He peered at me, his head tipped to the side. "I think you're looking for an excuse to hang out here."
"You know all about that. Don't you, Stremmel?" I asked, pushing to my feet. I stood for a second then dropped onto a bench. "You think I don't notice you coming in on your days off?"
"None of those days featured the final game of a playoff series." He glanced at his watch then back at me. "Goddamn. I was supposed to leave three hours ago. Are you finished here or what?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I'm not scrubbing tonight."
He held up his hands. "Since you're obviously not going to the game, you can buy me a beer."
"I'm not the best company tonight."
Stremmel pressed his palm to his chest. "I've never in my life been good company. Hasn't stopped you from dragging me to holiday parties and happy hours and everything in between."
"That's what I do, Stremmel," I snapped. "I drag people along and make them do things even when they tell me they don't want to and it's not their way and it's never something they'll want. I figure they'll start to like it."
He snapped his fingers, motioned for me to stand up. I didn't. "You can buy me a beer but I have conditions," he said. "I don't want to talk about anything. At all. Ever. We're just having beer. We're not discussing your problems or my problems. No teachable moments, no life coaching, no management conversations about five-year plans or growth potential. Just beer."
Stremmel turned toward his locker as he changed out of his scrubs. I glanced down at my phone, hoping to see a text from Stella because I'd hoped for that since the minute I left her house. I wanted her to send me long messages about misunderstandings and it not being the way it looked and correcting my assumptions. I wanted her to tell me I was wrong and I wanted her to be right about that.
"I mean it," he continued. "No mentoring, Hartshorn."
"I take it you've noticed my efforts," I said.
"They're hard to miss, dude," he replied. "You're pretty overt about your intentions. If you're trying to do something, it's difficult to tune that shit out."
"Thank you for humoring me," I said. "I'm realizing I'm not as successful at bending people to my will as I thought."
He turned, his shirt bunched under his chin as he buckled his belt. "You're decent about it," he said. "I've met some real assholes but you're decent." He smoothed his shirt down, shoved his phone and pager in his pockets. "You're not about preaching at people or wrist slapping. You're not a douche. And it's not all about the ego with you either. You're not a leapfrogger, you don't use people. You're just a decent dude who puts in the work without expecting much in return."
I pointed toward the door. "So, that's what you're doing with this feedback. Awesome."
Stremmel shook his head, muttering to himself, "I'm not in LA anymore."
"I guess it's a market. I don't know. They sell ravioli," I continued, "but they have a counter in the back. You have to buy some pasta first and put a good tip in the jar, and then ask for a seat. All cash. I don't think it's completely legal but they'll hand you a jelly jar of wine to go with the raviolis. Heavy pour and they keep it full. Things aren't so bad with a jelly jar of wine and some noodles."
"That sounds like going to confession."
"Not far off," I replied.
"You want to get ravioli and wine," he said, as if it was the strangest thing he'd ever heard. "You and me in a back room in the North End, drinking some under-the-table wine. During the National Hockey League's championship game. That's what you want to do."
"Well, I don't have tickets to the game and I don't want to watch the game because with my luck, I'll probably see a shot of Stella in a private box with a douchey guy named Harry all up on her and then I'll throw a massive clot and die of an aneurysm. So, yeah. I want to eat some fucking ravioli and drink a gallon of fucking wine, and I won't want to talk about a fucking thing."
Stremmel crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at the ceiling, nodding to himself. Eventually, he said, "This Harry guy. You need me to get some sodium thiopental and some potassium chloride? Make it look like an accident? Army Ranger style?"
My shoulders fell as I blew out a sigh. "While I appreciate your willingness to be an accomplice, I'd rather not kill the guy." I brought my hand to the back of my neck, rubbed the ceaseless tension there. "I don't even want to see him. Or any of the others."
He stared at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed and his brows knit. Then he said, "Is it good wine? I can't drink shitty wine. Gives me migraines."
I bobbed my head. "I've only been there once but it was decent. Better than decent, actually."
"All right," he conceded. "I guess we're getting wine and ravioli because I don't want to have your aneurysm on my watch."
We made our way to the North End, walking in companionable silence while the city around us held a collective breath through the final game of the hockey championship. We circled the block twice before finding the tiny shop withFresh Raviolipainted on the window. After arguing about our order for longer than was logical, we found ourselves seated at a low bar with old wicker chairs.
Stremmel held up his makeshift wineglass. "We have nothing to toast. We won't be doing that," he announced. "If you need to talk about something, you can tell me about battlefield surgeries."
I split a ravioli open. It felt good to stab something. "No," I said simply. "I don't want to talk about the war right now."
