2. Alex
CHAPTER 2
Alex
“ W elcome everyone,” said Dr. Christa Michaels. I had seen her picture beside an excerpt in The Orthopedic Yearly . A renowned surgeon specializing in hand function, who was also single, loved Labradors and referred patients to my ex-fiancée for rehab. Thus, a no-go. "We have an exciting lineup of talks, workshops, and network opportunities planned for you all . . . "
Barely listening, I glanced about the room. Stacked stone veneers lined one side of the room while floor-to-ceiling windows framed a view of the deck on the opposite side. At the far end, art mirroring the landscape outside dominated the wall, and behind Dr. Michaels were a screen and a projector set up for events like this.
Every chair was taken. Except for one—the one to my left. When I was a teenager, a sickening feeling had always settled in my stomach whenever a seat remained open beside me. It was like being picked last for a fun game of softball or being benched when the baseball team was down one player. That was before I buffed out and discovered I was pretty good at math and physics––so much so that I’d been given a full scholarship to do pre-med at Stanford. As an adult, I’d come to appreciate the emptiness, the quiet space for reflection, and the freedom from inane conversations with people who knew very little about anything.
“Our main goal for the weekend,” continued Dr. Michaels, “is to dive into the latest advancements of joint replacement surgery, innovating explorative techniques, and of course, the aftermath. Patient experiences and success rates after the surgery . . . ”
I was struggling to concentrate. My mind kept drifting off like a sailboat to that moment when I was running late and glimpsed down to my phone only to look up a second too late. The Corolla in front of me had braked, and before I could dodge it, I’d smacked into its rear.
At least the damage had been minimal. At least neither of us were hurt.
The woman's face sprung into my head like a pop-up ad. Sophie Manning. She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, not in the conventional sense. Her pale gray eyes were just a little too far apart, her lips fuller than most, and she appeared uncomfortable in her skin, in the heels she wore with those tight tailored pants. Yet something was intriguing about her, in the faint lines beside her eyes, in the dimples stuck in her cheeks. She smiled often, possibly laughed just as much, and she had the bright, shiny expression of a perpetually optimistic person. Even through her scowl, even through all that anger directed at me, I could see that—Sophie Manning was a Sun.
Searching the room for her, I scanned each row of doctors, physical therapists, and medical reps, but none of them had the same wheat-blonde hair as she had. It was then, when I turned my gaze toward the door, that I finally saw her.
Sophie was standing in the doorway, her eyes scanning the space, moving over every head until they landed on me. Our eyes locked, briefly, achingly, as if an invisible barbed wire had sprung up between us and tugged. She was the first to look away, but not before her gaze found the empty seat beside me.
I could practically see her flinch. She bit at her bottom lip, appeared to consider her options, and finally cut past the other rows of chairs and slipped into the one beside me.
“You’re late,” I whispered, leaning slightly in her direction. Her perfume was light and sweet, like sticking your nose into the petals of a rose.
A growl rang from her throat. “And whose fault is that?”
“Not mine,” I muttered softly, feeling a spark of amusement. “I arrived at the talk perfectly on time. I even managed to get a good seat.”
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, her nostrils flaring, and crossed one leg over the other. Her hands rested on her lap. Her nails were short and a thin, delicate gold chain hugged her wrist. “Well, for your information, I got lost trying to find my room. You really think there’d be a bellhop at a place like this.”
“Lost?” I quipped, still whispering. “This place only has two floors.” I then nodded as if I knew the secrets to the world and added, “You’re one of those people who get lost in parking lots, aren’t you?”
“Have you seen the parking lots in Walmart?” she hissed softly. “Even with a map and a compass, anyone can get lost.”
I bit back a smile. “Not anyone. Just you.”
“That’s a big assumption for someone who doesn’t know anything about me,” she snapped, her voice an octave louder, just above a whisper. She switched her legs and smoothed out a crease in her pants with both palms. “Two can play at that game.”
“Yeah?” I sighed.
She jerked her head in my direction. I noticed flecks of brown in her right eye, tiny specks of warmth amongst the cold. “You’re probably one of those doctors with terrible bedside manners,” she said. “Just rush in and rush out. I’ve seen your type in the hospital. The patients have no—”
A woman looked over her shoulder, her hair swirling like a skirt in a breeze. “If you don’t mind, some of us are actually trying to listen.”
