"Then you have to use your position as the dude on the magazine cover to make sure your residents see her as an effective surgeon and not a bitchy surgeon," I said. "And it's thedudeon the magazine cover who can do that. Make it about her abilities and knowledge, Cal. Don't make it about her not putting up with any shit. And when you hear them referring to her as the bitchy surgeon—because they will—tell them how much they're missing out on by relegating her to that corner. That their inability to cope with a woman who doesn't wrap her requests in honey means they're focusing on the wrong things and they're passing up an opportunity to learn."
He stared at me a moment, his expression even. Then, he said, "I can do that." He popped a piece of California roll in his mouth, nodded. "I still think you'd like Shap. You could probably trade stories about people underestimating you."
I hadn't planned on testing him like that. If anything, I was more concerned with corralling my ridiculous, outrageous, need-to-get-my-head-checked jealousy. But it was a test—and he passed.
"We all start off taking some shit," I said, softening my tone as much as possible, "and then doing better. Learning the lesson. Now that I'm older, I can definitely say I've learned the lesson."
"The only one getting older here is me," he said. "You could pass as twenty-something, Stel. I'm shocked you don't get carded. I'm just waiting for the day someone asks if I'm your—I don't know—uncle. Or something."
I took a sip of water. Set the glass down. Went for it again. My god, Cal as my uncle. I needed to wash that thought away fast. "Honey, you're not that much older than me and you look"—I gestured toward him, circling my hand at his upper body—"you're fine as fuck."
He ducked his head as his cheeks heated. Ears too. God, I loved it when he blushed all the way to his ears. Like an elf, if elves were huge and obscene. And dressed in a suit made for remotely detonating ovaries. No tie, shirt open at the collar. Fine as fuck.
"Good to know," he said.
For absolutely no good reason, I announced, "My birthday is coming up."
Cal glanced up at me, his eyes round and curious. "When?"
I sucked in a breath as if I was preparing for a plunge into cold water. Maybe I was. My birthday never included the men in my life, not since my fiancé. There'd been no reason to include them. We didn't have the kind of relationship that extended to birthdays, holidays, or anniversaries.
"May twenty-fifth," I replied.
He blinked at me, a slow smile pulling at his lips. "That's—that's this weekend."
"It sure is."
He stared at me as if I wasn't connecting the dots. "What do you usually do to celebrate?" he asked. "What does Stella's Natal Celebration involve?"
"Well, we don't call it Stella's Natal Celebration to start," I said, laughing. "I don't do much. I'm not over-the-top about birthdays."
"Neither am I," he replied. "Are you all right with nearing the top? Approaching but not going over?"
I barked out a laugh, pressed my hand to my chest. "I guess that would be fine," I said. "My family always has a birthday dinner at my parents' house. It's been that way since we were kids. We'd get to choose the menu and no one could object to our choices because it was the one day we could have whatever we wanted. My older sister Sophia always wanted something ridiculous. Fancy and ridiculous. She's always been obsessed with the finer things. One year, she requested beef Wellington. I think she was eleven, maybe twelve. She'd read about it in a book and insisted my mother make that for her."
"How'd that go over?" Cal asked, laughing.
I shook my head. "My mother had to ask everyone in the neighborhood if they had a recipe because it wasn't part of her usual Sicilian-northern Italian-Dominican fare. It was fine. It was fine and we ate it but I hated Sophia's birthday dinners." I lifted my drink, drained it. "Serina, my younger sister, always wanted cheeseburgers and tomato soup from a can and Funfetti cupcakes. To this day, she'd choose grilled cheese over anything else."
Cal smiled at me a moment, his gaze warm and his eyes shining. "Well?" he asked eventually. "What's your birthday meal?"
I returned his smile with a shrug. "Nothing crazy," I replied. "You should come. Come to my birthday dinner at my parents' house."
"I'd love to," he said. "Count me in."
Really, Stella. Really. Way to take it all the way there and back again.
Cal wason call tonight and—predictably—had to return to the hospital not long after finishing dinner. But it was good. I needed to call my mother. She'd kill me if I brought a guest to dinner without adequate warning and five days barely qualified as adequate in her book.
"Hi, Mom," I sang when she answered. "Is it okay if I bring someone to dinner this weekend? For my birthday?"
"What do you mean, is it okay?" she asked. If her tone could be trusted, she was totally fucking mortified that I'd asked. She'd also be totally fucking mortified if I hadn't. There was no winning this one. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? Yes, you're welcome to bring someone. Is it Flinn? That boy needs a family unit, Stella. I've told you before. He needs a damn family. Or Tatum? She's a sweetheart. She's always welcome. You don't have to ask. You know that."
"Not Tatum. Not Flinn," I said. "Someone new. His name is Cal. He's a doctor. Surgeon, actually."
There was a long pause. Long enough for my mother to walk out of the house, down the street, and into oncoming traffic. Not that she'd do that but what the hellwasshe doing?
Then, "George? George! GoddammitGeorge!"
