Chapter Four Julian
CHAPTER FOUR
JULIAN
I glide into a spot in front of the clinic, parking my new Volvo hybrid behind an ancient Subaru, its bumper covered in stickers so faded, the words flicker in and out like ghosts.
The few still legible include a witchy Coexist; two flying cartoon guys proclaiming Flight of the Conchords; and a big, fat marijuana leaf that says I New Jersey, the only one that looks new.
Nomi.
My heart thrums in a wild, tachycardiac stress response to those old bumper stickers, their exact placement burned into my memory alongside every other detail about Nomi I hoarded our senior year.
I got my first glimpse of the new girl when she showed up to the inaugural varsity debate team practice.
Dressed all in black, her long, dark waves dyed the color of a moonlit night, she looked so—so intimidating—but when our eyes met, my mouth hanging slightly open, she smiled, soft and seeking.
And I stupidly told her she was in the wrong place.
She had to be, I thought. Because someone that beautiful and interesting and completely fucking cool could not also be a varsity debate nerd like me.
We weren’t the same species of human. She was the one wearing calf-high lace-up boots, and I was the servant ready to lick them.
That soft smile transformed into a scowl as she entered the room anyway and took her seat opposite me, but it returned when our coach enthusiastically welcomed her, already aware of her total domination in the southeast debate circuit and her strong performance nationally.
By the end of practice, I was in total awe of her, and she hated me like everybody else did.
But it didn’t matter to my heart. Nomi Wyeth was an argument I couldn’t win and a fight I was desperate to have.
We battled every day after that—across the podium, over valedictorian, and later, when the arguing turned to frantic kisses in dark classrooms after practice, that felt like a battle, too.
And now fifteen years later, I’m back, and here we are, battling again, and I’m losing, again. All it would take is one call from Nomi, and all hope of returning to Philly Gen would be vanquished for good. I have to apologize, and I have to get it right.
But she’s here, now? I’m not ready—I haven’t perfected the speech I spent the weekend rewriting. I hit Eric’s number, cursing when it goes straight to voicemail.
“Eric—just texted you my revised apology speech. Could you please review? Nomi’s here, and—”
A beeping sound interrupts me from my car’s speakers, and my mother’s name appears on the center console. “Accept call from Mom?” the robot voice asks.
I hastily disconnect the call to answer the other, my heart now pounding in my chest. Maybe it’s the way we lost Dad, or all the years I’ve spent in Emergency Medicine, but every time Mom calls, my sympathetic nervous system goes into full fight-or-flight mode, always expecting the worst. Mom knows this and usually texts before calling to say: I’m fine, everything’s fine, gonna call you now, okay sweetie? Love you.
But she didn’t text this time. The muscles in my throat constrict.
“Everything okay, Mom?” I half-bellow into the speakerphone. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, sorry to scare you, sweetie, my texts aren’t working. I’m spending the night at your Great Aunt Edna’s house because she’s not feeling well.”
I exhale shakily. “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”
“Also, Aunt Edna wants you to visit—you haven’t been by yet. Fix that soon, okay, Julie? Now get to work, can’t be late for Dr. Appa. Love you, bye.” Mom hangs up, no response from me required.
I press my hand to my chest, willing the anxiety to recede into its cave until it emerges again and terrorizes me another day.
There is no emergency, everyone you love is okay. I breathe in and out, repeating the mantra in my head, eyes closed as I grip the steering wheel. I almost believe it.
The sound of nails rapping against the window tears me from my breathing exercise.
Fucking hell. My cousin Veronica’s grinning on the other side of the glass, her eyes narrowed in fiendish glee. “Julian! We were just talking about you!”
Then I see her, standing in front of the old Strange Drugs Pharmacy.
Nomi’s bright-eyed and grinning, but not at me.
She’s staring down at a stack of papers in her hands.
She looks up at Veronica’s words, and my rapid pulse flounders, then slows in despair as her joyous expression vanishes upon seeing me, a reaction as familiar as the bumper stickers.
I launch out of the car.
“Veronica.” The car door shuts behind me like a terse punctuation mark. I want to walk briskly past them, disappear into the clinic’s comforting fluorescent lights, and lose myself in the medical service of others, the only time I ever feel worthy.
