17. Brenna
17
brENNA
Nineteen days.
Not that I’m counting. At least, not really. Not for that reason.
It’s more that the countdown to my test has been ticking away ever since graduation, and with each passing day, it looms closer. That also then makes one more day since Milo stopped speaking to me.
Mell
Still nothing?
Nothing
Nothing nothing? Or just nothing?
I laugh at her question, not sure what’s more amusing—the fact that I’m able to hear her tone just by reading the words, or that I know exactly what she meant repeating the same word three times.
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I look up at the front door, as if I’m expecting it to open at any moment. I know it won’t. Milo left a note saying that he was going out with his brothers tonight. Knowing the Hayes boys, that could mean something as simple as a quick dinner, or an all-night backwoods adventure. Given the way things are going between me and my roommate, I’d bet the latter. Leaving me a nice quiet apartment to study.
A too quiet apartment.
I told you, it’s not like he’s giving me the silent treatment, but we’ve been like two ships passing in the night.
One of us coming while the other is going or we’re both rushing out the door at the same time, or there’s a note left on the counter. But, I don’t think we’ve said more than eight sentences to each other since…
I let those three little drama dots speak for themselves. Mell knows exactly what went down between Milo and me on his parents’ boat. She pushed for a lot more details than I was comfortable sharing about my own personal fireworks show on the Fourth, clearly wanting to live vicariously through me with her husband deployed. I told her more than enough—including how he set the bar for orgasms going forward. Milo was not kidding when he said he was going to put Sherlock to shame.
More importantly though, my best friend knows all about how I slipped off to a blissful sleep in his arms. That something about being held in those strong arms of his, nestled against his solid chest, lulled me into submission. Or maybe that was the earth-shattering orgasms he delivered. What she doesn’t know is how being curled up with him like that felt like…home. Like all of him was chiseled for no other purpose than fitting me in the space. In the same way that my grandmother's salt and pepper shakers are made to fit together.
Maybe he’s just really busy? R he’s the one that said it…
I sigh, trying to buy myself enough time to slow down my heart rate. I don’t want him to know that he just crushed me like a gnat with a single sentence.
Fine. It’s fine. I can do this. Act naturally.
“ Only Murders in the Building ,” I tell him. “It’s about these three strangers in New York and there’s a murder in their apartment building, so they start a podcast about it and solve the case.”
“I should have known that with you there was murder involved.”
“Ouch?”
I don’t know if I should be hurt by his response or not. It stings, there’s no denying that. I’m not sure if it would sting as much—or at all—if it wasn’t coming on the heels of admitting that he’s been avoiding me.
Milo laughs, and I have to stop myself from letting the sound spark anything in me. “I didn’t mean anything by it, just that I know how much you love all that mystery stuff. You should have a TV date with Willa. Murder, She Wrote is her favorite.”
I frown, trying to hold back what I really think. Milo did not sign up for this rant. “I…have opinions on Jessica Fletcher.”
“You have opinions on Jessica Fletcher?”
“Sure do.” I nod. “I fully realize and respect that she’s a beloved American icon, but Agatha Christie she is not.”
“I feel like I walked into a trap.”
“There’s a whole rant that I’ll spare you from. Especially since your sister is a fan.”
Shaking his head, another chuckle bubbles up from him, the deep timbre of it resonating through me. He turns his gaze to the TV, letting Steve Martin and Martin Short steal his attention. Which is probably safest.
I flip the page of my practice test, scanning down the page, reading the case study carefully. Each one of these questions is carefully worded, and I know I have to catch every detail. Not an easy task sitting like this with Milo. Even less so when he starts running his hand along my bare leg again.
Shifting under my legs, Milo reaches over and grabs the practice test from my lap. “A 58-year-old male presents to urgent care with concerns of rigidity in his arms and tremor in his hands. These symptoms started a month ago.”
He pauses, eyes scanning down the page. I know what comes next in this scenario—a list of the patient’s vitals, along with their medication list.
“Holy shit, this dude is on a lot of meds, most of which I can’t pronounce.”
I take the paper back from him, scanning over the meds. “Haldol, Lipitor, metformin…nothing all that weird about these.”
“So then what’s the answer?”
