26. Isaac
Chapter 26
Isaac
S ometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I made better choices. Like, if I hadn’t ridden my bike in the street without a helmet in third grade, would I be sitting here, in lonely Monday night silence, staring at the off-white wall of my undecorated apartment?
Who knows.
I need to get out of this fucking place.
Pushing myself up from the couch, I make my way through the small apartment to my kitchen. Though I’ve lived here nearly two months, something about it just doesn’t feel like home.
I haven’t done much to change that.
Honestly, I’d probably be better off with a cot in my office.
I feel most at home on campus.
And that definitely has nothing to do with Jo.
I shake off the thought, pulling open the refrigerator. I stare blankly at the empty shelves. No one’s fault but my own.
“Well damn,” I say to the void, gathering my coat and laptop from the table next to the door and heading out into the cold.
The usual Monday night karaoke crowd looks nearly the same as it did when I was a regular at Golden Hour. I’m the one who looks different .
I don’t feel older.
Maybe just a smidge wiser, but then again, not really.
A young man, not much older than Sam, directs me towards a booth in the corner of the bar. I sit down, noticing the firmness of the cushions. About time they replaced those old, worn-out ones.
I set my laptop down and glance up to a perfect view of the small stage along the opposite wall. The young man stands at the edge of the booth, staring at me expectantly.
“Oh, uh, Blue Moon please.” Without another word, he walks away. “No problem, sir. My pleasure, sir.” I mumble the niceties under my breath while glancing at the menu.
Fuck, I’m turning into my father.
I flip open the screen to my laptop just as a different waiter brings me my beer.
“Can I get you anything to eat, sir?”
There’s the quality service I remember.
“Oh yeah, can I get a flatbread pizza, pepperoni please.” He nods, jotting down my order. “Thank you.”
A crowd of younger students has begun to gather around the bar. The sounds of laughter and gossip encircle me, but I’m focused on my screen. If you told twenty-two-year-old Isaac that his homepage for Google Chrome would be PubMed, he would laugh in your face.
But here I am.
Typing Jo’s name into the research archive search bar for the thousandth time.
The page populates with the list of research articles for which Jo acted as a co-investigator. My list is longer, but hers is significantly more impressive. The things she accomplished during her residency at the University of Chicago would make most tenured faculty jealous.
No jealousy here.
Just unwavering pride.
Opportunities at Mass General were copious, but things just never seemed to click into place for all my research topic ideas.
I stare at the list of papers and her name in bold. I’ve read every single one of these papers. I told her I would always support her.
I promised her.
And even though things didn’t quite work out the way I hoped they would, I still supported from afar. In fact, I’ve learned an incredible amount from these papers. She’s made me a better doctor.
A better human.
Carello, J.
Even her name is beautiful, but I can’t help but wonder if she’d take my last name. I’m not sure I’d even want her to. Maybe she’ll take a page out of Carmen’s book and hyphenate. Jocelyn Carello-Britlyn.
Who am I kidding? I’d take her last name if she’d let me.
A large, bearded man with a black box of supplies catches my attention as he climbs onto the temporary stage. Tattoos snake up both arms and under the sleeves of his shirt.
Damn, I wish my facial hair looked like that. Maybe one day I’ll grow up and be a man.
Ha .
I scoot my computer to the inside edge of the table as a new waiter drops off my pizza. Cheese melts off the sides and onto the white ceramic plate.
“Thank you!” They nod at me, turning to head back towards the kitchen. I pull a corner piece off and bring it to my mouth, blowing gently on the surface. My first bite is small, but just as unsatisfying as I thought it might be.
Nothing really compares to Happy’s Pizza.
I should’ve known better.
My hunger takes priority, and I scarf down the remainder of the square slices, taking momentary breaks only to wash down the crust with my beer. The bar has steadily filled as my focus has remained on nourishing my body with gluten and dairy.
“Welcome to Golden Hour Monday Night Karaoke!” The tattooed man holds a microphone to his mouth, garnering attention from the bar’s patrons.
Only when her voice penetrates my ears do I fully look up from my plate.
“I refuse, ” she laughs as she speaks, pulling herself out from Carmen’s grasp. “Absolutely not!” The sound carries over the rumble of the crowd. My eardrums the target for her words.
Bullseye.
