Grace
NOVEMBER YEAR 2
Head pounding, I wish death on the delivery person rapping on my door. I’d told them to leave the food on the mat. Piles of blankets tumble to the floor as I stagger to my feet and yank the door open.
Julian’s head lifts, the no-smile firmly in place, and he’s put together as always. His hair is expertly styled, and his idiotic glasses that are not attractive perch on his nose. I fantasize about pulling on the strings of his black hoodie.
Not to bring him closer. No. To strangle him.
The door catches my weight when I sag against it. “I thought you were DoorDash.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Waiting for him to explain this intrusion into my hangover, I raise my eyebrows at him. “Is there something you want?”
A crooked smile enhances his stupid face, like a half-second glow up.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “What?”
He studies me a moment, his head tilting. “You—you don’t remember, do you?”
My spine snaps straight as a fresh wave of nerves tingles over every surface. “What? Why would you say that? What did I do?” Oh god. What if I said something embarrassing? What if I did something?
This is why you don’t join in when people are doing shots, !
His smile does confusing things to my stomach. It either wants to empty its contents onto his shoes or fly away with a cloud’s worth of butterflies.
“I told you I’d come check on you today. You clearly forgot.”
“Oh.” I open the door to let him in, relief flooding like cool water through my veins. “Thanks for driving me home last night. Or—I assume you’re the one who drove me home.”
He drags the scent of fall leaves, cold air and Julian inside with him. “It was no problem.” His bruised knuckles take my full attention when he scratches his forehead.
“What happened to your hand?” I grab it, running my thumb over the swollen joints.
A faint laugh reverberates in his throat. “You don’t even remember that part?”
Vague recollections of cold air and the sensation of being trapped bubble up to the surface of my consciousness. “What the hell happened last night?”
“Wow. You shouldn’t drink if this is the kind of amnesia you get.”
I tug him to the kitchen. “I don’t usually drink that much. I succumbed to peer pressure. Tell me what happened.”
“Trevor Tworek doesn’t know how to listen. He tried to kiss you, and you kept saying no, but he did it anyway.”
My mouth falls open. What? And I don’t remember that?
See? You could’ve been hurt.
With a cold tingle of shame in my chest, I open the freezer and grab the only gel pack I own—red lips from the medical spa that injects my Botox. “So you punched him?”
“He tried to hit me first, so I retaliated, but I’m glad I did. Guys who don’t hear the word no deserve to be punched. I can’t believe you own a devil-red mouth-shaped ice pack.”
I try to retrieve the lost memories from the black wall of last night, but nothing surfaces. Trevor’s flirt-texting has kept me giggling for weeks now. I thought if he ever made a move, I might be receptive.
Well…maybe.
He’s funny, but he’s never made me want things. Not like Julian. Unfortunately.
Did Trevor actually force himself on me?
What the hell?
And Julian punched him. Protected me at my most vulnerable. A flutter of heart-eye emojis skitter through my brain, but I shut them down hard. Now is not the time, not when I’m all nauseated and my brain is too big for my head. I press the gel pack to Julian’s hand.
He sucks in a breath. “Shit! That’s cold.”
I hold tight when he tries to pull away, swatting his forearm. “Hang on. I need more information. What exactly happened?”
His neck cracks and he looks to the side. “I heard you saying no. Went to see what was going on. He had you pinned against a fence outside, trying to kiss you.”
“Was he—hurting me?”
Julian’s expression turns incredulous as his attention shoots to my face. “Uh… Not yet .”
My next words fall out in a rush. “It’s just—we’d been talking a lot recently, so—I’d hoped maybe you misinterpreted—”
His gaze sharpens. “You aren’t into him, are you? Because after last night—”
“No!” I shake my head. “No. I’m not into him. Especially not if he did that.” I let out a heavy sigh. “I just hoped—I was wrong about him, I guess.”
Figures Trevor would wind up being a dick. He probably believes the most recent talk about me—that I snuck a med student up to the deserted eighth floor of the hospital to teach him some things. So dumb. I don’t even go to the eighth floor. It’s dark and creepy and obviously haunted.
Are all men the same?
I hold the dark gaze of the one standing in front of me.
No. This one’s different, isn’t he?
Julian’s eyes do that predatory thing, and wild flags of color stain his cheeks. Sharp as a scalpel, his voice slices me. “The guy’s an asshole. Remember that if he tries to talk to you again.”
“I know.” Uncertainty crackles in my chest, along with a quiet warning bell. “Julian?”
His mouth tightens.
I step a tad closer to him. “Are you angry?”
