Felt pretty judgy.”
“That isn’t what I—that’s not—ugh.” He drags a hand over his face.
Yeah. This guy already played his cards, and I have the winning hand. “Men like you are the reason women can never get ahead.”
He cocks his head, voice hardened. “Men like me?”
“Misogynists. Men who accuse women of things they didn’t do. Men who assume because I’m pretty and wearing a red dress and have a porn star’s name that I’d spread my legs for anyone, especially if it came with benefits. You just called me a whore.”
“Did those words leave my mouth? I said nothing to you. I don’t want to be involved in scandals, so I excused myself. I’m sorry that hurt your feel—”
“They say there are two types of men who become gynecologists, Julian. Men who love women, and men who hate them.”
In the dark, his crooked smile is fiendish. “And you think I’m the latter? Based on a single conversation and a misunderstanding?”
“First impressions don’t take long.”
The laugh that rumbles in his chest is low and angry, and he halves the distance between us. “I could say the same about you. You just threw a temper tantrum in front of a bunch of strangers instead of addressing us like a rational human. You essentially stomped your foot and walked away.”
“I—”
“I’m sorry I considered for a second it might be true. I really am. I was told it was a fact by our attending , someone I won’t trust in the future, okay?”
My mouth falls open. My attendings were saying this about me?
His voice softens. “For what it’s worth, I believe you. You may think I hate women, but I don’t. I don’t even know you, and I hate seeing you cry over something like this.” He takes my wrist and presses the napkin into my hand.
Maybe it’s unfair, but all of my hatred for this situation lands squarely on him. I rip my hand away. “You’re a jerk.”
He lets out a bitter laugh and turns to leave, swiping his cup from the ground. “Nice. Thanks. Okay.”
“And now you’re just going to walk away?”
He spins. “What do you want me to do? How else would you like me to fix it? I didn’t start the rumor. I didn’t spread the rumor. All I did was walk away from you, and no one else bothered to come out here trying to make you feel better.”
“Screw you.”
“Screw you .” He throws an irritated arm into the air, waving toward my car. “Weren’t you leaving?”
I shoot him the deadliest glare I can manage. “You stopped me.”
“Well, nothing’s stopping you now.”
I growl and stomp over to my Camry, the automatic door unlocking at my touch. “Better get out of the road. I’d hate for you to get run over.”