Chapter 13
brEAD AND BUTTER
Is intelligence determined by MCAT scores? Golden Boy sure thinks so. Go ask your next doctor what their CARS (English section) score was specifically.
THANATOS
From Genuine and Real
Hyacinth
Where’s this ring at??
ANSWER ME
Esther
I heard it was taller than the Tower of Babel.
Hyacinth
I heard it was forged by the blood of your enemies.
Esther
I heard it’s imported from the deep ocean remnants of the Argo.
Hyacinth
and what’s this about lucky number five ??
Voice memo from jade
I hope you know
I would rather be. SHOT DEAD! Than ever witness such a thing again. In the hospital? The elevator!? Were you raised among animals? If you knew how many people asked me today about my brOTHER…
Icover my giggles with my hand, texting my friends, I’ll talk later—I’ve got a rare therapy appointment to attend first.
If I had a favorite core memory from medical school, it would be sitting in front of my therapist’s office.
My parents raised me to believe I was too strong for therapy. “Lovelace women don’t go to therapy,” Mom said. “I don’t believe in that horseshit,” Dad also said, in his own sophisticated way.
And yet, after fighting for my life during the first two blocks of medical school to pass my first exam by a measly two points, I conceded defeat in a decades-old therapist’s chair, surrounded by the grim, stale ambiance of my school’s free counseling center.
At least, it was free for the first six sessions. I had to ration them carefully and ignore their existence afterward.
So, could I survive this week without help? The next? I had to learn how to distribute my appointments carefully, because mental health is a precious resource, and time available to manage it is even rarer.
The first time I went, I was so afraid, I almost canceled the way I did most of my unHinged dates: immediately and without remorse.
But when I went into that scant, dingy waiting room and saw the class president slumping, defeated, across from me, I felt such an immense wave of relief.
Like the feeling of bombing your last exam, only to check the class average and see single digits.
Because if even the smartest person I knew had insurmountable problems, it’s okay for me—the weakest person I knew—to be on the verge of collapse.
Of course, we never spoke. A “So, what are you in for?” would be too invasive. I knew it was probably related to med school. She did, too.
And every time I collected one of my therapy rations, there was another familiar face, the awkward eye contact as soothing as a warm hug. Because we may be exhausted, miserable, and broken students, but in those brief moments, we were never really alone.
Even if HIPPO laws and mutual courtesy prevent us from talking to each other as the musty AC suffocates us in the waiting room.
I’m waiting in the threadbare abyss now, filtering through texts in the aftermath of my elevator performance. My sole comfort is Luke, who’s fast asleep, napping on the couch like he’s in a food coma. Considering the number of potato chip bags in the trash can beside him, he probably is.
I wonder where my capricious man is now. Given the early hour, he’s likely pre-rounding, dipping in and out of patients’ rooms to make sure their intestines still work, and their appreciation of him is intact.
Does he ever think about me, too, when he’s away? Or does he think of someone else? I know Calypso is on his Gen Surg service this month, and I haven’t forgotten how bile-colored he was when he last heard her voice. I hope he wasn’t the resident assigned to her.
Or maybe he will be precepting her, and looks forward to it. Was he sick because he still had feelings for her?
Nausea churns through me so fast that if I weren’t already sitting, the vertigo would have doubled over. My stomach somersaults like I’m being pimped again, no idea what I’m supposed to say next, the ground dissolving beneath my feet as my thoughts evaporate.
The captive, trapped beat of my heart intensifies.
What if he still has feelings?
Why would it matter?
We aren’t even dating. I shouldn’t be bothered by him being around her. He’s a grown man. An intern. He shouldn’t even be dating medical students.
But the tightening in my chest makes my palms clammy. I shouldn’t be struggling to get air, fighting not to care. I should be apathetic, unaffected.
He’s not mine.
Never has been. I’d be a fool to think otherwise.
But even fools have feelings, and if my emotional reaction to the mere thought of him talking to his ex—
I shake my head, trying to snap out of my visceral disgust, my vain denial.
This can’t be happening. Not again.
