Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
I wake to an alarm I don’t remember setting in a room I don’t remember falling asleep in, in a bed I was sure I shared with someone else. But I’m alone, and the sheets next to me are cool.
Before the panic can set in, I take a deep breath and activate Emergency Sean.
Emergency Sean does not freak out because her patient’s blood pressure is tanking or the guy she (finally) slept with has left her alone in a strange bed.
Emergency Sean catalogs facts and figures out what she needs to do next.
I find my phone plugged in on the nightstand.
According to the home screen, it is still Thursday, and it is seven thirty in the evening, which means that I’ve been out for about two and a half hours.
I also know that, despite getting somewhere in the vicinity of an hour of sleep last night, I feel better rested than I have in days.
There is also the where. This one is easy, even if it sets my cheeks to burning—I am in Julian Conrad’s bedroom, in Julian Conrad’s bed.
As far as what happened in it…beyond the most rudimentary terms, I am not exactly sure.
On one hand, I’ve just had what was easily the best sex of my life.
On the other hand, I appear to have intermittently passed out several times over the course of the act, judging by the presence and, erm, participation of the Julian I encounter in my dreams. Which…
wow. I must be sicker than I thought, in all senses of the word.
There’s a robe hanging from the door. I hop out of bed, slip it on, and tiptoe down the hall.
I find Julian sitting at his dining table, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, staring down at his laptop screen with rapt concentration that’s only broken when I speak.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say.
Julian starts, whipping the glasses off his face as he rushes to my side.
“I don’t usually. I’ve been staring at a lot of screens lately; these supposedly help with the eye strain,” he says distractedly. He cups my face in his hand, studying it from under a brow furrowed with concern. “You crashed pretty hard. How are you feeling?”
“I’m good,” I say, blushing under his close attention. It’s hard to look directly at him, so soon after he wrought rapturous havoc on me, and so I turn toward his computer instead. “What are you working on?”
There is a brief moment when I see Julian hesitate, sense that he might press me for more. But then his hand falls from my face and he settles back into his seat. I collapse across from him.
“I invested in a company based in Delhi that’s developing small solar-powered kitchen appliances, with an emphasis on stoves,” he says.
“They’ve been running into some issues with their manufacturer and the NGO that was supposed to help with distribution just lost their grant, so I’ve been helping to put out fires. ”
“Solar-powered stoves,” I say, curious. “Who would those be for? Campers?”
Julian rests his chin on steepled hands.
“Delhi has some of the worst air pollution in the world,” he says.
“Almost two million people live in the slums surrounding the city, a lot of them in poorly ventilated quarters. They do a lot of their cooking with makeshift earthen stoves, and the initial idea was that these would replace those. They’re a good team, very mission driven, but I think they’re missing their target as far as consumers. ”
He goes on to explain the clear barriers to adoption—many of the foods cooked by the entrepreneurs’ community require open flames for charring rather than induction ovens, and the team of engineers, composed entirely of men who have never cooked a day in their lives, arrived at a solution to a perceived problem without seeking the opinions of their actual potential users first. Besides, their proposed consumers are unlikely to have the resources to help them reap a profit.
A noble mission, Julian emphasizes, but misguided.
“The actual technology has so much promise,” he states.
“I personally want them to pivot. There are so many other devices they could apply this to that can still help address their goal of decreasing emissions and making renewable energy attainable at a consumer level, but—” He freezes. “I’m boring you.”
“You aren’t,” I say. I mean it. When we first met, I’d poked fun at his description of his work as philanthropy, but a dig through Reddit forums reveal that he wasn’t kidding about only taking a meager cut.
Getting sponsored by the Conrads is apparently the equivalent of acquiring a fairy godmother; his firm functions as both an accelerator and an investor, providing significant mentorship in addition to funding in exchange for considerably less equity than his competitors.
His passion is both obvious and infectious, and, if I’m honest, attractive too.
“I think it’s cool that you’re so involved. ”
“I have an incentive to see them succeed. Not just financially. This is about advancement,” Julian says.
“I see this happen all the time—brilliant people with good ideas who are just asking the wrong questions. Part of my job is leading them to the right ones. They do this properly, and they could change the world.”
