Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
DREW
I hadn’t planned to tell Ally about the tremor, but the words tumbled out anyway. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
Ally frowns. “No, you don’t. I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed if you had a tremor.”
I could kiss her for saying that. I mean, I could kiss her anytime, but the urge is particularly strong right now.
“It doesn’t happen often, and it’s never severe or anything,” I explain. “Just sometimes if I haven’t slept well, or before a big operation. Never during the surgery. But I figured caffeine probably wasn’t helping, so I gave up coffee.”
Ally’s still frowning. “But that kind of thing’s normal, isn’t it? Back when I played tennis, I’d sometimes feel shaky before a big match, especially if I hadn’t slept properly. And sometimes I’d get sweaty, even before I started to play. It’s a stress response.”
“But I’m not stressed,” I say reflexively. I set the tennis bag on the floor and sit at the kitchen table.
Ally sits opposite me and raises an eyebrow. “Because neurosurgery is never stressful?”
I open my mouth to deny it again, then realize I don’t want to. Because of all the possible causes of this fucking tremor, a stress response is the one that’s least likely to be career ending.
I got the results of last month’s lab tests, and everything’s pristine.
I don’t have hyperthyroidism or vitamin B12 deficiency.
My kidneys and liver are functioning well.
So after that, what’s left? There are a couple other hormonal causes of tremor that internists get excited about, but no one ever actually has them.
So what’s left is an essential tremor, which could still end my career if it gets any worse. And after that comes a very depressing list of neurological problems. Parkinson’s. Multiple sclerosis. Brain tumor. ALS. And a bunch of other bad things, most of which don’t have great treatment options.
I think that deep down, I’ve always known this. I haven’t wanted to admit I’m stressed, but I also haven’t wanted to consider the possibility that there’s another cause of this tremor.
“You really think it could be a stress response?” I ask Ally cautiously.
She looks surprised. “You’re asking me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m not a doctor, Drew, but that’s what it sounds like to me. Like I said, I’ve never noticed it, so it can’t be that bad. When did it start?”
“Maybe a year ago.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And do you think it’s gotten worse, or stayed the same? Or gotten better?”
“Not worse,” I say quickly. I’ve been hanging on to that too, because something bad, like a brain tumor, would have gotten worse.
“Well, that’s good, right?” Ally asks. “Because if it was something other than a stress response, it would probably have gotten worse. Right?”
God. I could kiss her again. I don’t know what it says about me, that my mind is going there during a conversation about my fucking tremor.
But Ally’s skin is still a little flushed from the tennis and the walk in the sun. Her stretchy blue top isn’t skin tight, but I can see the outline of her bra straps and the curves of her breasts.
“Yeah, something else would probably have gotten worse,” I agree.
“Have you seen a doctor about it?” Ally asks.
I hesitate, and Ally answers her own question. “You haven’t, have you?”
“Not exactly. I went for a check-up, though, and he didn’t notice anything wrong. Except my blood pressure was borderline high.”
Ally’s brow furrows. “You were serious about that?”
“What?”
“When you were trying to get me to play tennis, you said your doctor recommended tennis for your blood pressure. I thought you were making it up.”
“Well, that was the idea,” I admit. I wouldn’t have said it if I thought she’d believe it. “And he didn’t specifically recommend tennis, but my blood pressure was a bit high.”
She frowns. “So are you on medication or something?”
“No.” Healthy young people don’t take blood pressure medication. “The doctor just suggested I exercise more.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago.” The day I met her, actually.
Ally’s gaze sweeps down my torso, heating my skin. “But you were already exercising,” she says slowly. “You must have been, right? I mean, no one gets in that kind of shape overnight.”
“Yeah, every day,” I reply. “Except for the days I was on call. And I was already eating pretty well. And I’d already cut out caffeine and alcohol because of the tremor.”
“So the blood pressure could be stress too,” she says thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, Ally. I don’t think I’m actually under that much stress—”
“Not under that much stress?” Ally exclaims. “Drew, you’re doing brain surgery, and teaching residents, and doing research, and on top of all that, you’re the chief of surgery!”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “But—”
“Take this past week,” she interrupts. “Most mornings you left for work before I was even awake, and you didn’t get home until late. And when you did get home, you went to the gym. That’s not healthy.”
I can’t tell her that this past week doesn’t reflect my usual pattern; I’ve been staying away from the condo because I find her presence distracting.
