Eighteen
Oliver
When Sunday arrives, I spend way too much time explaining to Thor that I’ll be back in a couple of hours and telling him to be a good boy.
I talk as I put his leash on, which he has become quite fond of chewing.
I’m sure Elle doesn’t reprimand him when he does it.
I shake my head at the goofball, who has his butt in the air while he bites the leash into submission.
I genuinely don’t think he cares about me leaving him.
I do think he’s definitely done growing. His legs are still stout, but his body is longer, and I can see the muscles of his shoulders becoming more defined. I take a photo and send it to Sophia as a form of peace offering.
When I drop Thor off at Elle’s door, she’s still in her pajamas.
I usually see Elle in her work attire or loungewear, so “sleepy Elle” is a bit of a shock to me, reminding me of the night we first met.
What’s more of a shock is that she’s wearing shorts that can barely be seen under her oversized t-shirt.
A t-shirt that is once again extremely threadbare and white, which leaves little to the imagination.
Today’s shirt reads: I like my books like I like my tacos, just a little bit SPICY.
Her hair is up in a sloppy bun, which might be my second favorite way to see it, aside from it laying long across her shoulders. She looks adorable when it bobs on top of her head as she talks.
I’m dying to ask her about her date with Henry last night, but I have no right to ask that. Although, I am the one who set them up. But maybe it would still come off as creepy? I decide to let myself stew in agony for a little longer, because it seems like the right thing to do.
Oh fuck it, I’ll text Henry when I get on the train.
Elle brightens when she sees Thor, and gets down to his level to greet him.
“Finally! I have you all to myself for a whole day! What do you want to do today, bud?” she says in an animated voice.
She scoops up Thor’s belly and awkward legs and sways him in her arms. “Pack a bag and head to Canada? He would never catch us.”
“I have connections. I would catch you,” I say, folding my arms.
“I’m sure. You have a real mafia look about you,” she agrees.
“A mafia look?”
“Have you looked in a mirror? You look like the young, hotter guy they should have cast as Michael Corleone instead of Al Pacino.”
“And that means I know the mafia?”
“Definitely,” she nods, bouncing Thor like he’s a baby.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet? You’re being weird.”
“No comment,” she mumbles, visibly annoyed that I can make such a deduction about her.
“Alright, God-willing, I’ll be back by five, maybe six o’clock. Lay off the treats and don’t let him bite his leash so much,” I say, a little too commanding. I place a hand on Thor’s head and scratch behind his ears.
“Remember the whole free dog-sitting thing? This is a no-rules zone. Take your treat-limiting talk somewhere else, pal,” she says, taking a step back and closing the door on me.
A second later she opens it again, a remorseful look on her face. “I’m sorry, say a proper goodbye. I was just trying to be dramatic.”
“How unlike you,” I say, giving Thor a pat on the head.
As I get closer to Elle, I’m hit with a wave of vanilla and citrus.
I have to swallow hard before leaning back.
Our eyes lock, but the moment ends quickly when Elle takes a more pronounced step back, adjusts Thor to one hip, reaches her hand out slowly, and whips the door closed. I try to muffle my laughter.
As I stand facing the closed white door, I imagine what it would be like to forgo the trip home, stay here with Elle and watch Netflix all day. Maybe take a walk to the park. Get some take-out. Friends can do that, can’t they?
But instead, I get on the Long Island Railroad—my own personal monorail to hell.
Oliver
How did it go with Elle?
Casual message. Hard to read anything into it. Just a friend checking in with a friend.
Henry
Didn’t work out. She’s super cool tho.
I jerk forward in my seat, the few passengers around me giving me a sideways glance.
Didn’t work out? What does that mean? She thought it didn’t work out? Or him?
I can’t ask any of that. I’m not that needy. I’m just overthinking this whole thing. I’m being obsessive. I have to get Elle and her yoga class and her cute pajamas out of my head. I have to break the cycle of thinking. Because this is the very reason why I’m not the guy for her.
And what better way to get my mind off of it than to spend the day crammed into a small house with my extended family?
