Chapter 8 #2
“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupted, her hand protectively covering her stomach. “Sorry, Bean,” she whispered to her unborn child, “you didn’t hear that. But my friend here so deserves that scolding.”
A reluctant smile surfaced—proof she hadn’t changed much at all.
“Fine.” The final drop went down in one gulp as my hand shot out to steal hers. “But first—I need something stronger to wake me up.”
She let out a dramatic gasp but didn’t stop me.
“It was a guy I dated briefly,” I admitted, gaze sinking into her paper cup like the answer might be hiding inside. “In Hong Kong.”
“Wait, I think I remember that.”
The automatic door hissed open with a mechanical whoosh.
The sound sliced through the air, startling me slightly.
A dark-skinned man in his fifties strode past without so much as a glance in our direction.
His shoulders were square, his steps brisk—like someone too important to acknowledge the world around him.
Outside, a blue BYD blinked in response to the keys in his hand.
The car’s lights flashed twice, and seconds later, bass-heavy music thundered from within as he drove off, disappearing around the bend.
Our conversation froze in mid-air, suspended between us like something fragile and forbidden. It felt almost… secret. Like we were discussing something that no one else was supposed to overhear.
“How did you find that out?” I studied her face, narrowing my eyes as if the truth were hidden somewhere behind her tired but mischievous smile. “I don’t think I told anyone about that.”
“Oh, you did.” She gave me a knowing tsk, the kind that instantly transported me back to our dorm room days. Then, without warning, she reached into the pocket of her white coat and pulled out a small plastic wrapper.
I knew it immediately—a cereal bar. The same cheap, sugary brand we lived on in medical school whenever deadlines came crashing in.
“No, I didn’t.” The words came out firm, and before any second thoughts could interfere, I snatched the bar from her hand like it was a piece of evidence I needed to destroy.
“Yes, you did,” she replied, lips curling. “But I have a feeling you wouldn’t remember.”
“Why not?” I tore open the wrapper, the plastic crackling in my hand. The bar was exactly the way I remembered—compact, overly shiny, with bits of oat pressed into a perfect rectangular brick. Seeing it alone stirred something almost nostalgic.
“Because you were wasted, June.”
“What?” I froze, mid-bite. “When?”
Sure, I drank sometimes in college—cheap beer, even cheaper wine. It wasn’t like I liked alcohol; I just liked the illusion it gave me, that temporary, fuzzy freedom from pressure, from grades, from trying to be perfect all the time.
Stephanie rolled her eyes so hard the whites nearly took over. “Honestly, I don’t even remember which night. You went to some frat party—one of the big ones, I think. Ring a bell?”
Only someone deranged would remember all their college parties in detail. Even geniuses couldn’t pull that off with enough liquor in their system.
“Never mind.” A faint dismissive sigh escaped her. “It doesn’t matter.”
I hesitated, chewing slowly. Then curiosity got the better of me. “What did you hear about this guy? What did I say?”
She tapped her chin dramatically, pretending to search her memory. “Hmm… you were slurring like crazy. Half of what came out of your mouth made zero sense. But I think—” she snapped her fingers, “you said you were sorry for leaving him.”
“I said that?” My pulse stuttered.
I hated alcohol. I hated how it loosened people’s tongues and made them vulnerable. I hated how it blurred lines and stripped away control. I hated that it had ever affected me.
After everything I’d done for others—for patients, for my family, for strangers—I couldn’t even get a free pass from the universe to enjoy one harmless night out? Was that too much to ask?
“This friend of yours…” she continued, choosing her words with almost surgical care, “good luck with him.”
I met her gaze, unsure how to respond.
“He’ll be fine,” I replied, a strained smile tugging at my mouth. “It’s just… the reading is a little high. Nothing else. Right?”
“I bet.” She raised a playful brow. “Anyway, I need to head back. But if you need help getting him out of here—call me. They can be… persuasive, always pushing patients to stay another night, rack up those premium charges.”
“How do I find you?”
“Here.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
“Sorry,” my hand rubbed the back of my neck. “I left mine at home.”
“In that case,” she sighed, “just call the reception. Ask for Dr. Stephanie Soon’s clinic. They’ll patch you through.”
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.
She lifted a hand in farewell and waddled off toward the doors, her lab coat fluttering behind her like a small cape.
When I returned to the emergency ward, the harsh fluorescent lights felt colder than before. Dannie was awake now, looking pale but alert. The IV bag hanging above him was nearly empty, its clear line trembling with the last few drops of fluid.
