Love Sick

Julian

NOVEMBER, YEAR 1

Hiding in a doctor’s dictation area, I hold the phone tight to my ear. “Yes, Mom. My flight is on Tuesday.”

“, if you miss Thanksgiving, I swear—”

“I bought the ticket. I’ll be home.”

“It’s bad enough you’re missing Christmas. Who works on Christmas?”

I sigh. “Babies don’t care about holidays, Mom.”

Her tone chastises. “Your sisters have been looking forward to seeing you. They say you never text.”

“I work ninety hours a week.”

She snorts into the phone. “It takes seven seconds to send a text, son.”

“Mom, I have to go. I’m supposed to be working.”

“Don’t you dare miss that flight, !”

“Goodbye.”

“—”

I hang up and press my hand over my eyes, trying to find patience. Ever since Dad died when I was two, she’s focused solely on her children. As the baby, my new distance chafes at her overbearing maternal instincts.

My sisters understand, but Mom doesn’t recognize how hard I worked to get here—never mind that I chose this path because of her life-threatening hemorrhage when I was fifteen. We almost lost her. I’d never been so scared in my life.

Teenage was kind of a mama’s boy.

I frown. I’m still a mama’s boy, aren’t I?

God. I’ll never escape it.

My gaze drops to my phone.

Me: Mom is guilt tripping me again.

Tori: You probably deserve it, BB

That fucking nickname. They started with baby . Then bebe . And now just BB .

Tori: Oh, she texted me about it.

She sends me a screenshot of her message chain with Mom, wherein my mother has serial-texted my crimes.

Ma: hung up on me

Ma: I don’t think he’s coming for thanksgiving

Ma: I might as well sell his furniture

Ma: Victoria are you there?

Ma: Your brother has abandoned us

Ma: Will you bring eggs when you come later?

Ma: Do you think he has a girlfriend?

Tori: Yes, I’ll bring eggs.

Ma: We should invite his girlfriend

Suppressing my groan, I shove my phone in my white coat pocket. My mother does the typical passive-aggressive thing when she thinks I’ve mistreated her. I get the silent treatment, which is somehow both a relief and a guilt-inducing nightmare.

I’ll have to call her later.

My phone buzzes again and I ignore the text from Rebecca, the internal med resident Grace sicced on me a couple months ago. Rebecca is tenacious as hell and wearing me down. I’m going to end up on an unwanted date with her soon, all thanks to Grace Rose.

One day, I’ll find some terrible form of payback for this.

Spying a small cactus with a spiky red flower propped in the window, I snap a quick picture and send it to Grace, captioned, “Found this. Made me think of you.”

Prickly and red. Describes Grace Rose perfectly.

My senior resident, Sarabeth Steiner—a short, round, pleasant woman—pokes her head into the dictation room. “Hey, Santini, you done on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get lunch.” She straightens her glasses and motions me to follow.

Together in the resident lounge, we grimace at the lunch offering.

“I hate fish Friday,” she says.

I nod. “I’m making a sandwich.”

The room isn’t large, and round tables with mismatched chairs take up most of the space. At the deli station, I bump into Alesha.

“What’s up, Santini?” A big grin shows off her straight teeth as she tucks a few blue strands behind her ear.

I nod toward them. “New hair?”

She shoots me a look . “As if I’d keep the same hair for long.”

My laugh dies in my throat when a shiver chases all the way down my spine. How does my body know? It’s like a sixth sense. A superpower.

I could have gotten super strength or precognition, but no. I got Grace Radar.

I turn as she rounds the corner, staring at a bottle in her hand. “Alesha, they only had chocolate. Is that—” She looks over, and our eyes lock.

Heat tugs deep in my chest.

I offer my bland smile. “Hello, Sapphire.”

She’s done something to her face. Darkened her eyelashes or something. It’s…pretty. The harsh fluorescent lighting does nothing to dampen the effect. Those big hazel eyes—more green than brown today—blink three times before she says, “It’s Grace .”

“Right.” I tap my temple as the joyous imp who lives for her consternation dances inside. “I keep forgetting.”

Her eyes narrow. “How’s Rebecca?”

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” I say, teeth clenched. “She’s great in bed.”

“That’s funny. She didn’t say the same about you.” She hands Alesha the bottle. “Hope chocolate is okay. I have to get back upstairs.”

