"This sucks,"Cal grumbled as I unpacked the take-out containers. "Really fuckingsucks."
I glanced around the lounge, looking for the source of his annoyance. Not finding one and not capable of thinking beyond basic tasks, I went back to sorting the food. I wasn't sure whether this meal qualified as lunch, dinner, or an early breakfast. The clock was pushing two in the morning, and we'd been in and out of surgeries since the morning.Yesterdaymorning. I was exhausted, certain I was about to waste away from starvation, and in desperate need of ashower.
Oh, and I couldn't forget the part about being a heartbroken wreck. There was no escaping that reality, and I'd tried. I'd spent the weekend picking up shifts in the Emergency Department and assisting on any surgery where an experienced pair of hands had been helpful. The weekend had turned into a new week, and I still hadn't left thehospital.
Why should I? Everything I required was here. An unending supply of clean scrubs. Suitably distracting work. Decent on-call rooms. Interns willing to pick up food at any hour of thenight.
There was one more perk: a complete shortage of men by the name ofWalsh.
I couldn't walk away from my memories of him, but at least the hospital didn't make those memories more vivid. My apartment, on the other hand, was nothing but Riley. If things didn't improve, I was going to have to abandon the place and everythinginit.
"I take it you're not talking about these sandwiches," I said, pushing one in hisdirection.
He rubbed his brows and heaved out a sigh. Earlier in the day, before a string of traumas and critical patient transfers upended our schedules, he'd mentioned problems with his silent pursuit of the woman at the park. The one he adored but hadn't yetapproached.
"She was walking with someone this morning," he said. "Aguy."
"Why is that a problem? They could be friends," I said, gesturing with the aid of a limp french fry. "We're having dinner together but we're nottogether."
"They lookedtogether." He popped the plastic container open and reached for his sandwich. "She touched him a few times, too. A hand on his arm. Bumping her shoulder into his. That kind ofthing."
"Still don't think it means all is lost,"Isaid.
I couldn't decide whether I was instilling hope in Hartshorn because I wanted things to work out with his friend at the park or because I wanted to believeanythingcouldworkout.
I yanked the toothpicks from my turkey club and dove in. This was the perfect meal after nineteen hours of surgery. That extra layer of bread in the middle did it, and the bacon always came to my rescue. Everything worked out when bacon wasinvolved.
"He's totally wrong for her," Cal continued. "And will someone please tell me when grown men started resembling fourteen-year-old boys? With their flippy hair and slim-fitchinos?"
I tipped my head to the side and stared at my sandwich as I considered this. "I've never heard anyone other than my father call them chinos,"Isaid.
Oh, right.My parents were still coming to town this weekend. I'd dodged their calls and replied to their texts with vague promises to see them but the last—the actual last—thing I needed was an evening filled with stories about my amazing twin brother. I doubted the reverse was true for Adam, but my parents only talked about him in mypresence.
His beautiful home, the one he'd built with his bare hands. He'd even pried rocks straight out of the river—or some nonsense like that—for thatfireplace.
His amazing work at the dealership, and the record number of cars sold every single fuckingmonth.
His lovely wife and her lovely book club, her lovely cooking, her lovely knitting, her lovely garden. Even her bleached asshole was lovely. Or so Iassumed.
How they weretryingfor a baby. Trying, trying, trying. All that trying, and all the mess that went with it. Just because I was a doctor didn't mean I wanted to hear about my sister-in-law's cervical mucus or my brother's spermcount.
And if all of that wasn't bad enough, I'd repeatedly promised they'd meet Riley. I'd told them all about my architect boyfriend and our adventures in Boston, and I'd told them how much they'd love him. Just likeIdid.
"You're a real help, Emmerling," he snapped. "Thanks for callingmeold."
"Not suggesting anything of the sort," I replied. "Just saying that most people don't call themchinos."
"She needs a real man. None of those flimsy boys who can't grow a beard without making a Pinterest board first." He grumbled something indecipherable at his sandwich. "Someone who can take her over the knee andteachher—"
"All right," I interrupted. "Let's just simmer down there. I'm not ready to travelthatroad with you, Hartshorn. The 'take her over the knee'road.Okay?"
"Fair enough," he murmured. "But she does need a real man. Iknowit."
"Then you should act like a real man and get your ass back to that park," I said, plucking a flavorless tomato out from under the bread. "And for fuck's sake,talktoher."
Cal nodded, and we ate in silence for several minutes. "If I talk to her, you should talk to Riley," he saideventually.
Motherfuck. He wouldn't leave it alone. I'd dumped the whole sordid story of Riley and his sister-in-law on Cal's lap Sunday night. He'd been surprised by it all, but struggled to see it the same way I did. Something about not understanding why I would've wanted Riley to confess his feelings for Lauren earlier in the game. That I would've used that information to immediately disqualify him and breakthingsoff.
