And I meant what I said—nothing is going to happen between us. I’ll have to remind myself that this relationship is fake. That I’m getting nothing more than a little acting practice. Keeping my distance.
A real fiancée would get a lot more of the doctor than I’m going to take.
No matter how badly my body wants me to.
Chapter 11
Russell
After Jules and I got off the phone, I pulled up the email I’d originally prepared when I thought she would say yes to this in my office. It contains a list of the events I’ll need her around for, and details of what the arrangement includes. That I’ll propose to her in front of others, and that, of course, she’ll have to say yes.
First, we need a public date. Helpful for people to see us together, and also a chance for us to talk before the gala, get to know one another. For her to make clear what her other negotiations are.
I pull up outside her building, the engine purring as I slow and slide easily into a street parking spot. Somehow, they always seem to be open for me.
Jules’ apartment building is a classic looking brick cube, the kind of no-nonsense buildings that either survived the 1871 fire or were constructed in light of it. Somethingnotmade out of wood. Something that wouldn’t topple quite so easily under a wall of flames.
The outside is a weathered tannish-red, with a grid of double-hung French windows and a network of fire escapestrickling down the side of the building. I stare up at them and wonder which one might take me to Jules’ window.
Just as I’m climbing out of the car, my phone buzzes with a text.
Jules:Sorry to do this, but I have to cancel.
Jules:Gus is sick (a cold, not his heart. I think).
Jules:We’ll have to rain check, let me check my schedule for next week and get back to you on it. Sorry again. I’m still good for the gala, though.
I stare down at the texts. If this was a different woman, or a different situation, I might assume this was a last-minute decision aboutme, and not wanting to go on the date. But Jules and I are not really dating.
Which means Gus is really sick.
A cold, she said.
His heart condition isn’t life-threatening, at least not now. It’s not an immune thing, so a cold shouldn’t be that big of a deal.
As long as it doesn’t escalate into anything worse.
I stand outside my car, hesitating. When I glance up and down the street, I see both a deli and a drug store, and my decision is made for me. It takes only twenty minutes for me to pick out electrolyte drinks and children’s medicine—that doesn’t conflict with his current prescriptions—at the drug store, and pick up a carton of chicken noodle soup at the deli, along with a few salads and sandwiches for Jules.
As I climb the steps up to her apartment, the deli bag in my arms, my mind bounces between Jules and Gus. The idea of that little boy being sick grates on me, makes me want to do something about it.
Likely because I can see how overwhelmed Jules is. Because I’m a pediatrician, and it’s literally my job to take care of kids.
I have to shift the bags to the side to knock on her door. The apartment number she gave me when I said I would come up to get her, rather than picking her up on the street.
We might be faking this thing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have any manners.
When Jules opens the door, she says, “Seriously, Ettie, I don’t want you to get si?—”
But the words cut off when she sees me standing there. For a moment, we just look at each other. She’s wearing a pair of pajama pants with Oscar the Grouch on them, and a shirt that’s so thin it clings to her chest. Her nipples press joyfully against the words there—Boston University—and I have to tear my eyes away from them, looking back at her face.
Her gaze skips down to the bags in my hands.
“I brought soup,” I say, as evenly as I can, even with how the sight of her like this—soft and undone, how she must look when she’s relaxing at home—is doing to me. “And Motrin. I was hoping I could come in and take a look at him. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”
Jules hesitates, and I add, “On the house, of course,” which makes her laugh and open the door.
“Sorry, it’s a mess in here,” she says, clearing her throat and swiping some mail from the counter. It’s a small apartment, but cozy. The opposite of my place, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and concrete floors. Standing at the front door, I’m bracketed by the kitchen on my left, which has a breakfast bar, and the living room on my right. The living room is a small space, really just a couch, coffee table, and TV all lined up in order. From the front door, I could reach out and touch the back of the couch.