Alesha waves. “See ya, boo bear.”

I track Grace’s progress as she weaves through tables toward the door, her wavy hair spilling down the length of her back. The teasing whiff of that hair I’d gotten the night I bumped into her drifts through my mind. Effing toxic, she is. Her pheromones have imprinted on my subconscious.

Little does it know that attractive scent belongs to a harpy.

Once the door closes behind her, I face Alesha, who watches me through squinted eyes. A sly grin stretches her full lips. “You didn’t really go out with that girl, did you?”

“No. That woman makes me want to claw my eyes out.”

She grins. “Which one?”

“Take your pick.”

“Poor Juju. He’s so mistreated.” She leans closer. “You know Grace is awesome, right? If you’d stop arguing—”

I jerk a hand up. “I don’t argue. She argues.”

“You provoke.”

Right then, my phone buzzes. Grace has sent a picture of a festering abscess, captioned, “Found this. Made me think of you.”

Ha. Clever girl.

Sarabeth meanders toward the deli station. “Was that Grace? What rotation is she on again?”

“ICU,” Alesha says. “They’re keeping her busy.”

“Oh yeah. I heard.” Sarabeth clicks the tongs as she decides on a meat.

Alesha and I exchange glances. She leans closer. “Heard what?”

Sarabeth shrugs. “That people have been hard on her. On account of how she got in and how she sleeps around.”

Alesha’s face hardens. “She doesn’t sleep around.”

“Oh,” Sarabeth says, pausing.

“None of that’s true,” Alesha says. “It’s all lies.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Sarabeth throws some cheese on her sandwich. “But don’t they say there’s a grain of truth in every rumor?”

Woof. The frown on Alesha’s face is legendary. “Well, they are idiots,” she says.

I take my sandwich and follow Sarabeth to a table. “Is this why the attendings are hard on her?”

“Oh no. I think that’s just because she’s not very good.”

Alesha bristles in the seat next to me. “What do you mean, she’s not good? She’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t translate to practical knowledge,” Sarabeth says around a mouthful of sandwich. “Knowing the answer in didactics doesn’t do any good if you can’t apply that answer to real life. She has a lot of work before she’s ready for second year. They may hold her back.”

Wait, what? I don’t like Grace, but even I’m offended on her behalf. On behalf of interns everywhere. “That’s not fair. She’s not doing worse than any of us. We just started. We can’t be perfect.”

Sarabeth holds her palms out. “Hey, I’ve never worked with her. This is just what I’ve heard.”

Alesha stabs at her food. “I can’t believe they’re being hard on her because of rumors that aren’t true.”

“Should we…do something?” I mutter in her direction, taking a bite of my turkey sandwich despite the sudden knot in my stomach.

Alesha shoves her plate away. “What are we supposed to do? I already tell people it isn’t true whenever it comes up. Don’t you?”

I nod, though the last time I did, the radiology resident who said it snorted and asked if I fucked her, too. If we hadn’t been in a room full of attendings, I probably would have punched the guy.

I still might, if I get the chance.

“It’ll die down eventually,” Sarabeth says. “There’s always rumors in the hospital.”

* * *

“And then she said it was the best presentation on acute hypoxic respiratory failure she’d ever heard,” Rebecca says with a coy smile. “Can you believe that? I barely know anything about it.”

She takes a sip of her peach Bellini while I try to keep my second-hand embarrassment off my face. Humble bragging makes my skin crawl. Can she not see the self-flattery she’s oozing all over the breadsticks between us?

How did we wind up at this restaurant?

Oh right…

She asked until I ran out of excuses to say no.

The girl is persistent, I’ll give her that.

I fidget with my napkin. It’s become a damp twisted knot in my lap. “I’m sure you know more than you think.”

She giggles. “I, like, barely understand it.”

It’s no secret that Rebecca is one of the brightest residents of her class. Is she playing dumb for my benefit? Because I’m the idiot DO who scarcely comprehends English, let alone respiratory failure.

Or maybe she thinks I’m one of those men who isn’t attracted to women when they’re smarter than me.

She’s wrong on both accounts.

“I bet you understand it better than that guy.” I point at a random man across the restaurant.

She laughs like it’s the funniest joke in the world, drawing the attention of several people in this loud crowded room. “You’re hilarious.”

