She gave me a narrow-eyed glare while her lips twisted into a smile. "What about it?"
"Another friend of mine," I replied.
"Mmhmm." She nodded, laughing. "I bet."
She tucked herself into the opposite end of the sofa, her phone seated on the armrest and her bowl balanced on her lap. She didn't do any of the things I might've expected but that was how she operated. Never what I expected.
She stayed there long after we finished eating. She stayed, narrating the plays on the baseball game better than the commentators and cursing the players like they'd insulted her lineage. She stayed, handling the dishes during commercial breaks.
She didn't tidy the apartment or wrap a blanket around my shoulders when another chill hit me, but she stayed. I might've anticipated those moves from a different woman but not Stella. And I didn't miss them. I wanted her heckling the refs and dropping juicy insider details about the players, the managers, the team owners. I wanted her to stay.
But then I looked down at my empty bowl, the one without a drop of leftover sauce because I'd sponged it all up with that bread, and I realized this was the first and possibly last time she'd cook for me. Because I could lose her. All this time, all this waiting could end with her choosing someone else. Choosing no one. After all, she didn't belong to anyone.
I loved her and I could lose her.
25
Stella
It tookCal a full week to shake off the flu. That translated to more than a full week since getting naked with him. Not that I begrudged that time—no one wanted to visit Pound Town only to cough up a lung during the visit. But it served as a little timeout for us, an "are we good here?" pause.
And yeah, we were good. Mostly.
On the morning he'd promised to meet me at the trail and resume our regular walks, he slept right through his alarm. And my texts. Calls too. And a full minute of me banging on his door.
That man.
I'd never devoted this much time and energy to another human being since…ever. I'd never done this. I'd never cared this much. Not even when I was engaged—twice!—to be married.
I wasn't sure what I thought about all this yet. I wasn't sure how I felt about this newfound sensation of caring about another person to the point of my heart lodging in my throat and every terrible scenario possible flashing through my mind when he didn't answer that door right away.
And that was just a minute. Aminute. Plus all the minutes on the frantic drive to his apartment from the pond. Plus the minutes of waiting for him at the pond. Plus the weight of caring for a person as much as I cared for myself.
I didn't know what I thought about that and I wasn't quite ready to sit down and sort it out. But he was on the mend now and busy gushing about a new surgeon at his hospital. A lady surgeon. A lady surgeon who taught him some snazzy new tricks today.
"She's really talented," Cal continued, awe tinting his words. "I'm amazed how her little pointers make such a big impact on minimizing scarring in major procedures."
"Great, great," I said, forcing a smile. What was wrong with me? Honestly. He was allowed to work with women. It wasn't sexual for him. Much like understanding my reaction to him sleeping through his alarm, I didn't want to unpack this one. I just didn't want to know what I'd find.
"I'm having Shap lead a skills lab session for my residents. They need as much of her teaching as they can get. Hell, I need it."
This was what I'd avoided all these years of scheduling men and snipping attachments before they took root. Misplaced, illogical jealousy. A sense of competition with a woman who probably wasn't trying to seduce Cal by doing a really good job at a surgery thing.
Stellllllllla. Seriously. Get a fucking grip on reality and chill the fuck out.
"You'd like her," he said, plucking a lone piece of sashimi off my plate. "She doesn't put up with any shit."
"As she shouldn't," I said. Then, with a hearty laugh, "It comes with age, you know. Most of us don't know any better when we're younger or we're not in a position to do anything but shovel someone else's shit. But the older I get, the more willing I am to walk away from shit-shoveling situations. I didn't know how when I was younger. Didn't know that I could." I reached for my drink, held it up but didn't bring it to my lips. "I bet your surgeon friend knows what I'm talking about. I bet she's put up with so much shit she goes a little crazy if anyone tries sending it her way. I bet she's only allowed to take no shit because she's good at her work."
"She is good at her work," Cal conceded, shooting a glance at his beer bottle.
Probably easier to look there than my crazy eyes but goddamn it, I hated hearing about women who were strong and tough, the ones who didn't fuck around. Women didn't need anyone rubber-stamping their strength, and we didn't need anyone calling it out as rare or unique.
"And you admire her work," I said. "You want your students to learn from her."
"I do. I want them to think about the cuts they make and the ways in which they close them up, and I want them to be as patient-centric as possible in that thought process," he replied, hitting me with a quick smile before rummaging for more food. I couldn't decide if this was another incident of Cal eating everything in sight because he was roughly the size of a black bear or him avoiding me.
Then I realized it didn't matter. I cared about this man and he cared about me. I could tell him difficult things without hiding behind good girl manners. I didn't have to be a smiling face that said the right things, kept the uncomfortable topics to myself. A man who cared about me didn't need—or want—that kind of people-pleasing, peacekeeping behavior. A man who cared about me wanted my raw opinions and my ugly spots and my needy, wobbly moments. He didn't want me filtered.