Pushing myself further into the booth, I watch as Jo reluctantly lets Carmen pull her up to the makeshift stage. Mr. Tattoos hands them each a wireless microphone. The iconic keyboard slide from ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” rings out from the speakers, and Jo begins to sway back and forth, looking to Carmen for assurance. Though the crowd has made their way to the open space in front of the stage, I have a perfect vantage point.
I’m honestly surprised that she didn’t choose Fleetwood Mac.
“Is that Dr. Carello?” I glance over to see two young men staring, mouths agape, at Jo. “Damn, I thought she was nerdy, but she can get it.”
“Cool it.” My voice is scarily low, but decidedly loud enough for them to hear. A pang of protectiveness washes over me.
First-year boys are fucking stupid.
“I’d suggest you get your asses home to study your pathology before I let Dean Zin know how you’ve been disrespecting your female instructors.” They exchange one speechless, wide-eyed glance before scurrying out the front door.
Jo and Carmen’s song has since ended, and I silently curse the asshole horn-dogs for making me miss it.
A group of fourth-year students that I recognize from my capstone course sways together on stage with their arms around each other, belting out another karaoke classic with help from the accumulating drunkards. They’ve got friends in low places, alright.
I can’t help but tap my fingertips against the table as I scan the room. Though Carmen is standing with her back to me at the bar, Jo is somewhere out of sight.
My original waiter sets another Blue Moon, that I did not order, down on a coaster in front of me. It’s just then that I spot Jo, standing to the right of the karaoke stage, leaning over to speak into Macho Man’s ear. Her balance falters slightly, and he steadies her with a large hand on her hip. I ball my hands into fists, watching the interaction.
This is the type of man that Jo wants.
He’s basically Andrew with tattoos. Bigger than me and stronger than me.
And I am in way over my head.
The song changes, and Jo makes her way back onto the stage. This time, she has no lifeline in Carmen. She’s standing on her own two feet, albeit a tad wobbly. The neon light above her head bathes her in a purple glow. My heart free-falls into oblivion.
Fucking Fleetwood Mac.
The notes are smooth and low. Her lowest register.
Jo shades the spotlight from her eyes as she sings, pointing at Carmen when she finally locates her. Carmen blows her an elaborate kiss, and Jo catches it, slapping her palm to her cheek.
She sings, venturing just off-key.
My invisibility efforts are thwarted when Carmen spots me, immediately spinning on the ball of her foot to face me.
“You,” she yells. Jo is lost in song and completely oblivious to the scene that is about to hash out in the crowd. “What are you doing here, asshole?”
My head swivels back and forth between the stage and where Carmen now stands, just adjacent to my table.
“I’m just trying to eat and enjoy the show. No harm, no foul.”
Jo’s energy from the stage has at least half the people in the crowd jumping and singing along. For someone with anxiety about going to the grocery store, she sure has a stage presence.
“It’s been three years. And now you show up here?” Her gaze is fixed on Jo’s performance, her voice unwavering. “I said not today . I didn’t say not ever. ” She repeats her words from Leo’s funeral, and the annoyance in her tone forces me to catch her gaze.
“What?” Before she can answer, the memories of my run-in with Carmen at Leo’s wake flood my consciousness. “Wait.”
Carmen takes an impossibly deep breath, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know you’re a man so you’re inherently stupid, but you were supposed to come back.”
“I’m sorry, but how was I supposed to know that? You put the fear of God in me that day.” I push my fingers through my hair, trying to decipher what the hell all of this means. “I’m trying to do this right.”
She huffs a pitying laugh, “Oh, you dumb, dumb boy.”
Applause breaks out as Jo’s song comes to an end, and she’s engulfed by a group of her first-year students. “Help me fix this, Carm.”
I’ve never been so desperate in my entire life.
“I need to go before she sees you,” she hesitates, examining me. Her expression softens gently, almost contemplative. “She’s spent the last three years falling out of love with you. And as much as it might seem like she hates you,” she pauses, “and as much as she probably should, she doesn’t.”
I nod, a glimmer of hope stirring in my gut. “How do I fix it?”
Jo emerges from the crowd, scanning the room nervously for Carmen. The adrenaline from her performance has worn off, and it’s time to go. Carmen and I both know that look.
The I need my pjs and my bed immediately look.
As Carmen turns to catch Jo, she gives me one last look.
“You’re smart, Dr. Britlyn. Figure it out.”
She throws her arm around Jo, steering her towards the door before she can spot me.
Figure it out, Isaac.