It’s my mother’s birthday, so everyone and their second cousin are coming. Literally. My grandparents and two aunts live within a two-block radius of my parents. We have a little monopoly on the zip code, especially given that my two other aunts live next door to my parents. It’s a lot.
And I feel like every time I go away and come back to my family home, they get louder.
Like, much louder.
Come to think of it, maybe this is why I’m so sensitive to the volume of music playing in my headphones or the volume of the TV. I’ve been audio-traumatized by my overly loud family. I can’t be the only one. I should form a support group for this to go with the one for residents.
When I arrive, I take a deep breath and embrace my fate. Two minutes later, I wish I had brought face wash, because I have layers of grandma and auntie lipstick smothered on my cheeks.
“You look tired, Ollie,” my mother says, forgoing any niceties and wrapping her arms around my midsection. She’s the smallest of our family, with coarse black hair that has strands of gray strewn throughout. It’s a wonder that Sophia and I got my dad’s height.
Once I greet everyone and slyly wipe my hands down my face, I take a spot on the most uncomfortable leather couch in the world, next to my dad.
He’s already parked himself in the corner recliner and has the TV remote in hand.
He must be on call today because he has a Diet Coke beside him rather than a beer.
I dread the following conversation before it’s even begun.
“Dr. Cole,” he says. He holds a hand out to me.
“Dr. Cole,” I repeat, indulging him. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him, not that I can recall when that was.
Christmas maybe? His face is more drawn, and there’s more gray than black in his hair.
His hair is gelled back and his thick glasses are high on his nose.
He’s wearing a collared golf shirt and dockers, eerily similar to my own attire.
Is this my future? This—sitting on a recliner waiting to be paged for an emergency? Tired from hours of working, only to be called to work some more? And for what, a good salary? What about everything else?
What about life?
“Have you had lunch with Steve yet?” my father asks, his eyes never leaving the TV.
Who the fuck is Steve?
“No, not yet,” I reply, not bothering to even try and figure out who that is. I’m sure it’s one of the hospital administrators that my father brown-nosed to get me into this position. Of course, I have no proof of that, just a lifetime’s worth of experience with this man.
“You have to make connections, Oliver,” he scolds, gesturing with the remote in his hand. “These first two years are crucial. If you don’t make a mark now, you won’t even be considered for Chief Resident when the time comes.”
Thank God, I think to myself. That sounds more like a prison sentence than an opportunity. But I can’t say that out loud, of course.
“I mean, it’s bad enough you’re in medicine,” he practically spits the last word, like it is poison in his mouth. “But I suppose it’s good you’re in a hospital at all.”
Am I even part of this conversation?
Part of me admires my father for being so passionate about what he does.
Maybe that’s the reason I butt heads with Sophia too, because she is so sure of what she wants in her life.
Me? I was always good at science. Medical school, residency, that was always the plan for me.
There was no Plan B. And I’m not sure that I’ve ever had the same passion for it that Dad does, or that Sophia has for fashion.
Do I really want to tie myself to a career that I don’t love? That I dread going to every day?
As I listen to my father drone on about his connections at Mount Sinai, my thoughts drift to Elle, because I can’t get Henry’s text out of my head.
Part of me is surprised by how easy and effortless the time I spend with Elle has been lately.
Since the pier, I’ve only seen her for a few minutes a day, at Thor pick up and drop off, but those are the times of my day that I look forward to the most. One time there was a giddy smile on her face, and it turned out she met someone on the street with a baby corgi.
That was my favorite day in the past week.
I literally want to track down the corgi owner and pay them to walk past our building at the same time every day.
Most days, I’d rather be home with Elle or out on one of her New York City excursions than at work. All days, actually.
When my colleagues at the hospital talk, they’re eager to get called in to assist in surgery or consult in the ER. I dread it. Part of me envies Elle for her predictable work schedule. What would my life be like if I only had to work five days a week, nine-to-five?
Structured, stable, predictable. Literally the things my brain craves.
Most aspiring medical students would give anything for what I have right now. I feel like an ass for even suggesting that I take it for granted. I worked hard to get here. But it still feels unearned. And that is a feeling I’m worried I’ll never be able to shake.