Sophie and I both nodded and looked dead ahead to Dr. Michaels, who appeared to be finishing up her speech. “Now, if everyone can please look under your seats. There’s a number stuck to the bottom. That number corresponds to the group you’ll join for the networking session later this evening at the wine tasting . . . ”
Sophie folded her body forward, her right arm searching but struggling to find the slip of paper. At one point, she leaned into me, and I realized that I was holding my breath. Forcing myself to breathe again, I was hit by another whiff of rose petals.
“Number seven,” she said out loud, sitting back up. She was holding up a small piece of paper with the number printed on it. “Lucky number seven. Or at least, I hope.”
For some reason, my heart beats just a little faster. I couldn’t tell whether it was the lingering heat where her arm had touched my leg that made an impact, or the inevitable dividing up into teams that I despised—what sane person liked to be forced into a group?
Reaching under my seat, I tore the slip of paper from the tape and held it up. “Five.”
Sophie visibly blew out a breath of relief. “Lucky then.”
“Thank you, everyone, once again for being here this weekend,” said Dr. Michaels, “You’ve all got the next hour to settle in before a shuttle takes us to the winery next door.”
The crowd clapped and began to rise, including Sophie, who jumped up like her seat was a hot plate. She was across the room before I even had a chance to say that the lucky number seven was just a cultural tradition without any scientific basis.
“This place is nice,” said Gregory Williamson, a medical rep who had introduced himself when he sat down in the shuttle beside me—he hadn’t stopped talking since.
“Wine tasting,” Gregory said as we were offered the first glass of the evening. “It’s basically the reason I even came here. A good break from everyday life.” He chuckled, took a swig of his Chardonnay, and smacked his lips together. “My wife hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since she was pregnant with Max. He’s three now, which makes it hard for me to enjoy a glass in the evening. Life’s a whirlwind with a toddler.”
I nodded, not sure what to say since I wasn’t fond of drinking myself, and I had no children, nor a wife. If Gregory wanted to speak about something else, perhaps implant delivery systems to facilitate the precise position of hip implants, then I’d be all ears.
But he appeared far more interested in chitchat.
Thankfully, Lilian Baskir, an orthopedic surgeon from Petaluma, and Harry Rust, a physical therapist from Sebastopol, were more than happy to indulge him. It was like I was fifteen again, standing on the outskirts of a conversation, listening but not participating. The only difference between then and now was that I now welcomed it.
While Lilian went on about her three-year-old niece, I scanned the room. The space itself was large with stamped concrete floors and walls the color of champagne. To the right, just beside the bar, was a glass partition offering a view into the winery’s production area. Vintage wine barrels were dispersed throughout the room in a way that made it look casual and nonchalant, and in the far-right corner were rattan chairs surrounding a live-edge coffee table with steel legs.
Sophie was sitting on one of the chairs.
She caught me staring at her and I looked away, my eyes burning as if they were on fire. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a long stone-colored dress and sneakers that for some reason suited her far better than heels.
“So, Alex,” said Harry, turning to me. “Where did you say you were from again?”
“Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom,” I muttered as I walked away. The last thing I heard from group five was Harry’s voice uttering, “What’s his problem?”
Instead of heading to the restroom, I ambled over to Sophie, who had just stood up and broken free from group seven. She was on her way to the bar when I stepped in front of her.
“I just overheard another physical therapist talking about which surgical approach for hip replacement leads to better rehab,” I said. It wasn’t exactly my best work, but it was the only thing that popped into my head. “What’s your take on it, Sophie?”
She studied my face, her gaze running from my hairline—which thankfully showed no signs of receding—down to my chin. When her gray eyes flicked back up to mine, I could see a twitch in her jaw. “This is a conversation you need to have with the people in your group. Rules apply to everyone, Alex. You’re not immune to them.”
“Well, I don’t like group number five,” I said, stepping back when she stepped forward.
“It’s not about liking them.”
"Are you just saying that to avoid my question?" I quipped, my voice sounding unfamiliar—lighter, airier, no longer weighted down by the fact that my fiancée had ended our engagement four weeks ago for no reason other than that we had drifted apart and that we shouldn't have gotten engaged in the first place. That heavy, somewhat disappointed, strangely relieved feeling followed me like a shadow. A feeling that lifted, only slightly, when I spoke to Sophie.
She sighed and shook her head while simultaneously rolling her eyes. It was amazing how women managed to do so many actions at once. “Anterior approach. It spares the major muscles which allows for a quicker recovery of movement. Are you happy now?”
"Extremely," I joked and caught myself. "How about we make our own group? We can call it number eleven."
“No,” she said coldly and walked right past me to the bar.
I let her go.