I mean, look what happened when I fell for David.
I have to be rational enough not to be ruled by emotions. Love is a weakness for a woman with ambition. I’m going to be a doctor, damn it.
But I’m just a girl today.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders.
So what if I didn’t get matcha from him one day? I’m not spiraling from emotional withdrawal. I don’t miss him.
I can’t miss him. Not when so much is at stake.
I need to stop thinking so deeply about a fake boyfriend in my therapist’s office. The session hasn’t even begun yet.
Think medically, I command myself. Distract. What’s the bread and butter of OB/GYN pathology for me to obsess over?
Maybe I’ll do some reading about cervical cancer screenings instead. Something factual, routine, and regimented.
Pulling out my phone, I flick my fingers idly, scrolling on UptoCode. The wait doesn’t bother me, especially when I assume delays mean the person inside is having a breakdown. Like a doctor delayed by patients, I know the sickest need the most time.
So I pore over emails. Skim research articles. And when the wait drags on, pray for the student in session to be okay.
I timed my current therapy session so that it’s 30 minutes after the universal interview release date—the perfect excuse for me to be away from the hospital while also watching my emails like a hawk.
There should be enough interview invitation slots per invite, but I’ve heard horror stories of past mistakes, where students had to fight for spots, interview slots snatched in minutes.
So when invitations come out, it’s time to pounce.
5:55, I open my email, wringing my hands.
5:56, I whisper my final plea to God, praying he forgives the last four years of me going to church only when I felt like it. I’ll be better one day. Maybe. I promise?
5:57, breathing hard, I remind myself I’m a strong, independent woman. Even if I have to Scramble.1 Family medicine can still deliver babies if I can’t match OB/GYN.
5:58, the door to the waiting room slams open, and David storms in, expression murderous.
“David?” I squeak.
He crosses the room in seconds, backhanding the phone out of my hand, sending it crashing into the wall with a THWACK!
I recoil, dodge my rebounding phone, and clutch my stinging hand, fear jolting down my spine.
“David!” I yelp.
“This has gone on long enough,” he hisses, pulling aside a chair so that he sits directly across from me. He tilts forward, backing me into the wall.
“You’ve had your fun,” he says. “Yes, you can fuck a hot resident. No, you don’t think you need me.” He barks a short, harsh laugh.
My voice warbles. “What do you want, David?”
He sighs and crosses his arms, leaning back, giving me a false impression of space. His glare is venomous, disgust etched in every line.
The light on my phone flashes on the floor, emails blaring in.
“It’s not too late to send out letters of interest,” he says. “We missed the couples matching deadline, but it’s never too late to advocate for us.”
Now my fear vaporizes into fumes. What the hell?
He wants to jeopardize my future for a late-stage couples match?
“I need to schedule interviews, asshole,” I say, reaching for my phone.
The lights keep blasting, and I yank it into my hand.
Thankfully, he doesn’t stop me, immobilizing like a serial killer as I dash through my emails. But his knuckles splinter the wood rim of the chair, which makes me gulp.
“I will forgive recent events,” he says, tilting his head like he’s an architect, trying to design a new torture trap. “We are a power couple. Let’s keep it that way.”
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
He sneers. “I knew you’d find some excuse to be away from the hospital during the universal release date. Not that far of a leap that your mental instability would drive you to a shrink’s office.”
“Don’t disrespect my therapist like that,” I say, “and she knows way more than you.”
I quickly skim through my emails, never fully taking my eyes off him while he hovers.
Congratulations! You have been invited to interview at Cornfield Community!
Congratulations! You have been invited to interview at Academic Powerhouse!
Congratulations! You have been invited to interview at THE Hospital!
Scrambling, my fingers fly over the phone as I pick up the closest interview dates. David continues glowering, simmering in his chair. Whatever specialty he’s applying to, it must have a different time for its universal release.
Though if he’s still dating—fucking?—whatever he’s doing with Calypso—he knows this would be an important moment for me.
