Chapter 5
ANCHORING BIAS
Anchoring bias in dating is when you decide an asshole *must* be the one, your UnHinged date *definitely* hasn’t ghosted you, and your fake boyfriend genuinely wants to be your *friend.*
THANATOS
Ibeg, plead, and insist on paying Kane back for the car, but he brushes me off every time, saying it’s just a loan, a beater the family stopped using a long time ago, and I can just return it once I’m done.
So I drive into Rusty under the sleek hood of my designer ‘beater’ with my weathered hospital-issued scrubs, forcing myself to have gratitude for the life I’ve been given.
Even when I approach the midpoint of a 24-hour shift, frizzy hair itches my face, my entire body aches like I fought a war, and my Achilles tendons radiate pain all the way up to my back.
And I’m only halfway done.
When I get my next text, I nearly drop my phone.
Kane
Escape with me
I checked the schedule; your next two cases have been canceled. You have time.
Abandoned staircase, west wing.
I hesitate a moment, wondering whether a student should stray too far from the O.R. when we’re evaluated on our eagerness and availability.
But then again, we committed to fake dating.
And Kane just gifted me a car.
I owe him.
Even if I’m still appalled by how he treated my friends.
I fly down the stairs, deciding I’ll at least get answers. I rush past MoonMonies first to grab him something, then brace myself to enter the vacant, dusty hallway.
The abandoned staircase is in a derelict hospital wing they once planned to expand—that is, before tax cuts bankrupted the economy and pediatrics became a dying field.
Turns out, having half the pediatric population on government-funded healthcare ends in disaster every time the government shuts down. Who knew.
Now it’s just a faded mess of pastels, walls painted with zoo animals that smile at nobody but ghosts, and a miniature, dusty lilac stairwell where Kane waits, arms slouched out, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to rest.
When he hears me, his bleary eyes blink open, and he offers me a foamy green matcha with coconut on top, complete with a vanilla cake pop. “I got your favorite. Heart arrhythmias with a dash of diabetes.”
“Thanks,” I say, checking the floor for any scattering roaches. Hyacinth told me that sometimes the exhaust gas forces them out of their hiding spots, and then you have to skip through them like hopscotch.
“I got you something, too.” I hold out a hideous black coffee. “Exactly how you like. Devoid of fun and calories.”
Something tender flashes across his face, brows raising, so that he looks almost… touched.
His jaw unclenches.
“You shouldn’t waste money on me,” he says, taking it gently, then sinks down like he’s Atlas, balancing the world on his shoulders.
He takes a sip, then angles his gaze up. “You plan on standing?”
I cross my arms, putting distance between us. He’s acting awfully nonchalant for a man who just openly mortified me in public. “Do you ever plan on addressing how you treated my friends?”
And how your sister hates you?
And how you gifted me a car out of nowhere?
What’s wrong with you?
“First off,” he says, crossing one long, lean leg over the other. “You’re welcome for the car.”
I release an exasperated breath. “Kane, I can give it back—”
He waves me off. “Nonsense. I have plenty. Besides, your friends had all night to study.”
He reaches into a wrinkly pocket, grabbing a bite of a protein bar. “If they don’t know basic life support, they’re going to kill someone.”
“Kane, you tried to sabotage them!” I pace back and forth in the cramped space, trying to shake off my growing annoyance.
“They were cheating,” he said guilelessly. “Am I supposed to care that they fell for my trap?”
“Yes!” I tell him, ignoring the dancing elephant grinning at me from the looming wall. “Residents are supposed to help, not haze!”
“I am not hazing,” he argues vehemently. He takes another bite with a flourish. “You don’t even know what hazing is. Everyone here is too nice to you. That’s why you think I’m evil in comparison.”
“How could it get worse than sabotage?”
“Percy, where I trained, if you couldn’t impress the surgeon within the first minute of your sutures, you got kicked out. It didn’t matter who you were. Chief, resident, intern, MS4. Everyone was replaceable if they couldn’t perform.”
“Some of my friends are third years, Kane! They just got here!”
“They’re grown adults, Percy,” he says, swallowing the rest of his food.
“At the more rural hospitals, they’re going to manage patients independently soon.
They should be able to handle pimping in a controlled environment where nobody is in any real danger.
And, mind you, I sent you all exactly what to study the night before. ”
“I was on nights, Kane.”
“You’re unlucky. The rest don’t have that excuse.”
I lean against the wall, frustrated. Why can’t he see how actions have affected me? How can he feel zero remorse?
How could anyone forget how overwhelming it was to be a student so quickly?