He wags his head, then snaps his laptop shut and reaches for my hand, brushing a thumb across my knuckles.
“But enough of that. I’ve missed you.”
I roll my eyes. “Ha! Whose fault is that?”
The moment I say it, I freeze. A second realization has dawned on me: Julian ghosted me, and for over a week.
So how did I end up here, in his apartment, in his bed?
My memory is hazy, like I’ve drunk four too many margaritas at happy hour and shuttled forward in time.
I consider the series of events that could have led me to Julian’s dining room table, and it takes them a moment to crystallize: falling asleep in morning clinic, running into Leila, her voice cracking as she declares Jules is important to both of us…
“Wait, weren’t you just on the brink of death? ”
It’s probably my hypervigilance talking. Probably a relic from the way I used to search Eric’s face for the slightest shift in mood to govern what would be safe to say next and what might send him into a rage. But I could swear that right before Julian laughs, his eyes widen with shock.
“I was sick for a while,” he explains. “And then when I finally started feeling better, I was so behind on work that I’ve been pulling all-nighters trying to catch up.
And what with my most active team being halfway across the world…
I think my body finally gave out.” He grimaces.
“I realize I never responded to your messages. I’m sorry.
I kept meaning to, and then I’d get stuck putting out another fire. ”
I frown, my annoyance flaring when he confirms that he did, in fact, ignore me.
“You realize I’m not the best girl to use the ‘I’m busy’ excuse on, right?” I say. “It would’ve taken two seconds for you to text me back.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Julian says. He drapes himself onto the table, looking up at me with pitiable brown puppy eyes. “And if it does, you should break up with me immediately. I’ll deserve it.”
“Break up with you?” I scoff. “Didn’t realize it was that serious.”
Julian straightens, affronted, and I realize that he was neither joking nor using a figure of speech.
“It isn’t? But we are only dating each other, right?” he asks, gesturing between us. Another revelation falls over his face, and it folds into an expression that is one part horror, one part hurt. “Wait. I’ve been calling you my girlfriend. What have you been calling me?”
“Hold on,” I say. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I be joking?”
Julian crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, and the look he’s giving me is accusatory, as if I’m the one in the wrong. And hell if I’m going to allow him to put me under the spotlight right now.
“Um, maybe because you took me on a date, brought me home, and then didn’t talk to me for a week?
” And after what we’d discussed, I almost add, but I feel too raw to let him that close again.
“That’s not exactly how you treat a girlfriend.
If Leila hadn’t asked me to check on you, I would’ve assumed that was a message in and of itself and blocked you. ”
I tug my robe closed and turn toward the twinkling Chicago skyline.
I’m not sure where my accumulated hurt went in the last several hours, but it’s back now, squeezing my chest so tight that it’s hard to breathe deep and even harder to face him.
With it comes anger. Anger at myself, because how could I still sleep with him after he treated me so poorly?
Why haven’t I walked away? Anger at him too, for making me question my own carefully rebuilt self-worth.
And anger at the universe, for bringing a person into my life whose soul seems to resonate so beautifully with mine, but in the form of such a boy.
There’s a creak and groan: Julian pushing his chair back and making to stand. I listen to his footsteps as he circles the table, curl my fists tighter when his torso enters my peripheral vision.
“Sean,” he pleads. When I don’t budge, he drops to his knees in front of my chair.
I’m too shocked by the gesture to notice that he’s succeeded in regaining my attention until it’s too late.
“I’m sorry. It was wrong of me not to respond to you,” Julian says.
He peels my hands off the table and closes them between his.
“I reasoned that the next time we spoke, it should be about, well, us. And I didn’t feel like I was in the physical or mental space to have that conversation, and so I avoided it altogether.
And with every day that went by, it felt even more impossible, because I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
I, erm, never really know what to say to you. ”
His honesty stuns me temporarily into silence.
“Yes you do,” I say. “You always say the right things.” Practiced, I’d thought, when we first met.
But Julian is shaking his head.
