Chapter 1 #3
“Hey Lorraine,” Bianca says as she slides through the door to see the woman where she always is, behind the bar, towel over her shoulder pouring out some shots for the cluster of regulars in front of her.
“Hey honey, you can head back, it’s all yours!” Lorraine calls out.
“That’s Dr Honey now,” Bianca fires back.
The bar owner scoffs. “Pretty sure you can’t prescribe shit, girl. When you can write me a script for my meds, I’ll call you doctor.”
It’s a long-standing debate, but Bianca’s too happy to argue tonight. Plus, Lorraine doesn’t mean it at all. She never talks shit unless she’s proud of you.
It’s a Thursday night, so the place isn’t packed, but it’s not empty either and as she slides through the small groups of people, Bianca checks the faces, hoping everyone has figured out where to go.
Lorraine promised to cordon off a small alcove near the back of the bar that she sometimes rents out for private parties.
The sound of everyone else talking over the music fades a bit as she rounds the corner.
Miranda and her wife are already there and immediately move in to hug her, a way less awkward hug than they shared earlier that day right after her defense was complete.
Bianca knows that she’ll count the woman as a friend and mentor for the rest of her life.
“Congratulations again. We’re a little early because someone was neurotic about parking,” her advisor says, rolling her eyes affectionately at her wife, Sarah, a doctor, the kind Lorraine actually thinks counts, at Cedars-Sinai.
“And I was right, we circled for ten minutes before we found a spot,” Sarah says, but hugs Bianca next. “Congratulations, sweetie. We’re really proud of you.”
With her mom and dad retired and living in Arizona, this feels as close as she’s going to get to parental approval tonight and it feels damn good.
She’ll talk to her folks tomorrow during their weekly Skype call.
But that’s her phone buzzing in her bag and it’s possible they’re calling now to congratulate her.
Nope.
It’s a text from her sister, Lexi, who is always late for absolutely everything because her kid never lets her get out of the house on time.
—Hey Bianca Bean, I am so so so proud of you!! Congrats! Alec has a fever though so I’m gonna have to take a rain check tonight. Drinks on me next time!! Xoxo
Ah, so this time her kid isn’t letting her leave the house at all.
The perils of motherhood. Even though Bianca’s brother-in-law, Chris, is perfectly capable of taking care of Alec, even if he’s sick, that never seems to happen.
Lexi insists she’ll understand when she has kids one day, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.
“Everything okay?” Miranda asks. When Bianca looks up, she’s frowning down at her.
Gesturing vaguely at her phone, she nods. “Yeah, fine, but my sister can’t make it.”
But then her eyes are drawn over Miranda’s shoulder where a group of her fellow students are filing in through the door of the bar.
Despite spending the last five years in the same program, she hadn’t really made any good friends.
Most of them were just sort of peripheral figures in her classes, at the same conferences – nice enough, but between her own coursework, teaching her classes, shifts at the library and making time for her friends and family, there was never any time for new people.
There was one notable exception, though she’s not sure she’ll see him tonight. She hasn’t spoken to Xavier Byrne in weeks, maybe months, as her defense prep consumed her every waking moment.
Still though, it’s nice to get congratulatory hugs and give out reassurances that even though she’s the first in their year to successfully defend her thesis, she won’t be the last, that they’ll all join her in the post-defense promised land.
It’s a good turnout.
But every few minutes her eyes drift to the door when it opens, never revealing the faces she most wants to see.
She’s nearly through her third drink when another text comes in. This time from Isobel, her freshman roommate from undergrad.
—I’m not gonna be able to make it tonight! I’m so sorry. I’m the absolute worst. Dinner on me next week?
Swallowing down another sip of her drink, Bianca sends:
—Kk, we’ll miss you!
And she’s barely hit send when another message pops up.
From Chloe, her best friend from summer camp who trauma bonded with her over being left in the woods for six weeks, even if their cabins had air conditioning and the most outdoorsy thing they were required to do was swim in a lake.
—Fucking Josh invited his boss and coworkers over for dinner tonight without telling me. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you!
She isn’t even finished reading that one when another pops up. From Erik, her former work husband who was the one who told her she wasn’t crazy for going for her PhD when she was absolutely miserable in her high school teaching job.
—Don’t hate me, but I can’t make it tonight. The twins are colicky. Have so much fun. I’m Venmo’ing you! Have a drink on me!! Xoxo
He and his husband adopted twins a few months ago and he’s been tough to see ever since, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Her phone dings with a cash register noise.
And then another, from Frankie, who sat next to her on the bus on the first day of kindergarten, asked her if she wanted to be best friends, and they were ever since.
—I am so sorry, but we’ve got a last-minute meeting with Tokyo right now. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. We’ll catch up soon, I promise! Congrats Dr Dimitriou.
When the notification pops up, she can barely make out the message as hot tears start to build and a lump the size of her student loan debt climbs into her throat.
That’s when she fled, away from Miranda and away from the people in her degree program who she can barely even count as friends, back toward the bar to get another drink or ten from Lorraine and drown this feeling into oblivion.
And of course that’s when he showed up, looking so fucking good, and she’s a total mess and now he’s handing her another drink, his face soft and open and concerned.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, his free hand landing on her shoulder, warm and solid.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t . . .”
“I’m fine . But I changed my mind. I need shots.”
“Shots?” he asks and even three drinks in, or is it four now, she can hear the disbelief in his voice.
“Shots,” she confirms. “Lorraine! We need shots! Tequila shots!”
“Coming right up, Dr Honey!” Lorraine fires back from the other side of the bar, probably thrilled to serve her something that isn’t pink.
“Bianca,” he says and damn, she likes how he says her name. She can feel him behind her, his hand still at her shoulder, standing tall and broad against her back. It’s actually really annoying how much she likes how he says her name.
Spinning in place, she glares up at him. “I am a fucking doctor and if I say I want shots, then I get shots, even if my friends are all assholes and won’t be here to take shots with me. Except you, you came.”
“Well, me and Miranda and you know, everyone else that’s here.”
“Yeah, but they’re not my friends, not like . . . but you’re my friend, right?”
He stares down at her and she waits and God, he’s not the kind of asshole who’ll call her on it, is he?
Because they aren’t friends, not really, not like the people who blew her off tonight, but maybe he reads something in her face that says she needs this right now. That she needs him to be her friend.
“Yeah, boss, we’re friends.”
Bianca rolls her eyes at the nickname she apparently earned when they were in their first year, during their very first project together.
It’s not her fault that years in early academia had trained her to just take charge if she wanted anything done right.
Then a wide smile slides across her face and she jumps up from the barstool, throwing her arms around his shoulders, standing on her very tippy-toes to hug him close.
His hands steady her when she starts to list sideways, one landing at her hip and the other spanning the middle of her back and shit, he smells really, really good.
Which is nice and also dangerous and scary, and seems way less like a bad idea than it did for the last five years, when mixing their work with what could become extremely messy feelings .
Feelings that would ultimately lead to one place: both of them hurt and alone.
“Friends don’t let friends do shots alone,” she says, needing a distraction from exactly how good he feels against her. “You’ll do shots with me?”
“ I’ll do shots with you,” he agrees softly, as she drops back on her heels, but his arms don’t fall away as she spins back to the bar; he just leans in closer, his arms the perfect shield to block out everything else for at least the rest of the night.