“I—” He schools his features and drops his attention to our hands between us, the gel pack gathering condensation. “Yes. Not at you. At him. Think about what could’ve happened. He could’ve—you wouldn’t even remember it.”
“I know. I never drink that much.” Shame weakens my voice. “The night just got away from me.”
His face softens. “You felt safe with your friends. Makes sense.”
A tiny smile breaks through my awkwardness. “Right. Um—thank you.”
The edge of his mouth curls, easing the tightness in my chest. “You already thanked me.”
I imagine myself calling him Lucifer and adding a thanks as an afterthought. “Was I rude about it?”
Those veiled eyes freeze me in place, searching deep inside me. What is he looking for? What is he finding ? He tilts his head. “No. Drunk Sapphire actually likes me.”
Laughter bursts from me. “Did she tell you that? She’s a classless ho.”
He shrugs. “Sober Sapphire will catch up to reality eventually. Our drunk personas rarely lie.”
My stomach drops. Oh god. Did I tell him I think he’s pretty? I will never live that down. “What else did I say?”
A slow smile spreads over his face.
“No.” My heartbeat accelerates. “What did I say, Julian?”
He bites his lower lip, but it does nothing to hide the grin.
I cover my eyes with my free hand. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”
“You told me I have talented hands.”
My stomach drops. If I said that, then what other secrets did my drunk ass spill? The noise that erupts from my nose is the least attractive thing I’ve ever done, and he laughs.
“You also told me you’ll destroy me.”
“Oh.” I nod and pull him by the hand toward the couch. “So a typical day for you and me, then?” I collapse on the comfiest spot.
He sits more gracefully, still holding the ice pack against his hand. “I wouldn’t call it typical.”
“What would you call it?”
He smiles. “Educational.”
My eyes narrow. “There’s stuff you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
“Yep.” His black gaze meets mine, the no-smile confusing my insides. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Don’t think about it, .
“Well, let me repay you. I ordered enough takeout for about six people. Please help me douse the alcohol with grease and binge Netflix.”
He settles back into the couch beside me, far closer than needed on this huge sectional with only two people. I don’t mind. If it was socially acceptable for friends to cuddle, I’d curl into that man and revel in his scent.
“We’re watching Twilight . All five movies. Hope that’s okay.”
He frowns. “I don’t even get to choose the movie?”
I feign deep offense. “I am hungover , Julian.”
“You did that to yourself.”
Poking out my bottom lip, I shoot him puppy-dog eyes. “Pwease?”
He sighs. “Only if I’m allowed to make fun of it, and you don’t ever compare me to the Volturi.”
I blink for several seconds as I process that he knows the word Volturi . “Have you watched Twilight ?”
“I have never seen these movies, no.”
“Then…you’ve read—”
“Shut up. I have four older sisters. Also, I kept hoping Bella would come to her senses and tell them both to fuck off.”
The giggles cannot be contained. I spend the next several hours eating noodles and heatedly arguing that Twilight is a love story, not a horror that glamorizes domestic abuse, suicide and pedophilia.
He ignores the gel pack. That’s the only reason I hold it there until it’s warmed. The only reason I continue to touch him once the pack falls away. The only reason my fingers slide between his, my thumb brushing the largest scrape on his first knuckle. When he doesn’t pull away, I lean into him, and my head finds its way to his shoulder, my eyes falling shut.
A sense of safety emits from him, drawing me in. He saved me.
Whatever magic pheromone dust coats his skin snakes through my nervous system, and I grow luxuriously warm. Drowsy. I fight the urge not to bury my nose in his neck.
So maybe it is socially appropriate for friends to cuddle.
Or maybe…
We’re not friends.
* * *
At didactics the next week, a bleary-eyed Alesha sits next to me with a new travel mug sporting a sparkly unicorn with curly letters that read Back the Fuck Up, Sprinkle Tits. Today Is Not the Day. I Will Shank You With My Horn.
“Nights got you down?” I ask. My own sleepiness weighs on my eyes.
She nods. “Up all night. You?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
The only good part about nights at Vincent is that Julian is on days instead of someone awful like Ling Ferris-Smith, our chief. Of course that also means I barely see him, and our study sessions have once again come to an abrupt halt.
“Thank god we only have to stay here an hour.” My yawn distorts the last word.
Asher pulls a chair out next to me.
I scoot to make room. “Good morning!”
His tight smile is unusual. “Morning, .” His tone is neutral, hovering on cold, and I’m confused. Is he okay?
I peer closer at him. “Something wrong?”
He pauses while pulling his laptop from his bag to stare at me and lowers his voice. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were into Santini?”
