Love Sick

Julian

JANUARY, YEAR 2

I’m lost.

Dropping to my knees, I glide my hands up her smooth thighs. I thought her scent was intoxicating, but the slide of her skin against mine is an addiction I won’t ever overcome. I’ll want this for life.

Cold?

How could anyone have this woman in their arms and call her cold? Her uncertainty is not cold. Her desire to please is not cold.

She’s a flustered ball of nerves with performance anxiety, but I’ve spent the last few months learning how to calm the storms. The bruise on my shoulder where she sank her teeth to stifle her cries is proof I’ve finally broken inside.

I’m on my knees before her as she sits at the edge of my bed in nothing but a lace bra and thong, subtly encouraging me. I kiss her knee, moving slow in case she wants to stop me.

Please don’t stop me.

Her hands thread through my hair, manicured fingernails scratching along my neck until she reaches the collar of my shirt and drags it up. She tosses it to the floor, and I return to her thighs, palms sliding past her hips, waist, ribs. I pull her to the very edge of the bed and her legs part around me. I’m struck by the longing on her face. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth, and her hazel eyes are dark and hungry.

My fingers skate around her ribs to the clasp of her bra, undoing it so the garment falls loose, and she throws it beside my shirt. She doesn’t cover herself. Instead, she grabs my face, lips crashing down on mine. Luxurious, decadent kisses shove my thoughts over a cliff into dark dirty places.

My hands magnetize to her body, roaming, squeezing, pulling her closer, and she responds in kind. Those delicate fingers drift over my throat and chest, then descend lower to undo my pants, relieving the near painful pressure.

I have to get her off. If I let her touch me now, I won’t last. My fingers hook around the flimsy lace hiding her from me, and she moves to let me slide it down her legs. I toss it across the room.

We lock eyes.

“Still worried you’re cold?” I ask.

She nibbles on her lip. “I’m worried you’ll think I’m cold.”

How? In her arms, I’ve never been less cold. The world could end. The seas could drown us. We could plunge into a nuclear winter, and descend to unending darkness, and I’d still feel her heat.

“You’re hot as the fucking Sahara, Grace.” I push on her stomach so she lays back. “I’ll never think you’re cold.” I nip her upper thigh, coaxing a moan. “God, I love you.”

She has no chance to respond, her words stolen by my tongue and the gasp of air that collects in her lungs. The rest of the evening is a hazy mess of warm skin, messy kisses and learning new ways to torture her with pleasure.

Like I expected, the first time is a quick glide of wish fulfillment, but the next two, I manage to make her bite and purr and squeeze me closer like my weight on top of her is a blessing she doesn’t want stolen.

It’s nearly three in the morning before reality creeps into my dreamy paradise.

I told her I love her.

I hadn’t even admitted that to myself. I’ve never said that to anyone .

She dozes in my arms, her fingers tangled in mine, and I blink at the dark ceiling.

She—

She never said it back.

FEbrUARY, YEAR 2

The next few weeks blur into a muddle of laughter and sex, sleepless nights and shifts at the hospital. We spend every spare moment together.

I’m love sick and she—

Still hasn’t said it.

I told myself I wouldn’t pressure her. I’d follow her cues. I wouldn’t ask for more than she was willing to give. But it’s so fucking hard. Guarded and cautious, she’s been one step behind me in the Feelings Game since we met.

My subconscious warned me against this. It knew she had the power to break me. It tried for months to keep me safe in the shallows.

Be careful with this one, . She’s the real thing.

I ignored the hell out of it and dove right into the deep end. How do I ask if she’s swimming beside me without seeming desperate? Without applying pressure?

How did I become the clingy one?

In early February, the printout of my CREOG score crinkles in my sweaty hands.

“Your score dropped significantly from last year, Dr. Santini.”

Sitting in the chair at his desk, I stare at Dr. Chen in silence. The open blinds of his corner office frame the hospital behind him. His TCU Horned Frog plush sits beside the gold nameplate on his desk. Behind them, a scattered pile of papers and a large bag of candy take up most of the free space.

Chen offers me a mini Snickers. “Did something happen?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean, no. Nothing happened.”

She still hasn’t said it.

Behind his glasses, Chen’s eyes narrow.

I rub my eyes beneath my own glasses. “I’ve just been distracted.”