I’m not. I’m really, really not.

I gulp my Peroni and smear a finger through a puddle of water on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Where the fuck is the pizza? It can’t take this long to make a pizza. Dough, sauce, cheese, bake. Do they need help? I will help them.

“Anyway,” she says in my silence, “Dr. Sharma asked me to give the lecture again to the med students. So weird.”

“Yeah. Weird.” It’s not weird. This is what residents do. We teach med students.

“Should I tell her yes, do you think?”

“Uh.” I blink a few times. “Do you…get a choice? Sharma’s your program director, right?”

She gives a dismissive shrug, a move at odds with her smug smile. “I’m her favorite. She’ll do whatever I want.”

Weird flex, but okay. We’re back to humble bragging, and I search for the server, taking a cleansing breath of garlic-scented air. Please, God of Pizza, bless us soon.

When my gaze lands on her again, she’s staring at me. Her shiny blond hair lays in straight layers over bare shoulders, and her pale blue dress shows off her chest. Her brown eyes would be lovely if they weren’t so penetrating.

She’s pretty. Beautiful.

But so unattractive.

Why can’t I be attracted?

She wants me to be. She’s throwing signals at me like confetti.

“I—” My voice comes out croaky and I clear it. “I’d do it, if it were me.”

“Yeah, I probably will.” She takes another sip and leans on the table. The uncontrollable urge to appreciate the presented goods has my attention dipping…sinking…

Don’t look!

It happens, anyway.

I’m a straight man.

I can’t not look.

It’s written in my DNA.

And yet—

Nothing. I got nothing. Why doesn’t she do it for me?

“So do you have a cat?” she asks.

That’s why.

“Uh—” My mind stutters. Why does she think I’m obsessed with cats? I suspect the answer has something to do with Grace Rose. “No. I don’t, actually.”

A pizza lands between us, giving me an excuse to not flounder under her stare for an extended period. She picks at her slice, giving me her entire life story while I nod and shove food in my mouth. The woman can talk.

And talk.

If she notices I haven’t spoken in ten minutes, she doesn’t let on, but it’s better this way. She’s happy. Look at her in the zone, summing up her family (one sister and parents still together), her friends (all doctors) and her life’s goal (“I want to be a cardiologist. Romantic, right? Working with hearts?” Chuckle, chuckle ) while I polish off half the pie.

She doesn’t ask about me. I’m not sure what to think about that. Not sure if I care.

It’s only when we’re in my truck that she changes tack. “So what do you do for fun?”

I laugh. “What’s fun? All I do is work.”

“Oh come on.” She playfully shoves my shoulder. “I’m sure there’s something.”

“I guess I have this Friendsgiving thing planned with my class this weekend. That should be fun.”

She gasps, and I frantically search for whatever scared her, only to sigh when she says, “Oh, that sounds awesome! I’d love to come.”

Uh.

Backpeddle!

“Oh, I think—it’s just—an OB thing, you know? For the five of us, I mean.”

Her shoulders sag.

Hold firm. Don’t tell her you’ll hang another time. Don’t!

“I wish my class did stuff like that,” she says.

“A little harder when there are thirteen of you.”

She hums. “That’s true.”

I pull up to the curb by her house and slide out of my truck. She lets me open her door for her—something I always fret will be taken the wrong way.

Is it anti-feminist? I no longer know.

I half expect her to screech “I can open my own door, !” but she only smiles and accepts my help to the ground.

On the porch, she unlocks and cracks the door before turning to me with a look .

Oh god…

“Do you—”

“Well, have a good night,” I say in my brightest tone.

She searches my face. “I will. You—you, too.”

She steps into me at the same time I raise an arm to shake her hand. My arm jerks back when my fingers connect with her stomach.

“No, it’s fine,” she says and enters my personal space.

This is so weird.

How do I tell her no without hurting her feelings?

She did nothing wrong. I’m simply an idiot.

She tips her face to kiss me. Four awkward seconds pass before my lips land on the corner of her mouth and my entire being cringes.

This isn’t right.

She isn’t right.

How I know this, I’m really not sure, but it’s visceral .

I have no idea what I want, but the fact is incontrovertible—

I don’t want this.

