Chapter 13 Ex Marks the Spot
Chapter thirteen
Ex Marks the Spot
Lena
The chile relleno at Sadie's is committing chemical warfare on my sinuses while Nathan performs his one-man show titled "Boston: Your Escape From Everything Complicated.
" My phone vibrates against my thigh for the eleventh time since we sat down—Bad Decision apparently has strong opinions about my dinner plans—and I'm starting to worry it might burn a hole through my scrubs.
Yes, I'm wearing scrubs to dinner. Nathan said "casual" and my wardrobe consists of scrubs, slightly nicer scrubs, and that one red dress currently haunting my closet like evidence of poor judgment.
"The fellowship at Mass General would change your career trajectory," Nathan's saying, cutting his enchilada with surgical precision that makes me wonder if he practices on his food. "You'd be working with the best thoracic surgeons in the country."
"Mm-hmm." I sneak a glance at my phone under the table.
Bad Decision: Where are you?
Out.
Bad Decision: With who?
Whom. And it's dinner.
Bad Decision: He touching you?
My stomach clenches, that specific combination of guilt and arousal that should probably have its own diagnostic code.
Nathan's still talking—something about Boston, about opportunities, about escape routes disguised as career advancement—while I'm texting a man whose hands have SINS and RAGE tattooed across them.
"Lena?" Nathan's voice has that particular frequency of concern mixed with condescension that they must teach at Harvard. "You seem distracted."
"Just thinking about what you said. Boston. Fellowship." I take a sip of water to avoid elaborating, but the glass is empty and now I'm just miming hydration like an idiot.
"You'd be perfect for it. We could..." Nathan reaches across the table like he's going to take my hand, and I instinctively pull back. His face does that thing—that micro-expression of hurt masked by understanding that probably gets him laid at medical conferences.
"You're special, Lena."
Special. Right. Code for "I see damage I can fix" or "you're exotic in that working-class-with-trauma way" or my personal favorite, "I think saving you will make me feel important." I've heard it from every doctor who's tried to extract me from my life like I'm a splinter that needs removing.
"Nathan—"
"Just think about it. Boston's far from Phoenix. Far from..." He waves vaguely at my existence. "A fresh start."
Fresh start. Like I'm produce about to expire, needing immediate relocation to maintain freshness.
My phone buzzes again. This time I don't hide it.
Bad Decision: Angel. Answer me.
He's a colleague. It's professional.
Bad Decision: Professional doesn't make you answer texts at dinner.
Hypocritical much?
Bad Decision: I'm not trying to steal you to Boston.
Wait. How does he—? My head snaps up, scanning Sadie's windows. Nothing. But the feeling of being watched makes my skin prickle.
"Everything okay?" Nathan asks, following my gaze.
"Fine. Just thought I saw someone."
"Your brother?"
"No." My brother would walk in, not lurk. Miguel's not subtle about his protection.
Nathan insists on walking me to my car after dinner, because apparently Harvard also teaches that women need escorting through well-lit parking lots. My phone's been buzzing consistently, each vibration feeling like a small electric shock against my hip.
We stop by my beat-up Civic—the one with the passenger mirror held on by duct tape and hope—and Nathan gets this look. The one that says he's about to do something we'll both regret.
"Lena," he starts, stepping closer. "I know things are complicated for you, but I think we could—"
And then he kisses me.
It's technically perfect. Soft pressure, appropriate duration, proper head tilt.
Like he learned it from a YouTube tutorial called "How to Kiss Without Seeming Threatening.
" It tastes like his craft beer and good intentions and absolutely nothing that makes my body respond. My vagina practically yawns.
I pull back, and his face falls like I've just told him his surgical technique needs work.
"I'm seeing someone," I say, which is hilarious because I'm not seeing anyone. I'm texting a stranger who makes me come with audio files, who's currently blowing up my phone with what I can only assume are death threats, who I've met exactly once in a diner where we didn't even touch.
"Who is he?" Nathan's voice has an edge now, like a scalpel that's been dropped one too many times.
"Someone savage," I answer, because my brain-to-mouth filter is apparently on strike.
Nathan blinks. "Savage? Lena, you deserve better than—"
"Than what? Than someone who doesn't fit your Boston blueprint? Than someone who doesn't have the right degree from the right school?" My phone buzzes again. "I'm not a renovation project, Nathan. I'm not a fixer-upper you can flip for your emotional real estate portfolio."
"That's not what I—"
"Thanks for dinner. But I'm good where I am. Complicated and all."
I get in my car and drive away, leaving him standing there looking like I just told him his fellowship isn't as prestigious as he thinks.
My phone has seventeen texts.
Bad Decision: He touched you.
Bad Decision: I saw him touch you.
Bad Decision: I'll kill him.
Bad Decision: Angel.
Bad Decision: ANGEL.
I pull over in a Walgreens parking lot, my hands shaking as I type.
He kissed me.
Bad Decision: I'll fucking kill him.
Me: You don't even know him.
Bad Decision: Don't need to. He touched what's mine.
My entire body responds to that word—mine—like I've been defibrillated. It should make me angry, this possessive caveman bullshit. Instead, I'm wet, aching, and typing with trembling fingers.
I'm not yours.
Bad Decision: Yes you are. Have been since that first voice note.
That's not how belonging works.
Bad Decision: Tell me you didn't kiss him back.
I stare at my phone. The truth sits there, complicated and messy.
I didn't. It tasted like nothing.
Bad Decision: Good girl.
Those two words hit like a morphine drip—instant warmth, spreading everywhere, making everything fuzzy and perfect and dangerous.
Bad Decision: Good girl for telling me. Good girl for not kissing back. My perfect angel.
I'm not perfect. I'm a disaster sitting in a pharmacy parking lot sexting someone I barely know while rejecting someone who offers stability.
Bad Decision: You're perfect for me.
You don't know me.
Bad Decision: I know you save lives then touch yourself in parking lots. Know you named your vibrator. Know you can't come without help since some asshole broke your confidence. Know you chose me over Doctor Stability. Know you're mine even if you're fighting it.
He's not wrong. Every word is diagnostically accurate, symptoms of a condition I don't want to cure.
This is insane.
Bad Decision: Everything good is.
Bad Decision: When do I see you again?
I don't know. Miguel's suspicious. He's been watching me.
Bad Decision: Tomorrow. Midnight. Same place.
I can't.
Bad Decision: You will.
It's not a question or a request. It's a statement of fact, like noting a patient's vitals or reading lab results. Inevitable.
Diablo?
Bad Decision: Yeah, angel?
What happens when this explodes?
Bad Decision: We burn together.
I sit in that parking lot for twenty minutes, rereading our conversation, feeling claimed and owned and thoroughly fucked despite not being touched. Nathan's kiss is already forgotten, replaced by words from a man whose kiss would probably destroy me.
My phone rings. Miguel.
"Where are you?" His voice is careful, controlled. Never good signs.
"Walgreens. Needed tampons."
"For twenty minutes?"
"They didn't have my brand."
"Lena." The way he says my name is a warning, a prayer, a promise of protection I'm actively betraying. "Be careful."
"Always am."
"No," he says quietly. "You're not. You're like Mom that way."
The comparison hits like a slap. Our mother, who loved the wrong man so completely it killed her.
"I'm nothing like her," I whisper.
"I hope not, baby sister. I really hope not."
He hangs up, and I sit there in the dark, claimed by a stranger, suspected by my brother, wanted by a doctor who represents everything safe.
I choose the stranger anyway.
Because apparently, I am exactly like my mother.