Actually, distracting isn’t a strong enough word. Ally Parker is driving me batshit insane.
But still, she has a point. Even before she moved in, I was working a lot.
“You need to make more time for self-care,” she continues earnestly.
Self-care? I smother a laugh, and it turns into an unconvincing cough.
Ally stares at me. “I’m sure you think self-care is just a woke term for laziness, but—”
I can’t suppress the laughter anymore, and this time there’s no way she could mistake it for a cough.
“What?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her when I’ve collected myself. “I just always thought self-care was a euphemism for . . . something else.” Something I do in the shower, after Ally’s asleep, and always to visions of her.
Ally’s eyes widen, and a faint blush spreads across her cheeks. It’s clear she gets my meaning.
“Oh. Oh,” she stammers. “Right, yeah. Well, that’s probably also good for stress relief.”
“Probably.” It does take the edge off a little.
“But seriously, Drew, if you keep going like this, you’ll burn out.”
“I don’t think things are that bad,” I argue. “And like I said, I exercise, and I don’t drink—”
“I think that’s your problem,” she interrupts. “You’re too disciplined.”
“What do you mean?”
Ally shrugs. “If you’re really burned out, your body’s not craving a salad or a run on the treadmill. You need primitive things, like sugar and sleep. Trashy TV. Sex.”
My brain does a strange sort of stutter-step. Did she actually say sex, or was that an auditory hallucination?
“When I was on the tennis tour, I’d be totally spent by the end of the season,” she continues.
“I’d come home and spend a week on my parents’ couch, doing absolutely nothing productive.
I’d watch trashy TV and read romance novels.
And sleep. The only exercise I got was walking from the couch to the fridge. ”
“Hmmm.”
“And after a week on the couch, I felt a lot better. It wouldn’t be a good long-term lifestyle, but it was what I needed at the time.” She looks at me. “I think you might be at that point. You need someone to chain you to the couch for a week.”
If you’re offering, I wouldn’t say no.
I know she didn’t mean that as an innuendo, but she’s killing me here.
“Drew?” she asks.
Right. The conversational ball is now in my court.
“It’s not that easy, Ally,” I reply. “I could take a vacation, but not for a couple of months. I’ve got people booked for surgery, and we make the call schedule three months in advance.”
Ally reaches up to pull the elastic out of her hair, causing her shirt to stretch across her chest. My mind flashes back to yesterday’s kiss, to the way her breasts felt against my chest. I imagine how they’d feel in my hands.
“I know you can’t cancel surgeries,” she says. “Or the clinic patients, but maybe you could delegate some of the administrative stuff?”
“Delegate some of the administrative stuff.” I can’t hide a smirk of amusement. “It’s not always easy, though, Ally. I recently had an admin assistant who was always nagging me to come to meetings.”
“She sounds like a real nuisance,” Ally says with a grin. “I hope you got rid of her.”
“Well, she’s not my assistant anymore, but I haven’t exactly gotten rid of her.”
“Shit.” Ally’s expression changes, and she rakes a hand through her hair. “And now you’ve got to deal with this fake relationship situation on top of everything else.”
“What?” I exclaim. “No, Ally, I was joking. I’m not trying to get rid of you.”
“Oh, I knew you were joking.” She blows out a breath. “But I’ve basically taken over your home office. I’ll start looking for another apartment—”
“No!” It comes out more forcefully than I intended, and Ally looks surprised. “You don’t have to do that. The condo’s big enough that I barely notice you’re here.” It’s a lie, obviously, but what else can I say? “You might as well stay the three months.”
“Well, okay,” she agrees slowly. “But I was also thinking . . . you remember we agreed we wouldn’t date other people, while we’re pretending to be together?”
“Yes?” I steel myself to keep my expression neutral. If she’s about to tell me she wants to date someone else, I’ll have to pretend it doesn’t bother me.
“I just thought if you wanted to date . . . you know, to blow off steam . . . it wouldn’t be a problem. So long as you’re discreet about it, of course. If you wanted to bring someone here, I could make myself scarce.”
It takes me a moment to process what she’s saying. She’s offering to leave for an evening if I want to bring another woman back to the condo.
I swallow hard. “I’m not looking to date right now, Ally.”
“Okay.”
Does she look relieved, or is that wishful thinking? Maybe she’s just relieved she won’t have to vacate the condo so I can bring back a date.
“But will you at least try to relax more?” she asks.
“Relax more?” I echo.