But dammit, I have orders, and running away isn’t an option. My jaw clenches, as if trying to prevent the word, but I force it open. “Wyeth.”
Well. That’s a start.
She rolls her eyes.
“You two are neighbors now! Nomi just leased Strange Drugs, but I assured her you won’t be around for long. Your probation from Philly Gen’s—what? Six months?” Veronica smiles as if airing my dirty laundry is the best part of her day.
“It’s not probation; it’s an intensive residency.
” My gaze flicks back reluctantly to Veronica as I grind out the carefully negotiated language Philly Gen’s legal counsel prepared to save face in the event the hospital wants to reinstate me.
I glance at Nomi. “You leased the old pharmacy?” The surprise is evident in my voice. “Why?”
Nomi clears her throat and, rather than answer me, turns to Veronica. “I’ve got to go, but when can I take possession?”
Veronica hands her a small ring of keys. “Technically the lease doesn’t begin until July first, but since no one’s using the space, they’ve agreed to let you move in early. But no business until after the city council meeting, okay?”
And it’s back—that joyous look from earlier. It makes my heart sing, though I did nothing to earn it and have no right to savor it.
“Oh my God, Veronica, you’re amazing!” Nomi grabs my evilest cousin and hugs her like she isn’t a cobra wearing a human skin suit. “Thank you!”
Veronica smiles at her, actually smiles, and it doesn’t feel nefarious at all.
So, it’s just me that everyone hates. Got it.
Nomi’s eyes flick to me then away just as fast as she hurries toward her car.
It’s probably twenty years old at this point, easy.
How does she pass inspection? Is it safe for her to drive?
The image of a badly burned woman pulled from the wreckage of her car coding beneath my hands last year rattles my brain like a thunderclap, momentarily robbing me of my breath.
I forcibly shove the awful memory away when I realize my window of opportunity is about to pass me by.
“Wyeth—wait,” I call to her back, which stiffens as she stops with her key in the door. She doesn’t have automatic locks? That’s definitely not safe in today’s dark parking garages. My brain’s already shuffling through former patients, looking for comparators, but her clipped voice cuts it off.
“What, Julian?” She may be annoyed, but I can’t help relishing the way her lips still wrap around my name. The slight lilt of her southern accent, all that’s left after fifteen years in New Jersey, curls around the vowels like vines on a gate. It used to drive me wild.
“I need to talk to you.”
Veronica lifts one full eyebrow in my direction.
“About your—health.”
Nomi’s chin drops as she regards me with open disbelief. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” I snap reflexively, that old knee-jerk desire to argue with her rearing up. I try again. “Please?”
Her sigh is audible from seven feet away, but she re-locks her car and joins me on the curb. Now both of Veronica’s eyebrows are arched high, and she huffs out a laugh. “Okay, you two. Have fun with that.”
I clear my throat, then turn on my heel, hoping Nomi will follow but simultaneously terrified she won’t until I hear the soft thuds of her boots behind me.
I don’t face her until we’re standing in the office I share with Dr. Srinivasan and I’ve shut the door behind us.
I considered a patient room at first, but I can’t handle seeing Nomi Wyeth sprawled on a hospital bed ever again.
Plus, this setting feels right for an apology, though now that we’re both in here, the room feels too small, which is ridiculous.
She’s the size of a fairy. I flee to the other side of the desk and sit, cursing when the chair still positioned to Dr. Srinivasan’s short height puts my knees nearly level with the desk.
Nomi watches as I grope for the adjustment lever, then plummet to where I’m a foot off the floor.
Is there anything more awkward than adjusting an office chair in front of an audience?
Finally, I get it to a comfortable height, which involves a weird squatting maneuver over the chair that I’ll ruminate on for months.
I wipe my damp forehead as her pouty mouth quirks upward.
She’s still dressed in black, but instead of a ripped-up band T-shirt like high school, this one’s form-fitting and simple, with short, capped sleeves that highlight the smooth lines of her arms, contrasting against the pale skin there.
The same pale skin as her inner thighs, which I now inconveniently know.
Also, this time she’s wearing pants, so that’s disappointing.
“Well? You wanted to discuss my health?”
My eyes dart back to her face, and I’ve stupidly forgotten why I summoned her back here. To apologize, Eric’s voice says in my head, and ask her out.