2. Jo
Chapter 2
Jo
First Year of Medical School
12 Years Ago, September
“ S o how long before we’re completely dead inside?” I ask Isaac, who has spent the last twenty minutes staring at the blinking cursor on his word processing software rather than furiously scribbling every single word that came out of our professor’s mouth. We made it through our first class of the semester. It takes him a second to register that I’ve said anything.
“Huh?” He blinks before shoving his hands under the desk and rubbing his palms on his thighs. “Oh, I mean, probably like a week tops.” His nervous exterior melts a little when his eyes finally meet mine.
“Isaac…” I pause, hoping he’ll fill in the remainder of his name without me having to ask, but he just nods.
“Yeah, Isaac.” The room around us begins to move as students pack their belongings and head towards the door. Man of so many words, he is.
“Carmen,” a voice from Isaac’s left catches my attention. “I’m a B, so assuming we are indeed in alphabetical order, I’d guess he is as well.” She extends her right arm in front of Isaac to shake my hand. I might need to start a notebook of names today. “Carmen Barerro-Smith.”
“Jocelyn Carello.” I extend and take her hand, giving it a gentle shake. Her grip makes my eyes water. “But everyone calls me Jo.”
“Is that hyphenated?” Isaac asks, interrupting our introduction. “Or like Barerrosmith—one word?”
Carmen and I exchange a puzzled glance and Isaac clears his throat, pushing his laptop closed a little more forcefully than necessary.
“Whichever makes you happy.” She leans forward, her elbows planted firmly on the desk in front of her. “I didn’t think it was fair that I had to take my narcissistic father’s name but didn’t get my mom’s.” She pauses and shrugs. “So I took both.”
My closed fist finds the desk with a thud. “Hell yeah,” I laugh, feeling immediately at ease.
“Britlyn.” Isaac satisfies my unanswered question from moments before, finally meeting my gaze. “Sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”
Carmen leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. Sprawling black ink tattoos cover her left arm. “I think we’re all a little overwhelmed right now,” she adds, prompting Isaac’s shoulders to drop in a brief moment of relief. The majority of the classroom has emptied, leaving just our trio and a few stragglers hastening to gather their things. “But just so you know, I hate making friends, so you’re both stuck with me now.”
Dad’s words ring out in my skull. You don’t have to be best friends with everyone, but you have to try to find your crew. Damn that man for always being right. I glance down at my watch, which reads 11:23 a.m. We have over an hour before our next class. “Would you guys wanna grab lunch?”
Carmen stands, slinging a black bag over her shoulder. “I think we can arrange that another day, kid. I have a lady friend awaiting my arrival.” She winks, pushing her chair under the desk and jogging down the tiered steps and out the door.
And then there were two.
“I skipped breakfast this morning.” Isaac runs his fingers through the top of his thick blonde hair. “I should eat.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes to my invitation,” I snort, shoving my notebook and pen into the front pocket of my backpack. He stands and I follow, waiting for my second answer of the morning.
“Have you been to Golden Hour?” Isaac shoves his laptop into the padded pocket of his book bag, zipping it nearly all the way closed before pushing his arms through the straps one side at a time.
He’s tall and thin.
But not overwhelmingly tall or exceedingly thin.
Just right.
I mean, proportional. He’s proportional.
The body of someone who played basketball in high school, but only because someone told him it would look good on his college applications.
“I really haven’t explored Campustown at all if I’m being honest.” I lift my crossbody bag over my head and drop it onto my shoulder. Without a word, Isaac starts down the stairs.
So I follow.
Out of the classroom, down the hall, and through the ornate wooden doors right onto the main quad. The warm September air meets my face, and I hope the color that the classroom air conditioner inevitably stole from my cheeks will return.
“So you’re not from around here then?” Isaac asks, shifting the straps of his backpack. I have to double my speed to keep up with what is likely his slowest walking pace.
“Chicago,” I answer. “But I think my family is moving closer to campus soon.” Maybe if I continue to say it out loud, it will eventually come true.
A hoard of students approaches from the opposite direction, forcing me to drop back a few paces as they pass. Isaac glances back, pausing momentarily to allow me to regain my footing next to him on the sidewalk.
He really is a man of few words, but he’s not giving off serial killer vibes, so it could definitely be worse.
“I assume that means you are from around here?”
He nods, wordlessly changing our direction from the edge of the quad to the bustling chaos of Main Street. The small undergraduate school I attended couldn’t hold a candle to the buzz of Campustown. Pedestrians dodge cars like Frogger; bikers swerve in and out of lanes and onto the sidewalk with no particular regard for their comrades on foot. This is a liability.
