Dinner was good.Great, really. The food was amazing, the wine never stopped flowing, and the conversation elevated me—slightly—out of the Chapelton-criticizes-everything-I-dofunk.
But I couldn't tell you what was on my plate or in my glass, and I couldn't be sure what we talked about because that Riley had to sit across the table from me in the tightest-fitting t-shirt on the planet. The University of Texas-Austin's logo was stretched to the point that it resembled a squiggly line rather than theLonghorn.
His arms were testing the limits of the shirt's seams. They looked uncomfortably constricted with the way his muscles popped every time he reached for his beer bottle or built another taco. It was troubling.Medically, of course. The sleeves of that t-shirt were putting a lot of pressure on his brachialarteries.
But I was thankful he was sitting. I didn't need another look at his abs courtesy of the belly-baring shirt. I couldn't decide whether Nick was just that small or Riley was just that big. Not that it mattered. It didn't. Even though I was pretty sure it was thelatter.
Yeah, no. I didn't need to spend another second contemplating his precise degree of physical perfection. That wouldn't feed thebulldog.
"Like I said," he continued. "She's anoutdoorcat."
A player. Total player. Completely misogynistic. Iknewit.
"Do you talk about all women as if they're animals?" Iasked.
Erin gestured toward me with her wine glass. "While I'd tend to agree with you," she started, "it's apropos in this case. He's magnificent like that"—now pointing her glass at Riley—"with the nicknames. It's one of his many strange gifts andtalents."
He had the decency to offer a small smile and glance away. Like he wasn't used to a pig pile ofpraise.
"You know," Nick called from the kitchen, where he was collecting another round of beers for him and the model of masculine perfection. "You two have a lot of the same problems. You could help eachotherout."
"Wait. What?" I said, and at the same time, Riley said, "No. I don't thinkso,dude."
Then we shared ayou could do a lot worse than helping meoutlook.
"You"—Nick dropped a beer bottle in front of Riley—"just spent the past forty minutes complaining about RISD Weekend and all of the issues with being near the outdoor cat, as you put it." He dropped into his seat and pointed at me. "You've been complaining for weeks about the Chief's cocktail party and how you'll be bribing residents to get an ER shift that night." He waved toward us both and then brought his hands together. "You could help eachotherout."
Riley picked up his beer bottle and studied the label, but didn'trespond.
Nick was right about me doing anything to avoid this cocktail party. It was an annual event for attending surgeons, and it was only a few weeks away now. It would've been fine if I hadn't been the problem child of the hospital's faculty for no reason other than my poor choice of bedfellows. That, and the Chief's parties were aggressively coupled. It was the land of significant others, as if completing residency came with a signing bonus, relocation package,andlife partner. Anyone who rode solo was damned to Mrs. Chapelton's relationship interrogation and matchmakingservices.
"What is it you're suggesting?" I demanded. "We can't really plan for his appendix to rupture thatnight."
"Let me spell it out." Nick reached for the bowls of cheese and tomatoes, and positioned them like toy soldiers. "Alex, no one is going to talk about whether you're hooking up with an intern if you take Riley to the Chief's cocktail party. That shit will end," he said. "And Riley, you can take Alex to RISD Weekend. She might not be Magnolia, but she can throw down just as good." Nick waved between us again, as if he could whip some logic from the evening air. "Both of you are putting a lot of effort into being miserable. Be miserabletogether."
Riley went on staring at his beer, registering no otherreaction.
"Just for appearances," Erin added. "No one is suggesting you move in together or get married oranything."
Nick gave her an impatient frown. "You and your low expectations, woman. What am I going to dowithyou?"
That caught Riley's attention. "Don't start," he said to Nick while snagging a tortilla chip from a dish. "As if your damn housewarming-slash-marriage-celebration didn't do enough." He popped the chip in his mouth and then folded his arms on the table. He leaned forward and caught my eye. "These two had a very ad hoc wedding reception lastmonth,and—"
"I know," I said apologetically. "I tried to be there. I was tied up with surgeries thatnight."
That was one time when I hadn't been trying to evade social situations due to the inevitable chatter that started whenever folks from the hospital were around. I was happy for Nick and Erin. I'd actually wanted to celebrate them making a home together and finally living on the same continent. I'd watched him suffer through his separation from her, and that they found a way to make it work was nothing short of amazing. It was like all the stars and planets alignedforthem.
Riley nodded, and continued. "It was a complete and total trauma. Everyone wanted to know when I was going to find a nice girl, move out of my brother's house, settle down. Every-fucking-one had a friend they wanted to fix meupwith."
"At least they don't start tapping their watches and telling you biological clocks won't snooze forever," I said,laughing.
He shook his head and dug in the dish. "Nah," he said, piling meat on his chip. "They say that to me, too. You know, I'm just a big kid so I'll be great with children." He rolled his eyes and ate his deconstructed taco creation. "I did a lot of smiling and nodding thatnight."
"You also drank abitof whiskey,"Erinsaid.
"A wee bit." He rubbed the back of his neck and—my god, that forearm—said, "Sleeping in your bathtub was a good idea until I woke up and couldn't turn my head. Or remember anything that happened aftermidnight."
There was a sigh waiting to unfurl in my throat. A breathy noise that could only serve as an offering to the stone-carved man—the one being hounded to find a wife—across the table from me. But there was also a snarl. A snap of annoyance that I should be forced to select a faux beau if I wanted to get out from under the shame cloud of having sex with someonefromwork.