“Hey,” I whispered, stepping up to the bed. “Feeling any better?”
“Just a headache.” The words came out rough, but his eyes had cleared.
Pressing my palm to his forehead, he felt cooler. “That’s good,” I murmured. “You’re not burning up anymore.”
He leaned back against the elevated headrest, breathing a little easier. “Are you hungry?” I checked, glancing toward the hallway. “There’s a caféout front. Maybe some pastries?”
He reached out, his fingers closing gently around my wrist before I could move. “Stay. Please. Just stay for a minute.”
Something in his gesture—raw, tired, almost pleading—made me sit down immediately. The plastic chair beside his bed creaked under my weight.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
For a moment, we sat in silence, the rhythmic beeping of the monitor filling the air between us. My gaze flickered to every figure passing the bed—nurses, orderlies, even the catering staff. I was tense, alert, waiting for the next interruption.
“What did the doctor say?” he prompted.
“They’re still waiting for your report,” I explained. “They can’t say for sure what caused your episode until then.”
He sighed, the sound weary but calm. “Okay. I’m sure it’s nothing. I feel fine now.”
“You had an allergic reaction,” I reminded him gently. “Your throat swelled up—you were unconscious. Probably why your head hurts too. They wanted consent to run an allergy panel while you were asleep, but…”
“But?”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“It’s probably the crabs,” Dannie said with a shrug, “and the alcohol.”
His dismissive tone lit a slow, simmering fire in my chest. Heat rose up from my stomach, spreading to my throat like a contained explosion. “What are you saying?” My words came out harsher than I intended. It wasn’t really a question—I wanted an explanation. No, I needed one.
“It happens every time I have seafood. And alcohol. But the two together just make it worse.”
My pulse skipped. “But I’ve seen you drink before!” The words escaped me thin and squeaky. Weak. Helpless.
“Yes,” he said calmly, his mouth barely lifting. “That was different. I was prepared.”
“Prepared how?” My brows knitted together. “And Beng didn’t know you have an allergy?” My mind scrambled to replay fragments of last night—his laughter, the dishes on the table, Beng’s proud, beaming expression. Hadn’t he said Dannie loved crabs? Unless my memory was playing tricks on me.
Dannie’s tone stayed even, unbothered. “No, Beng didn’t know. But it wasn’t his fault. I do love shellfish. I just… forgot to bring my antihistamine.”
A grunt escaped me before I could stop it. Classic. This was exactly the kind of patient that drove my anxiety sky-high—people who treated their bodies like disposable machines. “And the alcohol?” I questioned, each syllable flat with disbelief. “Do you pop antihistamines every time you drink?”
His mouth pushed into a boyish pout. “Just before. It stops me from turning red.”
“Dannie,” I hissed, “that’s insane.”
His expression tightened, meeting my glare with maddening calm. “What other choice do I have? You saw it yourself last night. I lose face if I refuse to drink. And you saw how happy Beng was—to cook, to show off his culinary skills. I didn’t want to disappoint him.”
I stared at him, speechless. He had a way of turning reckless logic into something that almost sounded noble. “Okay, whatever,” I muttered.
We could argue for hours and never get anywhere. I’d learned that long ago—he always had to win. Not because I was wrong, but because his need to be right outweighed everything else.
Still, I understood. In our culture, to refuse food or a drink offered in good faith was an insult.
Losing face was worse than getting sick.
It was twisted, but deeply ingrained—a pride older than reason.
Maybe we were all victims of those beliefs, the ones that defined who we were even when they made no sense.
“Listen,” I said, sighing, “the doctor might want you to stay. For observation.”
“Do I really have to?” he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I suspect it’s nothing,” slipped out of me in a low murmur, then I paused. “Probably a mix of the stomach bug, the allergy… and the stubbornness of an idiot who thinks he’s made of iron.”
He grinned, eyes glinting. “Iron Man,” he said, almost proudly.
“By the way.” I paused, ignoring the little flutter his smile gave me, “do you have insurance?”
He stared back at me. “What?”
“Medical insurance.”
“Those are for pussies,” he said without missing a beat. “I don’t buy insurance.”
A thin, disbelieving exhale slipped from my throat. ”You don’t?”
“Except for my cars,” he replied easily. “Can’t get away without that now. The police have those cameras that detect number plates, fine you on the spot. So, yeah, I pay that one. But I didn’t really bother until recently…”
“I’ve heard enough.” I cut him off, digging my fingers into my temple. “Please, just go back to being sick and quiet.”