I hate how humiliated and cornered I feel, how all of my words come out too small, how all my thoughts feel too shaken to be strong. Why are we having this conversation here? Why are we doing this now?
The room, which was once big enough to hold as many of my friends as needed to be there, now feels microscopic, crushing me into tiny, terrified bits.
“You. Need. Me,” he says, dragging out every syllable like he’s explaining sounds to a child.
I glance up to see if my therapist is emerging, but she’s still in there, door shut.
“I’m the conversationalist,” David jabbers. “People love me in interviews. That’s how I got off the waitlist, remember? I asked the dean for a tour and charmed him.”
“I can manage my own conversations,” I tell him, picking up my backpack and brushing past him to another corner.
“Come on, Percy,” he says, dragging his chair along. Shit, he’s not leaving. My heart rate doubles.
“I know your Step 2 wasn’t as high as it should be.”
I cringe, wondering how he discovered I’m barely making the cutoff to be considered for OB/GYN residency. I’ve never been a great test taker, but I worked hard for that number. Months of studying, meeting with tutors, and long nights culminated in a score I could be proud of.
Suddenly, the chair across the room groans, and Luke blinks his eyes open.
My neck stiffens.
It’s him, I realize furiously. He’s the one who told him I was here. What kind of gunner pretends to sleep to one-up someone?
“And what is your Step 2 score?” I ask, deciding that two of us can play this game.
“Higher than yours,” he says, not missing a beat.
Luke gives up on faking indifference, bolting up. I can practically see his ears swivel around as he tries to listen in.
“My MCAT was higher than yours, remember?” David says. “You couldn’t break 520—”
“I didn’t need a 520 to go to my state school—” I argue.
“Find one metric to prove you’re better than me,” he growls.
He leans forward, making me squirm. “My CARS was higher, and we both know that’s the real IQ test. My Step 2 score is higher.
And I’m more popular than you. What are you going to be without me dragging you along? You’d be nothing without me.”
My fists clench, embarrassment making me feel bare, exposed. I should never have told him my MCAT score. Bringing it up now is absurd.
“David, for the last time, I am not couples matching with you! You cheated on me!”
“You aren’t anything without me!” he roars. “You can only hold a conversation with men who are attracted to you. Your test scores are abominable. And I don’t even have to tell you how your family will react to you bringing home a stranger who went unmatched—”
I don’t know why, but I have a staggering, soul-jerking premonition that if I don’t get out, something horrible is going to happen to me.
And Kane’s not in the room to save me now.
David sluggishly rises, but I’m already dashing out, therapy be damned. I can’t listen to this anymore. This is what happens when you give a man a chance.
I was right. I can’t fall in love again.
I just can’t.
A familiar voice calls a shrill “Percy?” when I’m down the hall, but I’m already down the stairs before David can catch me.
He might be insane, but he’s also strategic and lazy. Hard to maintain the ‘Golden Boy’ reputation when a woman is literally running away from you.
I debate asking for help, but what would I even say? Cheating is not an expellable offense. And neither is talking to me at all hours, or going to the therapy office at his home school.
He’s smart enough not to commit any obvious crimes.
Even my phone, despite flying into the wall, has no visible cracks. He’d say it was just an accident and that the phone fell.
And would he ever do anything? You can’t prosecute for a future unspoken crime.
This is the same man my parents thought would be ‘the one.’ He’s yet to actually hit me or inflict bodily harm. And I doubt he’s ever threatened Calypso or anyone else, either; otherwise, they’d never stick with him.
So what am I supposed to do?
Can I even trust Kane when I once trusted David, and this is how he treats me?
It occurs to me as I’m rushing away from my former safe space that the bread and butter of dating is this: When it’s new, it’s great, but when it ends, it’s always going to be fucking humiliating.
1 Narrator’s notes: The Scramble is exactly what it sounds like. A mad dash for any remaining positions, typically in the least popular specialties (Pediatrics, Family Medicine, Internal Medicine) in the worst locations and notoriously malignant hospitals.
If applying seemed stressful, the Scramble is what reaped the last of Kane’s soul.