* * *

Later that night, I’m dozing on my couch with the game on mute when a frantic knock jolts me awake, splashing my hands with the beer I’d fallen asleep holding.

“Damn it.”

The knock grows louder. “!”

I pause on my way to the kitchen for a towel. Grace?

“, I know you’re in there. I see your truck in the parking lot.”

I sigh. Definitely Grace. Could this night get worse? “Hold up, all right?”

Taking my time to wash and dry my hands, I bask in the impatience pouring in from the other side of the door. She’s probably tapping her judgy little foot.

I swing the door open, letting in a gust of cold November air. “Yes?”

Her unholy amounts of hair are knotted at her crown, but escaped tendrils stick to her sweaty face. A smudge of white powder mars one cheek, and she’s wearing a stained apron that says Kiss the Cook. My gaze darts at once to the freckle on her lip before landing on her eyes.

A frantic gleam sparkles there, and she looks…deranged. Her face lights up—the first happy smile she’s ever directed at me. “Thank god. Do you have any sugar?”

“Um. No.”

The smile melts, and her body wilts. “No? What do you use for your coffee?”

“I drink it black.”

“God!” She stomps her foot as a snarl gathers in her throat. “Could you be any more of a Death Eater?”

I lean against the doorjamb. “I bet I could if I tried. You’re more unpleasant than normal. Why do you need sugar?”

“For the cupcakes, . Hello? Friendsgiving is tomorrow. You’re supposed to bring something, too.”

“I’m bringing beer.”

The light returns to her expression. “Will you bring a good IPA?”

“I’m only bringing stouts. It’s Thanksgiving .” I say this last like she’s an idiot for assuming anyone would want an IPA at such a sacred event, even though IPAs are the best and everybody knows it.

She glares and crosses her arms, squeezing her breasts together.

Ugh. Don’t look, . Why are you always looking?

That shirt-apron combo is low-cut despite the forty-degree temperature. I bet her nipples are hard…

Stop!

What the hell is wrong with me?

“You’re like an evil villain, . Make sure you say ‘hi’ to Thanos for me at the next world-destruction planning sesh.” She spins and heads toward the stairs, leaving me to stare at the flour powdering her ass.

“Oh, you’d definitely get blipped,” I mutter under my breath, then groan because I know what I’m about to do.

Rubbing my face, I grab my keys. I need to pick up the beer, anyway. What’s two extra minutes to grab sugar? At the grocery store, the temptation to buy only stouts pulls at my sense of justice, but I grab a case of my favorite IPA before heading to the register. I tell myself it’s for me, but stuck deep in the contest of Who-Hates-Who-More?, I want to trip her up, do something nice to throw her off her game.

I set the bag of granulated sugar at her doorstep, snap a picture and walk away. Back in my apartment, I send it to her, captioned, “Found this. Made me think of you.”

No one witnesses my diabolical smile as the tides shift in my favor.

Her reply is swift—a picture of a coffee cup shaped like Scar from The Lion King . “Found this. Made me think of you.”

* * *

Alesha lives in a tiny bungalow about fifteen minutes from my apartment. In true Alesha fashion, she’s styled it with colorful eclectic furniture and abstract art. In normal circumstances, the place reeks of patchouli, but as I step through the door, the scents of turkey and sage overpower it. Her two cats emerge from the darkness of the hallway to stare at me, eyes glowing.

Last to arrive, I make my way through the living room and enter a flurry of chaos. Alesha throws me a harried greeting as she bustles in the cramped kitchen, where every inch of granite has disappeared under dishes, spices and condiments. Raven and Kai are setting the dining table. Grace stands to the side, holding stacked Tupperware full of cupcakes.

I sneak around Alesha to set the beer in the fridge. “Can I help?”

She blows a blue strand of hair out of her face. “I don’t even know.”

Grace organizes the cupcakes on a small sideboard under a window.

I eye the perfectly swirled chocolate frosting. “I see you managed to find sugar.”

She sticks her nose in the air. A secretive grin stretches those devil-red lips. “Yes, thanks to my neighbor upstairs. Have you met him? His name’s Voldemort.”

I chuckle despite myself. “No, but I recently ran into an evil witch all covered in flour who lives downstairs. Probably baking children into pies.”

She chooses one of the cupcakes and swipes a finger through the icing, sucking it off with a pop. “Children, huh? Yum.”