“Focus is important, Dr. Santini. If you don’t test well on this, you may not pass your board exam.”

“This score doesn’t even matter right now. I have two years before boards.”

Dr. Chen’s black gaze penetrates deep. “It goes faster than you think.”

Sighing, I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He hands me a Reese’s cup. “Do the right thing, Dr. Santini. You can go.”

Outside his office, I snap a picture of my score, then shred the evidence and send the picture to Maxwell.

Maxwell: You’re off your game, bro.

Me: It’s just a test.

Maxwell: BrOB-GYN hang out tonight. You in?

Me: Nah. Hanging with Grace.

I’m in my car headed home for the day before Maxwell answers.

Maxwell: You think maybe you’re spending too much time with her?

Me: No such thing.

The last four weeks with Grace have been blissful despite my shitty second-year schedule. A few of our friends have discovered us, but we’re still keeping it private. We hide in our apartments and date in places we likely won’t be seen.

Sometimes we don’t leave the bed.

It’s paradise, but I’m smothered beneath its crushing weight—preoccupied and distracted to the point of bombing national assessment exams. My mind flitters from one thought to another, always straying back to her.

I’m dangerously in love with her.

I’ve never experienced this…this breathlessness. This obsession. This all-consuming need to be closer. When she’s not there, my skin remembers her. If I’m alone in my bed at night, I can taste her.

I want to breathe her into me, and a primitive desire has woken inside me. It tells me to claim her. Possess her. Absolutely destroy her for anyone else.

It’s barbaric. Chaotic.

I’m a physician. I understand human physiology. I know the chemical changes that occur when a human falls in love—the early rush of dopamine, the euphoria, the blindness to consequences.

This high will fade eventually. The unhealthy fixation will ease, but Grace will still exist inside me, her fist curled tight about my heart.

Her laugh. Her kindness. Her incessant need to study. How easy she is to rile up. The shy smile any time she catches me staring. The sound she makes when she comes. That tender question in her eyes the first time she wrapped those red lips around me, silently begging for approval.

She owns me.

And she still hasn’t said it back.

* * *

She waits in my apartment when I arrive home, books and printed PowerPoints spread over my coffee table. Highlighter in hand, she scans the page before her, brows furrowed in concentration.

A female singer trills through my sound bar.

Is that Dua Lipa?

No.

Lana Del Rey.

Wait…

They sound nothing alike.

“Who is this?” I ask.

She doesn’t look up from her book. “Halsey.”

Ah. Wrong on all accounts.

I kiss the top of her head. “Why are you already studying again?”

She greets me with a quick kiss when I sit beside her. It misses my cheek and lands at the corner of my eye. “My CREOG score didn’t improve as much as I wanted.”

“Oh no. We need fresh flashcards stat.”

She nods. “I know. I already started—” She turns to me and narrows her eyes. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

I nudge her cheek with my nose. “What gave it away?”

That scent beneath her ear is intoxicating. A strategic chemical adulterant created only for me. It pierces through my body’s defenses and spreads a buzzing electricity. I turn her head to catch her lips with mine.

A hitch in her breath gives me clearance to take more. The kiss escalates and I maneuver her on top of me. Straddling my lap, she presses all those soft curves against me.

This is so much better than studying.

She stiffens. “Oh! I forgot to ask. How did you do?”

Nope. Don’t need that bucket of cold water right now. I grip her legs and stand.

She giggles, wrapping her legs tight around me. “! Where are you taking me?”

To fuck you until I can’t remember my own name, much less my CREOG score.

“To bed.”

Afterward, she wilts against me, hot and sweaty. “You are so good at that.”

My fingers thread through her hair. “You make it easy.” Because I love you.

She yawns. “I’m glad we’re doing this, .”

“What? Fucking or dating?” Say it.

Her soft laugh tickles the hair on my chest. “Both.”

A small silence stretches before I decide to stab myself in my own heart. “Why?”

She lifts her head to look in my eyes. A little notch appears between her eyebrows. “Why what?”

“Why are you glad we’re doing this?”

A tiny smile appears on her pretty lips, the freckle drawing my attention. “Because I’m happy. Aren’t you?”

Studying her face, I find no recalcitrance, no secrets. I nod and pull her closer. She snuggles into my side.

