Chapter Four #2
Our late start means that I work through lunch, which would be more tolerable if I’d remembered to eat breakfast this morning; I make it through all my morning cases on nothing but Julian’s coffee and two of the donut holes Larry brought in from the shop next to his house.
I feel like Superwoman. I am also in grave danger of passing out.
Lunch is one of the prepackaged meals I keep in the break room freezer to tide me over for days like this one, when I’m too harried to remember to bring something better. I nuke my cauliflower rice power bowl for the four minutes suggested on the box, then push up my goggles and pull out my phone.
There are seven text messages waiting for me, but I skip those, head for emails first. The cardiology service wants to add on a case for a diagnostic coronary angiogram, and Brandon’s schedule is stacked for today, can I do it?
I answer (“sure,” no punctuation or capitalization because I am an interventionist and efficiency is key), then skim through the rest—the November service schedule, an email from my doggy daycare supplying me with my daily photo of my bully mix, Onix.
It’s only then that I open my texts.
Winona: absolute cluster of a morning. Had like three intakes with forty somethings with incurable cancer. This JOB.
Winona: Anyway I just sent you a calendar invite for Sophie’s dance recital next month, as I have recently been made aware that she expects you to be there. Let me know if you can make it!
Questionably Literate Bakery Guy: how was ur weekend gorjus?
Pamela: your 1pm patient ate breakfast at 9am, push him to 3 or reschedule for tomorrow?
I’m mid long-suffering sigh when I notice them: two texts from an unknown number that halt my breath halfway down my throat.
(Unsaved number): any chance you appreciate art as much as you do music?
(Unsaved number): [image]
I tap the image, and it expands on my screen, revealing a slickly designed announcement for a gallery opening by Margaret West. PERPETUITY, the title reads, in dense, italicized font. Underneath it, a maelstrom of colors: one of Margaret West’s pieces. The event starts at nine p.m. this Saturday.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
(Unsaved number): this is Julian Conrad, by the way, and I would very much like you to save my number as such.
I smirk. It’s as if Julian can see Questionably Literate Bakery Guy two text threads down from his. I save his name, but respond back: as opposed to…?
Julian’s response is prompt: something impersonal, like Handsome Charming Talented Pianist.
I snort. Oh wow. I see you’re quite the humble one.
Humility is so often a farce, don’t you think? I’m aware of my charms. They’ve gotten me this far, after all. Besides, I don’t think my pride could take it if you responded to me with a “who’s this?”
Sean: You have to earn the contact save. Demonstrate that you’re consequential.
Julian: Oh, I can show you consequential.
Julian: But if we’re playing that game, I’m going to save you as “songbird.”
Sean: How very presumptuous of you, giving me a pet name before a first date.
Julian: If you think bullying me is going to scare me off, I’m afraid you’re sorely mistaken. I have a thing for mean women.
Julian: Oh, and if it’s not abundantly clear, this is me asking you out.
I’m grinning at my phone and thinking of a good response when the door to the reading room swings open.
It’s Leila.
Leila is gut-punch pretty. Her skin is tawny, almost the same color as her hair and only a few shades lighter than her yellow-green catlike eyes. She has an extra-large pink thermos in one hand and a tote bag in the other, and her fitted forest-green scrubs showcase a lithe body.
She is also, to my chagrin, kind of a sweetheart.
It’s a na?veté that’s gotten her in trouble—Pamela and I once spent a week walking her to her car in the parking garage because one of the security guards mistook her politeness for romantic interest and started following her out of the hospital.
The saga only ended when I flashed my stun gun and reported him to his management.
He’d gotten fired, something Leila had worried might have been too much, but still appreciated.
“Hi, Sean,” she says in a high, bashful voice. “You’re in the lab today, right? Do you have any cases you might need me for?”
I should hate her, but I can’t. Before she and Brandon began their dalliance, I really liked having her around.
She’s a bright young woman, thoughtful and whip-smart, and as a device representative for Palette Biotech, she’s walked me through some pretty neat new equipment for the lab.
And though at twenty-four she is most certainly an adult, she feels less culpable than the forty-year-old father who made her into his second wife.
“I don’t think so,” I say, giving her a quick smile. “Does Brandon?”
Leila nods, then starts rambling about the complex atherectomy that Brandon is planning for this afternoon.
I listen impassively, wolfing down my lunch as quickly as possible.
Romantic relationships between proceduralists and members of the interdisciplinary team happen so frequently that I don’t think the hospital could stop them from working together even if they wanted to, but it’s still curious to me that the smiling couple has come rushing right back to work as soon as possible.
I don’t have time to think more about it before my phone screen lights up again on the table. Leila’s gaze drops to the screen reflexively before jumping up to me, beaming.
“Oh my god, you’re talking to Julian,” she says, raising her fists in excitement. “I’m so glad. He hasn’t shut up about you since the wedding.”
The look I give her could probably cut steel.
I’m still formulating my response—because she genuinely sounds pleased for her friend, and I’m realizing that most of my annoyance is because I don’t want Pamela to be lurking in the halls and waiting to call me a cougar in the group chat—when the door opens again and Brandon marches inside.
Leila twists to smile up at him and it’s as if I’ve become a part of the furniture.
Brandon’s hands fall on his wife’s sides, and suddenly his shoulders drop and the tense frown lines at the corners of his mouth loosen.
I’m reminded of the Brandon I met in medical school, the one whom the residents used to send into patients’ rooms after delivering bad news.
The one who could charm a snail out of its shell, a person out of their tragedy.
“Hey, kitty,” he says gently.
Leila unfurls into him like a curling leaf reaching for the sun. Her lips brush his stubbled chin, and he relaxes like she’s just injected life back into him.
My stomach turns. I feel like I’m witnessing something indecent. By the time Brandon notices me, I’m already tossing my empty bowl into the trash.
He releases her. The instant they step apart, a shadow falls over his face once more.
“Sean,” he starts.
I don’t let him finish.
“All yours,” I say, gesturing toward the empty reading room. Then I flee.