I scan back through the question, trying to make sure I know what exactly is being asked.
“They want to know if any of these meds could cause his symptoms rather than a bigger underlying cause, and…yes. Three of the eight meds he’s on could be the culprit.”
“Damn, Bren. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. But this is a pretty basic question. There will be much harder ones on the NAPLEX.”
“How much longer until the test?"
“Three weeks. Then I have to wait for two more weeks until I know my future. Or at least if I have to sit for the test again.”
“Again, really?” he asks, face scrunched like the thought of it is painful. Which it is.
“Yup. Which is why I will be glued to these practice tests until then.”
I hold up the stack of papers, emphasizing my point. These things will be going everywhere with me, so I can squeeze in a question or two every chance I get. My days spent at the drugstore help—seeing it all in a practical sense aids in marrying together all the theoretical that I keep reading about. But this test is about a lot more than just knowing about a possible drug interaction when filling a new prescription or giving a flu shot.
“Don’t study too much; you’ll overload the brain. That’s not healthy. You need to have some fun in there.”
I scoff. “Says the guy who just told me all about how he’s working from sunup to sundown. And still doesn’t have a name for the product he’s debuting in a little over a month. Talk about all work and no play.”
“I do things for fun. I have hobbies,” Milo defends.
“Do you?”
He pauses, brow scrunched as he thinks. His lips purse, mouth twitching from side to side, reminding me of Winnie the Pooh as he sat going, “Think, think, think.”
“I brew beer.”
“Milo, that’s your business. You own the brewery. It’s not a hobby if paying your bills depends on it.”
“I don’t need your logic,” he counters, mumbling under his breath.
“Maybe you need to take your own advice. Get away from Southern Brothers for a bit, and maybe that will shake something loose to help you name the new brew.” Milo shrugs, eyes still trained on the TV. “I mean, when was the last time you did something fun? For no other reason than you wanted to do it?”
I could ask myself the same question. I’ve been so busy with school and then exam prep that my hot-girl summer has been more of a bummer than originally thought. The only fun I’ve had—other than a few lunches with Mell—has been the dates with Milo. But those are over now.
Milo is silent on the other end of the couch, and I wish I could see what was going on in his brain. Wish I could know if he’s thinking hard about my question, or trying to come up with a smart-ass answer. Or if he’s going to change the subject again. But his face is unreadable .
A second later, he twists to face me, pulling one of his legs up on the couch and tangling it with mine. Those deep blue eyes are dark again, his face serious. Now I really want to know what he’s thinking.
“Fourth of July.”
“What?” I ask, my brain barely registering his answer, but knowing that it doesn’t compute.
“That was the last time I did something for fun, just because I wanted to do it.”
Oh. Ohhhhhhhh…
I nod. Because what else is there to say? Even if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be able to say it, since my mouth is suddenly as dry as the Sahara. Almost like I took the cotton wad from a brand-new pill bottle and shoved it down my throat.
Milo leans in, his face going from serious to shit-eating. The Cheshire-cat grin spreads slowly across his face, dragging a warmth through me that I don’t think a fire hose could extinguish. Especially since his eyes are pinned on me.
“Fuck it.”
Fuck it? Just what are we fucking? Each other? Because we agreed the apartment was off-limits. That in here, we’re roommates. Not that I’m objecting. Nope, not one bit. But I don’t understand either. Maybe I’m being obtuse.
“Huh?”
Milo leans in more, as close as he can given our positions on the couch. The way he’s looking at me though, he might as well have hauled me into his lap. I’m seconds away from being a puddle, only being held together by the loose string that is my racing pulse.
“Know what’s better than a second date? A third.”
A third. A third date. Is he asking what I think he’s asking?
“You want to go on a third? ”
“I do. And I hope you do too.”
“But—"
“But nothing,” he cuts me off. “Bren, I haven’t had as much fun as I did with you in a long time. And yes, there’s a whole bunch of reasons this might be a bad idea, but who cares. We can figure all that shit out later. Unless you don’t want to.”
“No, I do. I’d love to go out with you again.”
It sounds so formal, like I’m RSVP-ing to an event. But I’m too stunned to respond in any other way—other than maybe a shriek. But I keep my cool.
“Good. Then it’s a date.”