It’s only a few more long paces before Isaac stops abruptly and wraps his fingers around a long, wooden door handle.
“After you,” he says, leaving just enough space for me to squeeze through the opening. I blink rapidly, forcing my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit space.
“Take a seat anywhere that’s open,” a voice greets us, my vision clearing enough to reveal a young woman wearing an apron. “You just beat the rush,” she adds, grabbing two bundles of silverware and menus. She follows us to a booth tucked in a quiet corner of the bar. Isaac takes the far seat as I slip my bag off my shoulder, setting it gently on the cushion beside me before sliding into the booth. “Can I get you two drinks to start?”
Isaac ponders a second, studying the menu that the waitress placed in front of him. The lines on his forehead make it seem as though he’s making a life-altering decision. “Cream soda, please.”
My eyebrows shoot up as the waitress turns her attention to me. “And you, my dear?” Her pen glides effortlessly across the notepad in her hand without her even pausing to look at what she’s writing. I grab the second menu, turning it over in my hand even though I’ve already made my decision.
“Cream soda sounds delish.”
I glance from our waitress to Isaac, who still has his nose tucked tightly in the menu. Even so, the presence of a smirk on his face is undeniable.
He sets the menu back down on the table, tapping his index finger rhythmically on the plastic. When he finally looks up at me, the smirk has faded into a soft, contemplative smile. “Why med school?” he asks.
Before I can respond, the jukebox in the opposite corner springs to life.
“The Eagles. Classic,” I respond instead of answering his question.
The smirk is back, accentuated by crinkles at the corners of his bright green eyes.
“My dad, brothers, and I had tickets to see them in concert last year, but we didn’t end up getting to go.” Sadness flickers briefly through his eyes before the waitress returns with two icy mugs of cream soda, straight from the tap.
“Are we ready to order some food?” Isaac and I nod in unison. I speak first, ordering the chicken salad sandwich. He opts for the club.
“And an extra pickle, please,” he adds.
“Wait, me too!” I call after the waitress as she turns to walk away.
Our laughter settles, and I can’t seem to find the words to continue this conversation with a man I know nothing about. Communication has never been my strong suit. The prior man of few words must sense the shift in my body language because he fills the silence with small talk.
“She’s a city girl stuck in the middle of Illinois.” He reverts his attention back to me after the waitress drops off our well-earned meals. I snort.
“Just because I’m from Chicago doesn’t mean I’m a city girl .” Though close proximity to a Target is one of my requirements for apartment locations, he doesn’t need to know that. “And let’s be real. I’m a suburban woman.” I emphasize the last word while brushing hair off my forehead.
This time, he runs his palm across his face, dragging the skin around his eyes down with pressure from his fingertips. He lets out a deep, boisterous laugh that penetrates to my core. This is the most emotion I’ve seen from him all day, and I really, really like being the reason he’s laughing. “I stand corrected, suburban woman.” Isaac throws his hands up in surrender.
Wow, that laugh. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, clearly visible over the top seam of his t-shirt. Ahem, excuse me…his laryngeal prominence. I’m a suburban medical school woman now.
“Well, maybe I can show you around town.” He clears his throat, staring down at his plate. A barely visible pink tints the tips of his ears where they peek through his dirty blonde hair.
Make one friend today: goal completed.
He shifts in his seat, finally looking up at me. There’s a mischievous glint of possibility in his eyes. “I think that would be really nice,” I add as he picks up his club sandwich to take a bite.
Something about this man settles the buzz in my brain. The worry that has made a cozy home behind my eyes dissipates as we fall into casual conversation about our families and love of classic rock music.
“So you never answered my question earlier,” Isaac says between bites of his second pickle. “Why med school?”
I shrug, picking at the last few French fries I couldn’t make room for in my stomach. “I wanted to be a teacher like my mom, but she refused.” I pick up my mug and gulp the remainder of the now watered-down liquid. “She wanted more for me .” I accentuate the words with air quotations.
He nods, pushing his plate towards the edge of the table.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text message.
“Shit,” I whisper, glancing at the screen.
Can’t even find a minute to respond?
I can hear his tone through the message. A second comes through almost immediately.
I assume you’ll be “too tired” to cook tonight, so I’ll grab something.
“Sorry.” I lift my phone momentarily towards Isaac and then begin tapping out a message with my thumbs. He shakes his head, dismissing my apology. The waitress returns, collects our plates, and drops the check on the table. Before I can stop him, Isaac hands over a $50 bill and tells the waitress to keep the change.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I protest, dropping my phone into the side pocket of my book bag.
He shrugs again, moving to stand. “You’ll get me another time.”
I nod, a wide smile breaking free and spreading across my face at the prospect of more time with him. “I promise.”