15. Kristen #2
We eat on the balcony. The sun is going down over the mountains, turning everything gold and amber.
The air is cool enough that I pull my jacket tighter and tuck my feet under me on the chair.
The food is good. Really good. I tell him this, and he says, "I know.
" I roll my eyes, and he almost smiles again.
The conversation starts easy. Work stories, cases, he tells me about the time an intern fainted during a surgery, and he caught the retractor before it hit the patient. I tell him about Walter threatening to sue Miguel with his nephew's mediocre lawyer. He laughs, like I did when Walter said it.
Then it gets personal. He tells me about his grandfather—the man who built this house. A retired general practitioner who lived up here for thirty years, reading, gardening, and not caring one bit about the Maxwell legacy.
"He was the only person in my family who ever told me it was okay to want something that wasn't on the plan," Logan tells me, looking out at the mountains. "Everyone else had my life mapped out before I was born. But he was the one who asked, ‘What do you actually want?’"
"What did you tell him?"
He's quiet for a second. "I told him I wanted to be a pilot."
I look at him with my eyebrows raised. "Really?"
"I was twelve. I was obsessed with planes. I used to watch them from the backyard and think about what it would be like to just go. Anywhere. No plan, no schedule, just up."
"Why didn't you?"
He shrugs. "It was something I was interested in, but even back then, I always knew it wasn't going to happen.
I was going to be a doctor. It was never really a question.
" He turns his glass slowly on the table.
"I don't regret it, though. Maybe in some other life, I could've been a pilot.
But I'm satisfied with where I'm at. If that makes sense. "
I nod. Somehow I understand it, even though I can't fully relate. I never had my life planned for me, I had to fight for every step. But the idea of wanting something you were never allowed to choose, and making peace with it anyway—I think I understand that more than he realizes.
"Well, I think your grandfather would be proud of you.”
"Thanks." He smiles, and my heart does something stupid again.
I tell him about my dad. How he always supported me. How he was a quiet man who never raised his voice, never once, and how when I was studying for exams, he'd leave a cup outside my bedroom door without knocking because he didn't want to interrupt me, but he wanted me to know he was there.
"I still keep the mug in the cabinet," I say. "I can't bring myself to use it, but I can't throw it away either."
"You don't have to throw it away," he counters.
"I know. It just sits there. Every morning I open the cabinet, it's the first thing I see, and I think about him, then I grab a different one and close the cabinet."
"That sounds about right."
We sit quietly for a minute, watching the last traces of sunlight disappear. The sun is almost gone now, leaving only a thin line of gold along the mountain ridge. The view is breathtaking.
Then we start trading memories from med school. The professor who always smelled like cough drops, the time half the class showed up to the wrong lecture hall for a final, the study sessions that turned into arguments that got us kicked out of the library.
"God, do you remember that pharmacology exam?" I ask. "The one where you got the top score because you cheated?"
He looks at me like I just accused him of a crime. "Excuse me. I have never cheated in my life."
"Yes, you did! I got a perfect score, Logan. A perfect score. Every single question right. And you just had to raise your hand and point out to Dr. Bellview that one of her questions was clinically contradictory. Something about the drug interaction not matching the dosage she listed."
"Because it didn't. The question was flawed."
"And she gave you two bonus points for catching it! Two! Which put you above me on a test I answered perfectly."
"And how is that cheating? I corrected an academic error. That's intellectual integrity."
"That's you being a show-off who couldn't stand that I beat you, so you found a loophole."
"Again, wrong term, Portland. It wasn't a loophole. It was attention to detail." He leans back, arms crossed. "Something a surgeon should appreciate."
"Don't lecture me about attention to detail. I got every question right. Every. Single. One. You got one wrong and still ended up on top because you couldn't just let me have it."
"I let you have plenty of things, Portland."
"Name one."
"I'm thinking."
"Exactly."
"You know, Portland, the fact that you're still arguing about this ten years later tells me everything I need to know."
"What does it tell you?"
"That it bothers you. Because you know I won."
"You didn't win. You cheated."
"You sound like you've been rehearsing this argument for a decade."
"Maybe I have." I lean forward. "Because I was better than you in that class and I will go to my grave saying it."
"Then you'll go to your grave wrong."
"You know what your problem is?" I say and stand up from my chair.
"Tell me." He stands too.
"You always have to be right." I take a step toward him.
"Because I am." He steps forward.
"It's insufferable." Another step. We're close now. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to look at him.
"Last time I checked," he says, and his voice is lower now, "you're just like me."
We're inches apart. I can feel the warmth coming off his body, and I can smell him, that clean, subtle scent I've been pretending I don't notice for weeks. Neither of us is backing down. His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to his.
I don't know who moves first, but my hands are on his collar pulling him down, and his hands are on my waist pulling me closer.
His kiss isn't gentle, it's desperate—hungry.
My fingers slide into his hair, and his grip tightens on my waist. We're pressed together, and I can't think, I can't breathe, I don't want to do either.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, his breathing is uneven, and his glasses are crooked. He takes them off and drops them on the table without looking, then his mouth is on mine again.
His hand is on the side of my neck, and I'm gripping the front of his shirt with both fists. I'm kissing him like I've been wanting to do this for a lot longer than I'm willing to admit.
Because I have. And this time, I don't pull away.
This time, I don't want to.