Chapter 4 #2
I pick up the sticky saltshaker, then put it back down again. Telling Liam about flunking out of med school isn’t really my idea of a great first date—or whatever this is—but there’s something about him that feels safe, a type of magnetic energy that seems to coax the words free.
“I sort of hated it,” I admit.
“What did you hate about it?”
“I hated eight a.m. labs and spending every weekend studying for classes I wasn’t even interested in,” I tell him, the words spilling out of me like a pent-up dam.
“If you weren’t interested, why did you go in the first place?”
“It’s what I was expected to do. Which is probably why I stuck out four years as a biochem major in undergrad and then months of studying for the MCATs.
I didn’t want to disappoint anyone,” I tell him, thinking about all the times I told Gramps that classes were going great even though I was miserable and felt trapped in a career path I knew wasn’t right for me, and how every time he nodded and told me how proud of me he and Grammy were, I felt even more trapped.
“But I woke up one day and I just couldn’t imagine suffering through another four years of med school and then residency,” I tell him. “I couldn’t keep killing myself just because it was someone else’s dream.”
He props his elbows on the table, studying me. “Whose dream was it?”
“My grandfather’s,” I tell him. “He’s a fancy surgeon who thinks being anything other than an MD is a waste of time. Now he thinks I’m throwing away my future.” I cast a glance at the jukebox, where someone’s just put on “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” before adding, “And maybe he’s right.”
“Why do you say that?”
I shift my weight, thinking about how I’ve always taken pride in being similar to my mom.
After all, she’s my best friend—always the funniest, most interesting person in the room, the kind of person people can’t help gravitating toward.
But the same traits that often make her the life of every party are also the traits that make her rash and impulsive.
Like the time she went to Buenos Aires with a man she’d only known a day.
Or the time she quit her job because her boss wouldn’t approve her PTO.
And I can’t help but worry that I’m making the same mistake with med school.
That I’ve done something rash and ultimately foolish by dropping out.
“I mean, it’s med school,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “It’s basically a golden ticket to success.”
“Not if you hate it,” he points out.
“Tell that to my family.”
“So what are you going to do instead?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “And I know that sounds bad. Like, who the hell drops out of med school with no backup plan? But I just had to get out of there.” I pause, unsure how to phrase my next thought.
“I thought I was going to suffocate,” I say after a beat. “Like I was being weighed down by all this pressure, and I was going to end up in this life I absolutely despised with this job I resented and I’d be stuck with no way out.”
I search his face, expecting to see judgment, or confusion.
After all, he clearly doesn’t feel the same way about medical school or becoming a doctor.
Instead, his dark eyes warm with understanding.
“I get it,” he says. “You have to really want it. It has to be your passion. And if it’s not, it’ll kill you. ”
His words strike across my core. Somehow this man that I hardly know has managed to understand something no one else in my family could.
“Is it for you?” I ask, suddenly curious to know. “Your passion?”
His gaze instantly brightens. “It is,” he says. “I love the work, and I love knowing that what I’m doing could help people. That I’m doing something that matters.”
Shiny, I think yet again. He’s so self-assured. And I can’t help but be drawn toward him, like maybe if I get close enough some of that shininess will rub off on me.
“I wish I had that kind of certainty,” I say almost wistfully.
“That I just knew what I wanted to do the way everyone else in my family does. My grandfather’s a doctor and so are my brother and his boyfriend.
My little sister is only in middle school, but she’ll probably be one too,” I tell him.
“They all seem so passionate about it, so certain. But I just didn’t feel that way. ”
“Well, there must be something you’re passionate about,” he says. “Something else you want to do?”
“Too bad watching Netflix isn’t a career path. I’d be great at it.”
I laugh at my joke, but Liam frowns. “Don’t sell yourself short. You got into med school. You’re clearly driven and intelligent.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but you don’t know me.”
“Maybe I just like making assumptions.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting back a grin.
“Well, actually, there is something I want to do,” I tell him.
“What’s that?”
“I’m writing a book.” As soon as I say it, I’m hit with a wave of embarrassment. “I mean, I’m not a real writer,” I say quickly. “I didn’t do an MFA program or anything.”
“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty certain if you’re writing, then that makes you a writer,” he says, giving me a pointed look. “Do you want to publish it someday?”
I nod, feeling my cheeks heat. God, how embarrassing to admit my dreams, and even more embarrassing to hope for them.
“It’s not finished yet, but when it is I’d like to try,” I tell him. “But who knows, it might be bad.”
“Everything is crap before it’s good,” he says.
I scan Liam’s handsome face, finding it hard to imagine he’s ever been crap at anything.
“What’s your book about?” he asks.
“It’s a romance.” As soon as I say it, my face heats up. It’s not that I’m ashamed of the genre, but I know how it’s typically received: as a silly, vapid guilty pleasure. Certainly not something to be taken seriously. But Liam’s face lights up.
“I love romance,” he says.
I blink, wondering how this man exists. “You do?”