After several minutes, her breathing slows. I hold her as she sleeps, ignoring the sensation that I’m standing on the firing line, that every beat of my heart is numbered.

What the hell have I done? I can’t undo this. I can’t unlove her. I can’t escape it.

Why hasn’t she said it back?

What are you hiding, Grace?

* * *

I swing open the door to the GME office a week later, and Alesha jerks to a halt on the other side. Her deer-in-the--headlights expression gives me pause.

She presses a hand to her chest. “Wh-What are you doing here?”

I hold open the door, taking in her new teal hair and street clothes. “I’m picking up a reimbursement check. What are you doing?”

“Oh.” Her shoulders relax. “Same.”

My gaze drops to her empty hands. She has no purse. No pockets. No check. “You are?”

“Yeah. It—um—it wasn’t ready.”

I laugh, skeptical. Definitely not a reimbursement check. Is she in trouble? Did she cross her work-hour limit or get some sort of complaint from staff? Whatever it is, she clearly doesn’t want me to know, so I don’t press.

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll pretend I believe you.” I move aside so she can pass. “Go ahead.”

She glances at her phone, then shrugs. “It’s almost five. I’m off for the day. I’ll come with you.”

We head into the office, and I turn toward the registrar’s desk.

“Haven’t talked to you much lately.” She tosses out a knowing smile, her previous unease gone.

“Busy.”

“Whatever could be keeping you so busy, Juju?”

I ignore her and give the woman at the registrar’s desk my name. She files through a stack of envelopes and hands me my check. Each resident receives a yearly stipend for books, conferences and educational equipment. Each resident also buys books on Amazon, prints the receipt, then cancels the order to cash in the reimbursement check from GME.

Is this considered fraud?

If it is, I don’t care. I made less than minimum wage last year, and they yell at me when I try to take the hospital’s disgusting complimentary food home for dinner to save money.

Alesha and I pass Steven Langston as we head toward the door. I suppress my glare while Alesha nods a reserved greeting.

“Don’t you hate that guy?” I ask.

She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He has a thankless job.”

“He’s the COO of the hospital. His thanks is his pretty salary.”

She chuckles. “I heard about your CREOG score.”

I stare at her a moment before we enter the stairwell that leads to the main lobby. “How do you always know everything?”

“This stuff gets around. You just don’t pay attention to all the gossip.” She points at me. “You’re lucky they’re talking about this and not about you boning Grace. I know y’all still trying to keep that hush-hush.”

I tilt my head. “That’s true. She’s keeping me her dirty little secret.”

The front doors of the hospital whoosh open and let us into the cold February air.

“Do you wonder why?” she asks.

Yes. “I have a couple theories.”

In the lot, we head to the farthest corner where residents are allowed to park.

Alesha hooks her arm around my elbow. “Care to enlighten me?”

“I think it’s the rumors.” I sneak a glance at her face, curious how she’ll react. “I think she’s afraid to let anyone know because the rumor mill will go crazy again.”

Alesha’s expression pinches. “You really think so? I don’t think they bother her that much.”

I lift my shoulder. Grace has spent the last eighteen months laughing it off and rolling her eyes, but I still remember the tears and anger the day I met her—the day she learned what people were saying about her. But I also know Grace, and she’d rather shred every flashcard she’s ever made than let anyone see how much it upsets her. So I don’t argue with Alesha. Arguing means divulging things Grace might not want revealed.

“Would it bother you?” Alesha asks in my silence. “If you were public and people talked about her sleeping with other people?”

We reach my truck. Alesha’s Prius is four spots down, but she perches on my bumper.

I drop my messenger bag to the ground. “I have a naive hope that her being in a relationship will tone down the gossip. But yes, it would bother me. It’s always annoyed me that she has to deal with this. Doesn’t it bug you?”

Pressing her lips together, Alesha stares at the ground by my feet. “She’s always told me she doesn’t care.”

“Trust me. She cares.”

She studies me. “This isn’t a fling for you, is it?”

I snort and bend to pick up my bag, blowing her off.

“.”

Her serious tone stills my movements, but I don’t look her in the eye.

“You love her?” she asks.

Something lodges in my throat and I can’t speak. Instead, I tighten the strap of my bag unnecessarily and glance at the sky.

“Never mind.” She sighs. “It was a stupid question.”

It is a stupid question. Of course I love her. The real question is—

“Does she love you?” Alesha asks.