The constantly raised expectation of being with a new team every fucking week?
The exhaustion of people pleasing all day long, with nothing but superficial feedback from a team that’s slowed down by your existence?
The draining despair from a double shift where you have to come home to keep working by studying?
“You can’t even try to be nicer?” I demand.
He sips his coffee, tensing his shoulders the same way Jade does when she simmers.
“When’s the last time you smiled, Kane?” I ask.
“When I saw the sunrise,” he grumbles, checking his watch. “Which would be, oh—months ago, back before match day, back when I still had hope.
“I can’t remember a time when I haven’t worked less than 80 plus hours a week. Forgive me for not being a generous spirit when I’m trying to be a surgeon—”
“And when’s the last time you stepped foot into an O.R.?”1
For a minute, I think he’s going to march off and walk away.
His fingers tighten around his cup instead. “I paid an ungodly amount of my meal stipend for that food,” he says, gesturing to my foaming drink. “You’d better eat it, ungrateful fake girlfriend.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say, taking a long, petulant sip.
Both of us eat in angry silence, him sullen, me fuming.
“Why are you standing?” he brings up again. “Don’t you have to be here until tomorrow? Sit down.”
I look down at the dusty floor he’s sitting on. “You’re sitting in C. Dif and MRSA right now.”2
He huffs. “Hate to break it to you, little surgeon, but every single surface in this hospital is contaminated. Even norovirus has been going around—”
“Gross!” I say, hopping away.
He rises, setting his coffee down. “I’ll be back,” he says abruptly, then swings around the corner into God knows where of the abyss.
He returns a minute later with a blanket, laying it down over the stairs. “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”
He stretches it out carefully, unfolding every wrinkled corner, sparing me an expectant look when he’s done.
A sigh escapes my chest, my exasperation ebbing like the flow of a retreating tide. How could this man be such a smartass one minute and a gentleman the next?
“Thank you,” I say warily, taking my seat. I doubt this blanket is any cleaner, but it makes me feel better than just my scrub bottoms on the floor.
He goes back to whatever half-sleep he was in before, sprawling out like a spider.
His hair grazes against the dusty hospital wall, and I recoil.
“Didn’t know you were a neat freak,” he mutters.
“You’re going to need Vancomycin,” I warn.
He grimaces a half-smile and closes his eyes.
I’m a positive person, I remind myself. Sunshine. Kindness. Positivity.
I sure hope that dirt isn’t asbestos…
After a moment of painfully debating whether I can keep fake dating a living fomite, I relent.
“Come here,” I prompt, patting the space beside me.
“I’m not built like a puzzle piece,” he informs me, like I’m blind. “I am not actually napping on the stairwell.”
“Wasn’t a request,” I say, patting harder.
He arches a brow and blinks open one eye.
“Come,” I order him. “I can’t fake date a dirty man.”
“Dirty?” he says in disbelief, moving to sit beside me. After he sits down, I tug at the V of his scrub top.
“What—” he says, off-balance.
“Relax,” I tell him. He’s completely off-kilter and boneless when I touch him, flush erupting over his face. “This is what couples do. Surely you’ve seen a woman’s lap, right?” I tug him closer, guiding him so he can use my legs as a pillow.
The man looks petrified.
“Stretch your legs out,” I command. “Now you can rest.”
He does as I say, cautiously, like he’s some kind of injured animal.
“Why are you acting like a woman’s never touched you before?”
“Calypso rarely ever touched me,” he admits, shifting so his head rests more comfortably in my cross-legged lap.
What does that mean? He dated a woman who wouldn’t touch him? I can’t imagine why anyone would hesitate to run their hands through his inky, floppy hair—
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m smiling down at how awkward he is, teasing my hand through the tufts of his hair.
He stills.
“Sorry,” I say instantly, pulling my hand back. “Does it—”
“Don’t stop,” he says. His eyes flutter closed. “Fake dating suits me,” he declares, letting his muscles soften.
I study him like he’s one of my flashcards, trying to memorize every line and contradiction while we’re both still, and he’s not running away to deal with the next patient.
Amid the flying dust motes, the greenish light illuminates the outline of his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
Hyacinth was right. Men do relax more when they’re being petted.
Kane angles toward me, head tucked slightly in, torso twisted at an angle to cradle around me. His scrubs are crumpled, but his face becomes smooth, angry lines fading away with each passing exhale. With his knees tucked in, toes pointed like a little kid, he looks so… endearing while he dozes.
A stronger woman would keep things respectful, barely grazing his hair.