A rush of cold sweeps through me. “What?”
“At Halloween—”
“I don’t remember Halloween,” I hiss. “Julian said Trevor kissed me.”
Asher’s expression clears. “Yeah. Santini almost knocked the guy out, and I kicked him out of my house.”
I touch his hand. “Thank you.”
“And then you threw yourself at Julian and told everyone you had sex with him.”
“ What ?” Glancing around, I’m relieved to find everyone else engrossed in their own conversations, including Julian at the end of the table.
Alesha rolls her eyes. “That’s not what happened.” She goes on to explain the real story, the joke I made, and my insides unclench in relief.
“Whatever.” Asher flips open his laptop. “You should have just told me.”
“Told you what ?”
“That you’re hot for Santini.”
“I’m not—”
Alesha squeezes my hand and gives her head a subtle shake. She pulls out her phone. Mine buzzes.
Alesha: You know you are. Just let him be mad. He’ll get over it.
Why does Asher even care? I stare at him a moment, then glance at his hairy legs. “Wait. Are you wearing cut-off scrubs?”
Asher’s face tightens. “My legs get hot sometimes.”
“But—” I point at his feet “—you paired them with cowboy boots.”
His gaze lands on me, and his tone finally morphs into its usual good humor. “I will not be shamed for the cowboy boots.”
My laughter dies off when Dr. Chen seats himself for morning announcements. He mentions that the yearly interviews to select new residents are coming up in a few weeks. Unlike previous years, which were performed only by attendings, all residents are expected to participate, even those on nights. I groan inwardly, exchanging sad faces with Alesha.
“Do you think they assume we turn into robots who don’t have feelings or need sleep when we become residents?” Alesha murmurs.
I tally the time in my head. “That’s forty-two straight hours. How are we supposed to do that?”
She shrugs. “Meth?”
After the first hour of didactics, night residents are allowed to leave, so Alesha and I hightail it to our cars. After pecking her on the cheek, I peel out of the parking lot and jam to T. Swift the whole way home.
That night, Julian is especially tired at checkout.
Huddled together in our tiny call room, I nudge his knee with my own. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugs. “Narayan. Nothing is ever good enough for her.” He rubs his face. “Also, my med student is an idiot who checked the wrong hole after she asked me to practice cervical exams, so the fallout from that was really fun to deal with.”
I burst into giggles. “The wrong hole?”
“Yes,” he says with great emphasis. “And I have this multiple-personalities patient who keeps coming to triage for the same complaints because her personalities don’t communicate with one another. I’ve had to give labor precautions to the woman six different times today.”
“That poor girl!”
A tiny smile brightens his face. “Honestly? I wouldn’t mind seeing her again. It’s easy work.”
I laugh. This boy is the best.
“Then listen to this one. One patient today insisted she had a mutation called Demaglobin that would make her baby come out a different race.”
“No!”
His smile grows. “Conveniently discussed in front of her boyfriend, who’s the same race as her.”
I flick his knee. “Sounds like you had an eventful day.”
“Mmm. I did deliver a very sweet patient today. Room nineteen. You’ll love her. But I pulled a and wound up with bloody scrubs after.”
“Ha, ha.” I smile as he stands. “Have a good night.”
He nudges my chin with his knuckle, a quick affectionate gesture that sets my blood on fire. “Night, . Call if you need help.”
He does that every night. The same sweet little brush of skin that makes his face linger in my mind all night long. He smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing before stepping out. The heat takes several minutes to fade after he leaves, and I blink at the bare wall before me.
So.
Okay.
I admit it.
It isn’t a fantasy. It isn’t a passing fancy.
I am so hot for Julian Santini.
And I think he knows it.
* * *
Three weeks later, nights have obliterated my spirit. My circadian rhythm is so confused that even when I have the opportunity to sleep, I lack the ability. Every night is filled with midnight Oreos and 2:00 a.m. quesadillas. In quiet moments, I curl up in the call-room bed and binge The Handmaid’s Tale —not an ideal show for work on L&D.
My morning and evening sign-outs with Julian are the bright spots in my day, and I wish they were longer. Having opposite schedules has only proven that I crave his presence like a drug.
I miss him.
Does he miss me?
Our sign-out on interview day takes place in the residency clinic. I hand him the list, and we review the patients before he’s swept off to Dr. DeBakey’s interview room.
I’m placed in Dr. Chen’s room with Lexie, a third-year. A glance at our schedule shows we have twelve interviews today. After suffering Dr. Echols’s temper all night, my quad venti Starbucks is doing nothing to hide the puffy dark circles under my eyes or quell my yawns.