My attention cuts to her, taking in the solemn steadiness of her gaze. “I don’t know.”

The tiniest flicker of movement at Alesha’s mouth hints at a frown. “I think she does.”

Nervous energy has me grabbing a stick of gum, popping it in my mouth. The cinnamon does nothing to curtail the rising taste of acid in my mouth. “Why do you think that?”

Alesha stands and grips my shoulder. “I see the way she looks at you. The way she’s looked at you for the last year. That girl is in love with you, Juju. She’s just scared to tell you.”

“Nah.” I kiss her on the cheek and adopt a mocking tone. “She’s just letting me down easy.”

She rolls her eyes as she walks away. “Whatever.”

Halfway home, a text interrupts the music through my Bluetooth: “Message from Grace. I’m not feeling well tonight, J. Why don’t you hang out with your boys?”

I call her at once.

“Hey, sweetie,” she sings into the phone.

I smile. “You don’t sound sick. You trying to play hooky from me?”

She laughs. “Alesha changed out my IUD earlier. My uterus is in revolt. I’m heading straight to my heating pad and a Bridgerton marathon.”

Ah. Reason number four million why I’m glad I’m a man.

“Poor Sapphire. I’m sorry.”

“Eh. Worth it for no periods or Santini babies.”

Santini babies? My chest constricts as an entire potential future with her spreads out in a split second. I subdue it by sheer force of will.

I am way too deep in this.

My hollow laugh echoes in the speaker. “Leave your door unlocked and I’ll come say bye before I leave. Tuck you in.”

“All right. Bye, sweetie.”

* * *

“Santini!” a chorus calls when I enter Asher’s backyard that night.

The firepit’s already well underway, and most of the men have drinks in hand. I toast my beer as I join them, taking a seat next to Maxwell.

He nudges my arm. “Thought you were busy, bruh.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Good.” Maxwell smiles. “It’s good to get away once in a while.”

It’s not getting away , like she’s some sort of prison I’ll have to return to once visiting hours are over. She practically kicked me out to do this. I’d rather be with her. But as I settle into the familiar atmosphere, a sense of comradeship I’ve forgotten steals over me. Why don’t I ever come to these things anymore?

A conversation to my right draws my attention. Third-years Liam Heaney and Greg Kelly argue over which of the women in the program they’d bang, and in which order. Ranked—of course—by the size of their tits.

Oh yeah. This is why.

Hard to be raised by sisters, then stumble into the real world only to realize this is the way men talk about them. When we were in college, I remember Tori overheard some guys objectifying her at a party. She drunkenly—and facetiously—-demanded they drop trou so she could decide which of them she wanted based on the size and look of their dicks. Their outrage was hilarious, but the fallout wasn’t. Tori was branded a whore. The men got off without another mention.

“God, I fucking hate Lexie, but her tits—” Greg says, doing the whole chef’s kiss thing. “I’d do her first if I could tape her mouth shut.”

Liam laughs, but Asher shoots Greg a disgusted look. “Bro. What the fuck? That’s called rape.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay, yeah. I’m sure Lexie would agree.” Asher stands and walks away, leaving Greg to glare after him.

Huh. At least they’re not all assholes. I sort of wish I wasn’t starting to like Asher, though. Does he still want Grace? I can’t really tell.

Ignoring the scene, Max shakes my arm, bringing my attention to him. “I’m glad you’re getting this out of your system.”

Getting…what? I glance at him. “Huh?”

“This thing.” He motions toward me. “You know. With—” He mouths, Grace .

Inspecting his dark eyes, I try to decipher his meaning. “This…thing?”

“Yeah.” He leans his elbows on his knees and sips his whiskey. “I mean, she’s been in your head since the beginning.”

“What?”

“You remember why you started this, right? All those strongly worded papers you wrote about women’s health. Maternal mortality rates. Wanting to change the landscape of OB-GYN.”

Where is this going? Of course I remember the papers. I’ll never forget what happened to the women in my life.

Maxwell shrugs and stares at the fire instead of me. “You forgot it all when a pretty girl batted her eyes at you.”

My stomach tightens, and I set my bottle on the ground between us. “I didn’t forget—”

“You’re slippin’, bro. Your CREOG score. You don’t think that has to do with her?”