“Hey, Santini!”

I yank my gaze from Grace’s mouth to find Alesha motioning for help with the turkey. The pan is unwieldy, but we get it settled on the stovetop.

“You made an actual turkey?”

She shoots me a smirk as she brandishes the carving knife. “It’s Thanksgiving, Juju. Was I supposed to make fish?”

Raven wedges her head between us. “Oh, it smells heavenly. Can we eat now? I’m starving.”

“Heard that,” Kai calls from the dining room. “Let’s eat before I have to be at the hospital. Shift starts in two hours, people. The vaginas won’t heal themselves.”

Grace meanders toward the table, nursing one of my IPAs. I bought those for me , I want to say. To see if she’ll pout. If she’ll argue. If she’ll pour the beer down my throat until I’m drowning. What will it take to make her snap completely?

She gives me a subtle toast as she sits.

A festive centerpiece of fall-colored leaves and an excessive amount of glitter takes up most of the table, forcing us to set the side dishes at the periphery. The five of us squeeze into her four-person round table with barely enough room for our turkey-themed paper plates.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” Raven reaches for a dish.

Kai slaps her hand. “Heathen! We say what we’re thankful for before we eat.”

She wrings out her hand. “Jeez.”

“I’m thankful I managed to get this food done before y’all got here.” Alesha takes a swig of her beer, swiping a hand over her sweaty brow.

“And I’m thankful we managed to find a time when we’re all off to celebrate,” says Kai. “Even if I can’t drink because I’m somehow the only one who works this weekend.”

Raven taps her chin. “I’m just thankful to be here. Learning to be an OB. It’s hard and sometimes I have to remind myself it’s what I wanted, but it is what I wanted and I’m so lucky.”

We all murmur our agreement, toasting each other.

Across from me, Grace sets her beer down and smiles, showing me her sparkling white teeth against those pretty red lips. Maybe her teeth are diamond-edged, the better to rip our throats out. Maybe her lipstick is blood from all the throat-ripping she does in her spare time.

Why am I always staring at her mouth? It’s so annoying how pretty it is. It’s even more annoying that she hates me for unfair reasons. I didn’t do anything to her.

She takes a breath. “I’m thankful for you guys. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you as friends. I’ve—I’ve had a lot of trouble with social anxiety. You make it so much easier to deal with everything.” Her hazel eyes sparkle from the candles in the room and when they finally land on me, a creeping foreboding wakes in my chest. She tilts her head, and her voice sharpens to a point. “Even you .”

Oh, you lying little liar!

My pulse comes to life. “I’m thankful for Sapphire’s continued hatred. Keeps my life interesting. At this point, I wouldn’t know how to survive without it.”

She scowls. “You’d probably die of ego overload, Golden Boy.”

Her words brew a storm inside me that enlarges with each beat of my heart. “I’m golden? Why? Because I’m nice and people actually like me? Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Color rises in her cheeks. “I am nice!”

I shrug. “Not to me.”

Why is it so satisfying to get under her skin?

“God forbid someone on this planet doesn’t like you, .”

“You guys!” Alesha waves hands at both of us. “Friendsgiving is not the time for this thing you do.”

Grace’s affront fairly sparks around her. “There’s no thing . It’s mutual loathing.”

Kai gives a wide-eyed whistle, shifting his gaze to his plate. “Anyone else unsure whether they should be uncomfortable or turned on?”

Um. What the hell?

I’d say something to shut that down, but I refuse to look away from Grace, unwilling to let her win the staring contest. She mouths, I don’t like you , at me. I don’t react, glaring at the shimmer in that hazel without blinking. The lines between her eyebrows smooth out. Neither of us move.

Annoying habits aside, she is stunning. When her temper heats and she crawls out of her shell…

I have a knack for setting off that temper. Do I do it for the flush in her cheeks? The twist of her pert mouth? The way her breaths grow deep like I imagine they will when—

“!” Alesha shoves a bowl of potatoes at me.

I clear my throat and take them, doing my best not to look at Grace for the remainder of the dinner. Eventually, Kai rises to leave for his shift, but Raven stops him. “Wait. We need to draw names.”

Kai and I trade wary glances.

“Draw names for what?” I ask.

