Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Jeff
Sydney is so angry at me that she’s barely touched the sourdough grilled cheese hiding in the basket of fries before her.
“How can two highly educated adults be so stupid? Masters plus doctorate equals pair of dumdums.”
I let her rant and take a sip of my water as she twists at her eyebrow ring. Her hair is a new shade of red, a deep rich crimson that makes everyone passing our table glance her way. She never glances back.
“I don’t know, Syd. People get hurt and then they shut down. Defense mechanisms and all that.”
I reach for a fry in her basket and she smacks my hand away.
“You need to text her again. This is the last time you’ll be in Philly and she needs to get her ass in here and say goodbye,” she rants. “And she’s been ghosting me all week. Tell her that she doesn’t get to break up with me, too.”
I shrug and she sighs, lifts her sandwich to her mouth, and takes a huge bite. A line of cheese drips down her chin and she swipes it away with her napkin, then continues to glare at me.
“We had our goodbye and I can’t text her again.
Once was already an infraction to her no contact rule.
And I’m sure she’ll text you as soon as she can.
We aren’t having a custody battle over you,” I say, attempting a small smile.
It hurts my mouth, so I stop. It’s like Devon took that with her, too.
My apartment on Washington Square is entirely cleared out.
My patients are divvied up and under the care of capable interns and residents.
Syd and I made our rounds at the children’s hospital ED ward—sans Devon of course.
Mer and Kev agreed not to mention her again when I threatened to leave Traversa today.
They have booked flights out to visit in June and we’ve said our goodbye-for-nows.
All the loose ends are tied and knotted. It’s like I was never even here.
The drive back to Chicago is going to be a bitch—alone with my thoughts of her. I downloaded all of the lectures in the Dr. Basantis series Devon had me listening to. That should help me keep my mind off of her.
“Why do you look like I just punched you in the gut?” she asks. Another line of cheese stretches from the sandwich to her mouth.
“I think that might just be my face now.”
She karate chops the cheese with her knife and shakes her head.
“I just don’t get it. If you love each other why the hell aren’t you over there—”
“Beneath her window with a boombox?” I interrupt.
She lifts her nose.
“What the fuck is a boombox?”
Apparently it’s embarrassing to be born in the nineties. I’ve seen Sammy give me this exact face before. She slurps at her soda.
“You know, I really hope you don’t curse like this at your interview next month,” I say, reaching for the ketchup bottle.
She narrows her eyes at me.
“What interview?”
I shrug, untwist the ketchup bottle.
“I spoke to some friends at the Pediatric Center at Northwestern—”
She’s around the table so fast I barely have time to release the Heinz. Her arms wrap around me and I wait until she’s done squeezing me before I reach into my pocket and hand her the plane ticket. I wish Devon were here for this.
She looks down at it, the tiny diamond in her left brow reflects off the tears that fill her eyes.
“I’ll never get into Northwestern,” she whispers, still staring at the dark block lettering on the ticket.
I’ve seen Devon manage Syd’s self-doubts a thousand times. Always the same dialogue, like they’re reading from a script they wrote together. I find the words. Channel my inner-Devon.
“Who was that?” I ask.
She meets my gaze. Lifts a brow. Then finally gives into her role.
“Self-doubt,” she tells me.
She knows this routine. And though she rolls her eyes every time, she always smiles at the end.
“What do we do with self-doubt?” I picture Devon lifting her hand into Syd’s face, getting ready to tick off the answers.
“Acknowledge, accept, and restructure,” Syd answers in an overly chipper tone.
I forget the next part, because I’m always too focused on Devon’s smiling face.
Syd elbows me and says, “Now you tell me to ‘prove it’ in an obnoxious frat boy voice.”
“Prove it,” I say too loudly. Someone in the booth next to us clears their throat.
And there’s that smile. I see a waiter nearly drop his tray while he stares at it in my periphery.
Syd doesn’t see it—doesn’t know she stops people in their tracks with that dazzler.
She’s focused on her part of Devon’s script.
“Hey, self-doubt. You’re ok sometimes. But right now, you aren’t as loud as my purpose. I will help kids. I will become a pediatric psychiatrist.”
She looks right into my eyes as she says it. And I know she’s right. There’s no stopping her. Silence passes between us and Syd slides the plane ticket off the table and chews on her lip.
“I know she loves you,” she tells me.
I nod. I know it, too.
“And you love her,” she says.
I nod again. Open my mouth to speak and close it again, unsure if what I’m about to say might ruin this young girl—no young woman—for life. But she needs to know.
I swallow and tell her the truth.
“Sometimes that’s not enough.”
Syd tilts her head and makes the sound my mom makes sometimes with her teeth.
She looks me over like I’ve just told her the wrong answer to the easiest question in the world.
Then she pats my shoulder twice and goes back to her side of the table where she polishes off her sandwich, leaving me to wonder who just schooled who.