“I used to read my mum’s paperbacks when I didn’t think she was looking. Very informative,” he adds with a shy grin. “I probably learned more about human anatomy from bodice rippers than med school.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I assure you I’m not. Just ask my first girlfriend, who was completely scandalized when I asked her how many times she orgasmed from our first kiss.”
I bring my hands to my face. “Ohmygod. You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.” His mouth widens into a grin before he says, “While very educational, romance novels might have given me slightly unrealistic expectations for sex.”
“Or maybe your kissing skills just weren’t up to par,” I tease.
“The braces probably didn’t help.”
I laugh and he chuckles too, low and warm, and it takes everything in me not to melt right on the spot.
“What made you decide to start writing?” he asks.
“My mom, actually. Growing up, we read a lot together, and when we’d get to the end, she’d ask me if I liked how it ended, and if I said no, then she’d tell me that I could write my own.
” I smile to myself. “So much of real life doesn’t work that way.
We don’t get to write our own endings or guarantee everything gets tied up with a neat bow, but I love that, on the page, there can always be happily ever after. ”
“So you’re a hopeless romantic, then?” he asks.
“I’d say more of a cautiously hopeful romantic.”
He shifts his weight, and his knee grazes mine under the table. “And what does that mean?”
“It means that I love the idea of love, of romance and happy endings. But I know that real life doesn’t always work out the way it does in stories.”
I think of my mom, of the decades spent searching for the one, racking up heartbreak after heartbreak.
As much as I love the idea of finding a soulmate, someone who loves you wholly and completely, I’ve seen enough of my mom’s dating life to know that’s not how real life works.
The only perfect men out there are the ones written by women.
The rest will hurt you and cheat on you and leave you high and dry.
Even the charming ones with cute accents and dimples.
“Falling in love is scary,” he agrees. “Especially when the risk of getting hurt is so high. But maybe that’s what makes it worth it.”
“I’m not sure anything is worth having your heart broken,” I say, thinking of all the nights I heard my mom crying herself to sleep.
He sits forward, studying me. “Sure, heartbreak is awful, but isn’t the risk what makes it meaningful? The possibility that it doesn’t work, but you want it badly enough to find out?”
I realize we’ve shifted closer. Like if this table weren’t between us, we’d be touching. The thought makes my pulse kick up.
“Who’s the hopeless romantic now?” I tease.
A thoughtful hum vibrates in the back of his throat. “The world is shitty and people will disappoint you, but I think it’s nice to have something to believe in, something to hope for,” he adds, his gaze tracking mine, and I can’t help the heat packing into my cheeks.
Liam must notice because he winces. “Sorry. Kevin told me to be cool, and here I am grandstanding about love on a first date. I’ve said too much, haven’t I?”
With that accent? Never. This man could say I’ve bewitched him body and soul, and it still wouldn’t be too much.
I shake my head, bottom lip disappearing between my teeth. “No. No, you haven’t said too much at all.”
For a long moment he holds my gaze, and I can feel him trying and hesitating to speak. Finally he says, “So, do you think they’re coming back?”
“Who?”
“Abby and Kevin?”
My face warms once again. I’ve been so engrossed in our conversation—in him—that I didn’t realize how long they’d been gone.
I look over my shoulder toward the bar, but see only the two truckers and the bartender. “Where did they go?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I imagine somewhere dark and private. Maybe Kevin’s car? Or your flat?”
My gaze narrows. Abby’s much more free-spirited than me when it comes to sex, but I can’t believe she’d leave me with a stranger to go bone Kevin. Unless…
“Do you think they did this on purpose?” I ask.
The space between his brows crinkles. “Yes, I do believe they are having sex on purpose.”
I roll my eyes. “No, I mean do you think they were trying to leave us alone? Together?”
He shrugs. “No clue. But I’m not exactly mad about it.”
Well, that gets another blush out of me.
“How long ago did you see them leave?” I ask.
He checks the screen of his phone for the time. “About fifteen minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Probably for the same reason you didn’t notice them leaving. I was distracted.”
My blush intensifies.
“Do you think I should call Abby? See if everything is okay?” I ask.
“They’re fine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “They’re using protection.”
“I mean if she’s safe,” I say, giving him a hard look. “But now I know where your mind is.”
His mouth curls into a grin. “Kevin’s a good bloke, I promise. And for the record, they are using protection.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I gave him a handful of condoms before we left.”
I lift an eyebrow. “How generous of you.”
“Well, as you pointed out earlier, I’m a boring student who doesn’t have any friends, so I don’t suppose I have much need for them,” he says, giving me a heated look that makes it clear he and I both know this isn’t true.
“So what do we do?” I ask after a beat.
“Well, we can sit here and wait for them to come back, or…” His eyes light up. “We can get something to eat. Are you hungry?”
My gaze briefly flicks to the chalkboard menu announcing a limited offering of fried foods that are almost certainly from a freezer. “Here?”
That damn dimple makes a reappearance. “Actually, I was going to ask if you like lasagna.”