“Holiday exchange. Duh.” Raven shakes her head like she thinks we’re both stupid.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.” Alesha stands to grab a sheet of paper, then tears it in five pieces. “Everyone write your name.” She offers me the paper.

I hedge. “Do we have to?”

She sends me a stern Alesha-stare. “Yes.”

Sighing, I obey. When she offers me the bowl of papers to choose from, I don’t have to look to know whose name I’ve drawn. Radar is on high alert.

Her loopy handwriting looks nothing like my typical doctor-scrawl. Its elegance fits her like a surgeon’s glove.

Grace.

* * *

Traveling to Florida in November is an unpleasant trial in patience with old people. The snowbirds have no sense of urgency, but at least I’m not going through Orlando International with the Disney crowd.

By the time I’m home, reclining under the sun-dappled shadows of palm trees dancing over my closed eyes, I’m ready for a beer and a nap. Instead, my gaze travels over the red, white, and black spiders that weave their webs at the top of our lanai, reminding me of Grace Rose, while five women pepper me with questions. I hold them off best I can, but my mother’s pleas for me to move home cannot be ignored.

I rub my face and beg for patience. “Mom, I can’t quit. I’ll be done in a few years and I’ll find a job here. I promise.”

She fans herself, blond hair clipped up and tousled in the breeze, rocking in her outdoor recliner. “If you meet some girl and move farther away from me, I’ll have a heart attack. Is that what you want, ?”

Tori sends me a knowing grin as she pulls a beer out of the outdoor fridge, tossing it to me.

I snap the tab open and hand it to Mom. “I’m not meeting anyone, okay? Stop panicking. You’re being melodramatic.”

“Yeah, Ma,” says my oldest sister, Lauren. “Let BB live his life. He’s a hotshot doctor now.”

Lauren’s two kids—my only niece and nephew—are swimming with her husband, Ben. They squeal as Ben launches them in the air, water sprinkling over us when they land. Lauren beams at them.

She married young, but my other three sisters are free spirits. Tori is a loner, a massage therapist with a side hustle of renting jet skis to tourists during Season. The twins, Bethany and Sabrina, are beach dive bartenders who are just as likely to bring a man or woman home to meet Mom as they are a new puppy.

Bethany shrieks and hops into the pool with the kids. When she pops up, she swims to the edge closest to me. “Don’t you miss home, though?”

“I didn’t match into any of the programs here, Beth. Remember?”

“I know. I just—I don’t want you to fall in love with Texas. We’ll never see you.”

Fall in love with Texas? Has she met me?

Sabrina lounges on a chaise with her sunglasses hiding her eyes. “I’ve done the research. Florida has really high malpractice premiums. Don’t let that scare you, BB.”

“Christ.” I massage my temple. “Why are we even talking about this?”

You love them, . Remember that.

Tori drops onto the arm of my chair and throws her arms around me. Her silky brown hair tickles my nose. “Because we wub you, and want to smother you to death.”

“It’s working.” I swat her hair off my face.

She chuckles, then whispers in my ear, “I’ll distract them, and you can escape for a nap, okay?”

My spirits lift. “Really?”

She nods. “You owe me, though.”

I kiss the top of her hair and make like I have to use the rest-room. When I fall onto my childhood bed with a sigh, my phone buzzes. A thrill of energy zaps through me at the name displayed on the screen.

I open the message to find a selfie of Grace in blue scrubs, rainbow pens in pocket, sitting in our dictation room. She holds a black coffee mug right beside her beautiful smiling face. Written across the mug in white letters are the words DOs ‘DO’ it better . Another text comes, a simple message that flushes warmth across every inch of my skin.

Sapphire: Found this. Made me think of you.

I zoom in to her face and the little freckle on her lip, then to the rest of her, welling with pleasure when I find a splash of blood soaked into her scrub shirt. I circle it and send the picture back to her.

Me: You have blood on your scrubs.

Sapphire: I hope you die a slow death from palm tree poisoning.

I can’t help the laughter that overcomes me. Turning into my pillow, I snicker like a child. It should be concerning how much I look forward to riling her up, but I can’t find it in me to care. Grace Rose’s irritation is the most satisfying part of my life right now.

Imagine how satisfying she’d be if—

I cut the thought off before it drifts into dangerous waters.

Beware.

There be monsters.