Lexie gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “You gonna make it?”
“I’m in the astral plane right now. My soul is sleeping.”
She chuckles. “It’ll all be over soon.”
I glance at my phone. Sixteen hours to go…
Dr. Chen sits at his desk, and Lexie and I pull up chairs beside him. Between interviewees, we scarf the candy he hides in his desk drawer while he looks on fondly.
The first three candidates smear together in my mind. They’re all women. All wearing black power suits. All answer “flying” when asked what superpower they’d want.
Who the hell would want to fly? Think before you speak, people. It’s cold. There are bugs. People could see up your dress. No thanks.
I’ll take teleportation. No more dealing with traffic. No TSA. I could visit Bora Bora at a moment’s notice. And best of all, I could sleep in until the last second.
The fourth candidate is male, and his answer of “invisibility” has me shrinking in my chair. A male gynecologist who wants to be invisible. What a skeeze.
The fifth candidate is a tall man with a cocky smile, who clearly thinks he’s getting a spot.
Lexie throws him off his game when she smiles. “So if you were an STD, which one would you be?”
His face blanks, but he regrows his smile. “HIV.”
All three of us stare at him.
“HIV?” I lift my hand in a confused gesture. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s basically curable now.”
Lexie shoots him a flat stare. “As opposed to chlamydia, which is actually curable.”
The sixth candidate is a small intense woman. Chen combats her intensity with rapid-fire medical knowledge questions which she answers without a hint of hesitation.
Finally, he asks, “What’s the most common STD?”
She smirks and crosses her arms. “Pregnancy.”
Lexie snorts. “You are awesome. Can we give her a spot right now?”
When the seventh candidate enters, trembling, Lexie and I exchange furtive glances.
“Hello.” Dr. Chen smiles and waves at the chair before his desk. “Have a seat.”
She perches in her chair, and stares, wide-eyed.
We introduce ourselves, then ask for basic information—her name and hometown, med school, favorite classes. She gives clipped one-word answers, and Dr. Chen is at a loss. He glances toward me.
I power-on my megawatt smile. “If you could have any superpower, what would you choose?”
Her hands fidget in her lap. “Superpower?”
“Um—” I glance at Lexie. “Yeah, like teleportation, or mind-reading, or whatever.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t—” My shoulders fall. How could I be clearer than that?
Dr. Chen takes over. “Can you describe a vaginal delivery for me?”
The girl freezes, and a sudden rush of tears comes to her eyes. “Uh—”
Oh, this poor girl…
Even I wasn’t this bad at interviewing.
“Okay, so maybe just demonstrate how you would do a delivery.” He takes the TCU Horned Frog plush from his desk and holds it in front of the girl’s face. “Here we go. Where will you place your hands?”
The girl raises her hands, palms out, like the Horned Frog might attack. She sniffs. A tear falls. Lexie and I side-eye each other.
Dr. Chen pauses. “And…what are your hands doing?”
Her gaze darts to her raised hands, then back to Chen.
He nods in encouragement. “What are your hands protecting?”
The perineum.
“The clitoris!”
Chen clears his throat. “Okay. But what are you trying to protect in the delivery?”
The perineum.
The girl’s tears pour. “The clitoris?”
A tiny uncomfortable laugh emerges from Chen. “Yes. Okay. But what are your hands protecting?” He motions how we protect the perineum during a vaginal delivery.
Say anything but “clitoris.”
Cheeks wet, eyes desperate, the girl whimpers. “The clitoris!”
Out of the corner of my eye, Lexie snaps a subtle picture of the girl and the Horned Frog, and I lose it. I shouldn’t condone it. Shouldn’t feed into it. It’s terrible. Unkind. But it’s medicine. Can’t take the heat? Kitchen’s not for you.
I’m far too tired to put a wrench in the malignant cog of medicine today. Instead, laughter bubbles from deep inside, and no matter how I try to suppress it, it breaks the surface. A snort rises first, followed by a series of unattractive chuffs as I press a hand over my mouth.
Chen turns to me, understanding in his eyes. “You may be excused, Dr. Rose. Get some sleep.”
Ah. He has a heart! Who knew?
“Thank you, sir,” I gasp around my laughs. I am so unprofessional. So mean. So tired.
I laughed at her, and I’m too tired to even care.
Is this what medicine has done to me? Has it made me callous?
Ugh.
In my car, my phone buzzes, and I pull it out. Lexie has group texted all the residents with the picture of the girl with her face scribbled out. She’s captioned it, “PROTECT THE CLITORIS!”
I don’t care that I’m an asshole. I’m still laughing when I fall into my bed.