Chapter Twenty Vanya
Like Toronto’s public railway system, Chicago’s subway seems well prepared for winter weather. There was a delay at the station, but the overhang shielded us from the worst of the elements.
When we get off at the Belmont station and follow the directions, we find ourselves in front of what can only be described as a relic. Former grandeur clings to the silhouette of a tall turret. The traces of an intricate trim on the porch woodwork are almost charming. However, the peeling paint and unstable floor of the porch, as well as wood hanging and swaying in the wind like skeletal fingers, tell a different story of the old Victorian home.
“The porch looks unsteady.” I state the obvious. I’m actually a little worried about falling through the porch or impaling ourselves with jutting wood.
“As appealing as that front door looks, we’re heading downward.” Jeremy points to cement stairs that lead to a lower entrance. “After you, milady.”
“How chivalrous of you to hide behind me while I face the unknown.”
“Ah, see that’s where you’re wrong, doc. I’ve got your back,” he says lightly, but I don’t miss how he’s cocooned me within his personal space. Without touching me, Jeremy surrounds me from the back and sides.
I open the door with a key we retrieved from the lockbox. A tiny table greets us. To the right is a kitchenette. The space isn’t fancy, but the heat is on and the ground is dry.
“This is cozy,” Jeremy says, a tad sarcastically.
“Thank goodness we grabbed something ,” I state with relief, placing my purse on the table and shrugging off my coat and blazer.
“Um, Vanya, didn’t it say two bedrooms?”
Remembering the description, I confirm, “Yes, it did.”
I stand beside him to peek into a room that you would imagine a teenager living in the basement would decorate. A too-small area rug with clashing geometric shapes barely covers the cold concrete floor. In the far corner, a queen bed sits pushed against the wall, the plaid bedspread thrown over it in a haphazard attempt at neatness. Underneath, a mess of mismatched sheets and flattened pillows peeks out. A desk is cluttered with tangled cords and a plastic organizer overflowing with random papers and a single sock. On turned over milk crates sits a television.
The worst part? It’s the only room.
“I’m calling the owner now,” Jeremy announces, angrily punching his phone to open the app. Because his face is lit up by the screen, I see his distressed wince. “Two rooms. Not two bedrooms. Shit.”
“As in a kitchen and a room,” I state in disbelief. We had both misread the description.
Two rooms and one bed.
“It’s fine, Jeremy. We’re only here till the morning,” I rush to say because there is no other option available. If the universe is conspiring to put this goaltender and I in precarious situations involving basements and tight spaces, so be it. It doesn’t have to result in any indiscretion, right?
Suuuure.
“I can sleep on the floor if that makes you more comfortable.”
He’s studying my features to assess how upset I am. That bit of consideration lowers my guard.
“We flew out here to diagnose your hip, not to make it worse by lying on a concrete floor.”
“Obviously, I’d take the blankets and leave you to freeze,” he quips.
“We can share the bed and the blankets,” I state casually, pushing past him to check the bathroom which is sparce but clean enough. Resigned, I grab my bag. “I’m dying for a shower. Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?”
“No problem. I’ll be checking out this state-of-the-art entertainment center.” His voice drips with scorn and resignation.
Locking myself in the bathroom, I take an inordinate amount of time to shower. Processing the last eight hours calls for this bit of privacy because, wow, that was an eventful day.
Dr. Leroi’s clinic featured some of the most advanced biomechanical assessments that I’ve seen up close. I would love to pair that technology with rehabilitation protocols specific to EDS. Recalling Jeremy on the treadmill, it strikes me that the potential for hip dysplasia would be disastrous for his career. But I keep it to myself. We’re gathering detailed evidence and important data to customize our approach to his pain management. No need to get ahead of myself.
“Yes!” I hear from beyond the door. “Fuck, yeah!” The outburst sounds so victorious, I have to smile. Curious about what made him cheer, I rush to slip back into my dress pants and button-down shirt.
“Did you find a second bedroom after all?” I ask jokingly after opening the door.
