Behind me, I heard, "It's funny how you people call this spring." Turning, I saw Stremmel jogging toward our table with his head ducked low into his shoulders. "This is winter. Hell, there are still piles of snow around the city."
"Yeah, those aren't going anywhere until June. It will be eighty degrees before the last remnants of blizzard season are gone," Nick said. "Believe me, man, I get it. Coming here from Texas was tough." He gestured around the table. "We're all transplants. None of us natives. It's tough but it grows on you."
"So does MRSA," he grumbled, dropping beside me on the bench. He pointed at the paper-wrapped sandwich on the center of the table. "Is that mine?"
"Yep," Alex replied. "Extra avocado too. I watched them put it on."
"Probably not ripe," he said under his breath.
It took a fair amount of restraint to keep myself from kicking him under the table. But if I kicked him over a snide remark now, I'd have to pound his ass for the truly obnoxious things he said every day. It was like he had a quota to meet.
"Mine was ripe," Nick said. "I'm sure yours will be too."
"We were just rehashing the recent events of Hartshorn's love life," Alex said, gesturing to me. "It's been entertaining."
"I'm certain I do not care," Stremmel replied before biting into his sandwich.
I watched his reaction—we all did—praying that damn avocado was to his specifications. When he went in for another bite without slamming the region's avocado supply chain, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. And that was a fucking problem.
"Well?" Stremmel prompted.
"Well, what?" Nick asked, his Texas drawl thicker than ever.
Stremmel rolled his eyes. "Where are we with Hartshorn's relationship drama du jour? Rumor has it you talked to your mystery woman."
"The avocado is to your liking?" I asked.
He jerked a shoulder up, tipped his head to the side. After a pause, he said, "It'll do."
"You're welcome," Alex said to him. There was a hefty pinch of salt in those words.
Stremmel looked down at his sandwich and then up at her. "My bad," he said under his breath. "Thank you. Let me know what I owe you."
She waved him off. "It's good. We take turns picking up lunch." She tipped her chin up. "Your day will come and you'll hear all about Acevedo's cilantro needs and my mustard-to-mayo ratio requirements."
A slice of avocado fell from his sandwich and landed on the wax paper. He grabbed it, popped it in his mouth. "This is an ongoing thing?"
"Fresh air, sunlight, food," Nick said, ticking off the items on his fingers. "Arguments about the hierarchy of organ systems but mostly surgical services. Why not?"
"That's easy," Stremmel said. "You can't survive without vessels carrying blood from one place to another. Vascular wins."
"Oh my god," Nick said with a groan. "How is that—no. No. That's not a reasonable answer. Try again."
"Is your objective to aim low and finish high?" Alex asked, staring at him with unmasked horror. "Because you can't possibly believe that."
I stared at him for a beat. Blinked. Stared a bit longer. He knew I was keeping an eye on him and he seemed to tolerate me. He knew I had some experience in his specialty—trauma—and he seemed to respect that. If there was anything I knew as well as hearts and lungs, it was treating patients with the worst injuries and the least amount of time. But that tiny bit of respect wasn't going to be enough to tame this shrew and everyone knew he didn't give two shits about positional authority.
But maybe respect and authority weren't the ways to winning Stremmel over. Maybe it was meeting him where he was, misery and all, and accepting that baggage.
"What are you doing tonight, Stremmel?" I asked. "Don't answer that. You're getting a beer with me because I've never heard anyone put vascular ahead of cardio—"
"Or neuro," Nick added. "I'd join that beer but my wife flies in tonight and I'm going to know you're both wrong while spending time with her."
Alex gave him an impatient glare. "I'll be with my fiancé at the ballgame so I'll also skip that beer but I'd like to state one more time that without gastro, everyone would be literally full of shit."
"Goddammit," Stremmel muttered. "I should've kept my mouth shut."
"That's the spirit," I said, clapping him on the back.
