Chapter 7 #3
It was also deeply, deeply dangerous. Because the more I invested in our quirks and rituals, the more the stakes rose. The highlight of my week wasn’t just a movie or a taco—it was whatever we were doing together, even if it involved debating whether pizza qualified as a vegetable in Congress.
But as soon as the workday loomed, reality snapped back, and the carefree banter faded, replaced by sterile professionalism. The transition was always jarring. A whiplash from nacho jokes to medical charts, from being Quinton to “Dr. Wesley.”
The worst part? The abrupt shift. At work, we were colleagues, professionals, careful to keep the banter subdued and the boundaries clear.
She called me Dr. Wesley. I called her Nurse Darcy.
We discussed patient care, treatment plans, and whether Fitz’s latest hangover was “medically concerning” or “karmic justice.” But beneath the clinical conversations, I was counting down the minutes until I could be myself again.
Until I could return to the world where nachos, opinions, and friendship ruled.
And I hated it. I hated the formality, the distance, the performance.
I hated waiting until five o’clock to drop the “MD” and pick up the mantle of taco critic and nacho architect.
Because what Vivian had given me—really given me—was permission to be the unpolished, opinionated, slightly absurd version of myself.
The guy who told the truth about sundresses, who debated pizza toppings, who insisted that capsule wardrobes beat chaos every time.
No performance, no pretense—just me and my three identical gray T-shirts. And for reasons I still didn’t fully understand, she didn’t merely tolerate that version.
She liked him. Maybe even more than the “doctor” me.
And that was the most thrilling—and terrifying—part.
Because what if, when the chips were down (extra cheese, obviously), I couldn’t keep being that guy?
What if the world demanded the doctor and left no room for the friend, the critic, the guy who cared enough to say, “Try the green one”?
Sometimes, the scariest thing was realizing that when someone saw you—really saw you—and liked what they found, flaws, opinions, and all.
For me, that was both the sweetest victory and the wildest risk.
And beneath all the banter, the rituals, the spreadsheets, and the nacho debates, that knowledge lingered—equal parts comfort and terror, held together by a friendship that felt efficient, absurd, and absolutely necessary.
It was 4:47 PM on a Tuesday, and I was watching the clock like a patient waiting for test results.
Thirteen minutes until I could leave.
Thirteen minutes until I could text Vivian and ask if she wanted to grab dinner.
Thirteen minutes until I could stop being Dr. Wesley and go back to being the version of myself that felt real.
My phone buzzed.
Vivian: Thai food tonight? I’m craving drunken noodles.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Me: I’m craving pad see ew. We can share.
Vivian: You always say we can share, and then you eat all of yours and half of mine.
Me: That’s called efficient resource allocation.
Vivian: That’s called theft.
Me: I’m a doctor. I need fuel.
Vivian: You’re a black hole in human form.
Me: Astrophysically inaccurate, but I’ll allow it.
I put my phone down and looked at the clock.
Twelve minutes.
I could wait twelve minutes.
The thing I didn’t want to admit. The thing I was actively avoiding admitting was that this wasn’t friendship. Or maybe it was friendship. But it was also something else.
Something I didn’t have a name for yet. Something that made my chest feel weird when she laughed. Something that made me notice the way she argued, the way she gestured when she was passionate about something, the way she looked at me when I said something she thought was funny.
I had sworn off dating to avoid the marriage trap.
I had sworn off dating to avoid becoming Julien—sleep-deprived, covered in baby vomit, married to someone who read tarot cards and believed in “energy cleansing.”
I had sworn off dating to avoid becoming Gabriel, the man who had accidentally fallen in love with his daughter’s nanny and now made heart-eyes at her over breakfast.
I had sworn off dating to maintain my independence, my sanity, my carefully constructed life.
And yet, here I was. Spending every free moment with Vivian Darcy. Looking forward to the weekend. Making spreadsheets about tacos. Buying concert tickets two months in advance.
This was fine. This was totally fine. This was friendship. Just friendship. Nothing more.
I looked at the clock.
Eleven minutes. And I wondered, just for a second, what would happen if I stopped lying to myself.
What would happen if I admitted that this wasn’t just friendship?
What would happen if I admitted that somewhere between the comedy club and the baseball game and the hiking trail, I had started falling for Vivian Darcy?
The clock ticked.
Ten minutes.
I pushed the thought away.
This was fine. This was friendship.
And I was absolutely, definitely, 100% not in love with my best friend.