“Better.”
“The porn channel on this fine entertainment center?” The words come out before I can censor myself. I just spent days with Ashley, and that’s exactly the kind of crass joke she’d make.
His mouth gapes open and eyes darken. “Dr. Kapur, that is an exceptionally inappropriate suggestion.”
“It was a guess, not a suggestion,” I say nonchalantly, ignoring the heat on my cheeks.
“If I knew it was an option, I’d have checked.” His lowered voice matches a sly grin.
My skin prickles with awareness but I quell my reaction. “It’s not an option. Are you going to tell me what you’re so happy about?”
“PBS is showing a best-of-Broadway concert. It’s for one of those fundraising marathons.”
“Scoot over!” I practically lunge at the bed, settling in so I can lean on the headboard. The television shows two hosts gesturing at the staffed podium behind them. This must be the break in the concert when they flash telephone numbers and offer tote bags.
“What did I miss?”
“Lea Salonga’s Les Mis .”
“Oh, man. She’s my favorite Eponine.”
“Me too. The first time I heard her sing ‘On My Own,’ I cried like a baby,” he admits.
Surprised to hear a man express the same vulnerable experience I’ve had, I raise a brow.
“What? I’m only human,” he states with a shrug, leaning back on the headboard beside me.
The concert resumes. We’re treated to hit after hit of pure emotional gush. Like me, Jeremy is riveted. We sing-hum to “The Phantom of the Opera . ” Both of us lean back with satisfied sighs. When “Memory” hits its peak, I squeeze a pillow with glee. I realize all these overwrought sentiments are probably embarrassingly cringy to most people, but I don’t care. No one can stop me from enjoying this unexpected treat after a long day.
The PBS hosts return for more tote bags and CDs to entice the viewers into automatic membership renewals. Jeremy’s shoulder brushes mine, but there’s none of the usual tension. We’re two people appreciating a spectacular show with some of the most gifted singers of a generation.
“Rose mentioned that you’ve been going to Musical Mondays since you were a kid.”
“Yup. Unless there was a hockey game on Mondays, my mom would bring me.”
“That is so sweet,” I say. “Since you’ve been exposed to theater all your life, were you a drama club kid as well as a hockey player?”
“I was in Mamma Mia at my community center one summer. I must have been seventeen? It was fun.”
“You can sing?” How has this never occurred to me? I might not be able to carry a tune to save my life, but lots of people emulate the artists they watch. “Sing something!”
“Nope,” he says before jumping off the bed. “I’m gonna scrounge the pantry for snacks.”
“Aw, c’mon. No need to run off,” I call out.
“I’m not running off, I’m looking for popcorn.”
The opening and closing of the microwave door confirms that Jeremy is successful in his mission of pantry scrounging.
“It’s back for the finale!” I call out.
Jeremy rushes over with a bowl of popcorn, barely looking at me as he parks the snack between us. When the show finishes, neither of us turn it off because we’re watching the performers mingle on the stage as the credits roll.
If you told me this morning that I would be in a bed with Jeremy Lopez, stuffing my face with popcorn and relaxed as can be, I would have considered you delusional. But here we are, enduring a Chicago blizzard, canceled flights, and hotel shortage like two peas in a pod.
I’m immensely grateful we can be together without getting awkward. It’s unexpectedly wonderful to be with a man not as his doctor and not as his date. My past attempts at pursuing a relationship never stood up to the demands of studying and working. Add to that my inept social skills, it’s a miracle I have any friends at all. But right now, Jeremy feels like a casual companion who happens to enjoy the same things I do. There’s no pressure or expectation to do anything except watch television and keep my popcorn debris off the bed.
The PBS fundraising program is followed by “Moonflower Murders” on Masterpiece . We let it play on instead of scrolling around for something more interesting. The droning British accent and slow pace reminds me that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Ashley’s visit. I slide down my side of the bed and mumble goodnight to Jeremy’s back as he heads to the bathroom. I’m asleep within minutes.