“No, I don’t,” he insists. “I genuinely don’t like people. But I like you. And that makes me skittish, and foolish, because I want to do things the right way with you, but I don’t know what the right way is.” He pauses, chuckles nervously. “What we got up to tonight probably wasn’t it, though.”
“I have no complaints about anything we did tonight,” I interject. I don’t add what I’m thinking: that if he gave me one inkling that he’s down for a second round, I would drag him back to his bedroom myself.
The light comes back into Julian’s eyes.
“You’ve already forgiven me, haven’t you,” he says, just a little wickedly.
I pout and look away, but after his little admission, it’s taking genuine effort to stay upset.
The online dating gurus were clear as day about situations like this: Don’t let a man show you he doesn’t want you more than once.
But none of them have beheld Julian’s face, felt his grip dimple their thighs.
They might allow him a couple more tries if they did.
Recognizing victory, Julian grins, bracing himself on the arms of my chair to place a kiss on the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my forehead.
When I scrunch my nose, he goes for the kill, grabbing my face between his hands to rain a torrent of noisy kisses on my face as I squeal and twist out of his grasp.
“You’re a terror,” I whine in between giggles.
“And you have a horrible savior complex, turning up with a whole medicine bag even though I’d just done you wrong,” he says, ending his offensive by pulling me into an embrace.
I twine my arms around his neck, let him rest his head on my bosom, and breathe him in.
“You can’t just charm your way out of this, you know,” I say, knowing damn well that he already has.
Julian’s quiet laughter rumbles through my chest.
“Ah, I see,” he says. “What is the best way to properly show my penance, then?”
I think about it.
“I want one of those giant grocery store teddy bears,” I say. “The ones carrying those huge plush hearts that say something obnoxious, like ‘Be mine.’ ”
Julian nods sagely.
“Noted,” he says. “Man-sized teddy bear.”
“And a card,” I add. “With a checkbox on the inside saying, ‘Do you forgive me? Check yes or no.’ And I’m going to check whatever I want, and you’ll have to deal with it.”
Julian draws back just enough to pinch my cheek.
“So vicious, you are,” he says. “All right. It will be done.”
We sit like this for a minute, holding each other, until Julian’s phone alarm goes off and he peels away to disable it.
“We should get back to Onix. It’s past his walk time,” he says. “You took an Uber here, right?”
I am so distracted that it takes me several seconds to realize that, one, Julian remembers that my elderly dog needs regular walks to prevent accidents despite me mentioning it offhand to him once a couple of weeks ago, and two, that he said “we.”
“Are you…trying to come home with me?” I ask, a little bewildered. My apartment hasn’t been visited by a gentleman caller in months, and I nearly go cross-eyed trying to imagine the state it must be in: clothes on the floor, coffee grounds on the counter, Onix’s toys strewn across the carpet.
“Is that okay?” Julian asks, sensing my hesitation. “I don’t have to come up, but I really have missed you.”
He sounds so earnest that I fold immediately.
“Okay,” I say, adjusting my robe. Then, more softly, “Yes. That would be nice.”
“And tomorrow?” he presses on. “You have clinic on Fridays, right? Could I borrow you after that?”
My Yes, why not is on the tip of my tongue before I remember that I will not be in clinic at all, because tomorrow is the first day of SCAI.
“I’m going to be at a conference,” I confess.
We lob back and forth availabilities. Julian is traveling to Austin Monday to meet with some shareholders, and I’m covering service in the intensive care unit for Shiv for a few days when he gets back. Between our schedules, it’ll be over a week before we’ll be able to see each other again.
The thought sends me into a tizzy. The last week without Julian has been dim and painful, and even though I don’t fully understand why, my body recoils at the thought of spending so much time apart again.
I mentally scan through my schedule, then bite my lip when I think of it.
Because there’s one event that I could invite Julian to attend: the SCAI after-party on Saturday night.
I twist my fingers together. It’s a big step. Maybe not to Julian, who brought me to his close friend’s gallery opening for a first date. But it is for me. The idea of fully merging our worlds, of letting Julian be known to mine, terrifies me.
The thought of being without him, though?
“Actually,” I find myself saying, “are you free Saturday night?”