Of course it does. “I’ve always been a bad test-taker. All she ever wants to do is study.”

It’s not her fault I can’t concentrate on anything but her.

He snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Maxwell, you need to back off. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sighs. “All right. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m sorry. Okay?”

I say nothing. Is he right? I’m haunted by her, but it will pass.

Won’t it?

Maxwell meets my eyes. “It’s not my business. I just… Be careful, man. What they say about her—”

Anger slices through my doubt. “Stop. That’s all bullshit, and you know it.”

Maxwell shakes his head, almost like he pities me, and every organ in my body turns to stone.

“Tell me you don’t believe it,” I say.

With a deep sigh, Maxwell turns back to his drink. “No. I don’t. Not really. She’s too straitlaced to do the shit they say. She just… She’s in your head, and I don’t know if you’re in hers.”

That lands about as gently as a boulder in my chest. “Why would you say that?”

Has he heard something? Did she say something? Am I Grace’s Rebecca, reading into things because I’m so desperate for her to be interested? Should I start sending her cat memes?

I hate this needy, insecure person I’ve become.

“I don’t know, man,” Maxwell says. “You can tell when people are into each other, and I just don’t see it with her. She’s—I don’t know. Unfeeling.”

Unfeeling?

That’s the last word I’d associate with Grace. Grace feels. Sure, she hides behind safer expressions of emotion, but the feelings are there below the surface. I can see them in her eyes. She just never fucking tells me what those feelings are.

Maxwell’s dark gaze slides my way. “You remember your first day, when she showed up to L&D all fuming about her senior resident with zero perception of the hierarchy? Like she was owed something. She was just…entitled. Then at Christmas, you drove her to the party to be nice, and when I asked her about it, she pushed you away like being associated with you was embarrassing. Hell, the day we met her, she blamed us for something we didn’t do. It’s like Grace only cares about what’s happening to her , how she’s perceived, what she feels, and nothing else matters.” Maxwell takes a sip of his beverage. “Just be careful, is all I’m saying.”

I think about what he’s saying, but then I think about other things. Grace making me flashcards. Grace sending me a picture of a coffee mug praising DOs after she sensed my insecurities. Grace offering me comfort when my patient died. Grace waking up early to help me round. I want your days to be good.

She isn’t unfeeling at all. She’s sweet and thoughtful and kind. But she’s also hesitant to let people see her—the real her—-especially when she started this new life amid a pile of nasty rumors. She’s paranoid about her reputation, and she’s wildly selective in who receives her affection, almost like she’s…afraid.

There’s a reason for it all.

Something happened to her, didn’t it? I’ve suspected it for months. I even asked her about it that night at my apartment. My memory flickers over the stuttered story of her past relationship, the one I’m sure has far more detail than she gave me.

So now I’m left with two possibilities. Either she doesn’t love me—a terrible option I’m not willing to explore—or this thing in her past is keeping her from admitting it.

Do I fall back on my trusty rules and follow her cues, or do I apply a bit of pressure?

I don’t know what to do.

“I need to go home,” I say.

Maxwell winces. “Nah, bro. Don’t leave. I’m not trying to make you mad—”

“I’m not mad,” I say. “I just—I need to go home.”

His reply is lost on me as I make my way to my truck, then stare at my steering wheel for several moments before turning the engine.

Back at the apartment complex, I find myself heading toward Grace’s apartment instead of my own bed, like she’s my north star. My home.

“Come in!” she calls at my knock.

I push open the door. “You just let strangers into your apartment?”

“I know your knock, .” Her voice comes from the bedroom.

My smile is instantaneous. There’s that prissy tone.

She’s curled up in bed, surrounded by pillows, hair in a damp braid down her chest. Bridgerton plays on the small TV over her dresser.

She pauses the show. “I thought you were going to hang with the guys.”

I lift my shoulders. “I wanted to hang with you more. Can I sleep here?”

Her huge grin eases the knot in my stomach. “Come cuddle me in my time of need.”

Laughing, I strip to my boxers and crawl into bed beside her.

Under cover of darkness later that night, she snuggles deep in my arms. “Thanks for being here, .” Her voice is dreamy, half asleep.

I squeeze her closer, turning my face into her neck. “I love you.”

The following silence turns jagged, cuts deep. It leaves wounds, filleted open, bleeding.

Why won’t you say it back?