"That's disappointing," he said around a mouthful of pasta and cheese.
"You know what's really disappointing? Falling in love with a woman only to find out she doesn't believe she's meant for relationships or monogamy or marriage. How is that even fucking possible? Yeah, sure, everyone's had a few bad ones. That doesn't mean you can't pick yourself up and move on. Doesn't mean you can't have a good one. But to avoid them altogether? Foreclose the possibility because your ex got married ten minutes after ending it with you? No. No, I don't buy it. I can't."
"I am literally the last person you should be asking for relationship advice, man." Stremmel glanced around the shop. "Let's grab the ravioli lady or someone off the street to talk to you because they'll be more qualified for this conversation than I am."
"Yeah? Who fucked you over?"
He glanced away, bringing his attention to the wine, the food, the odd surroundings. He was silent for a long beat, and then, "No one. No one fucked me over. I did it all by myself." He pointed to the front of the shop. "But I'm serious about pulling someone off the street because the only advice I can give you is on the topic of treating crush injuries."
"I don't need advice," I said.
"Neither do I but you keep giving it," he replied with a laugh.
"Then we won't talk," I said.
"Perfect," Stremmel said.
It was latewhen I got back to my apartment. After midnight but before dawn. I had no sense as to which was nearer. I didn't return home with much sense at all. To make matters worse, the wine was playing tricks on my mind. It had to be the wine. Why else would I spend ten minutes standing in the middle of my kitchen, reaching for a woman who was only there in my mind? But I was convinced she was there. I believed it. I could see her at the stove and smell the spices and hear her talking. I wanted more than anything for it to be real rather than a memory.
That desire sent me to the bedroom. I wanted to find her there, to feel her under me. I flopped facedown onto the bed, desperate to find the scent of her lingering in the sheets and pillows. I found none. But I should've expected that. I should've known she'd leave and take everything with her. I should've known I wasn't playing for keeps.
Dragged down by that bitter realization, I surrendered to sleep with my shoes still on and the bed linens rucked up around me. It was just like being in Stella's bed. But a thousand times worse.
32
Cal
I stormedout of the operating room, ripping my surgical gown off as I pushed through the double doors. The surgery was successful, my resident performed competently, the patient was likely to recover without incident. Regardless, I was holding on to this foul mood. I was doing my damnedest to keep it localized rather than dumping it on the people around me. But this door, this gown—they were free game.
Stremmel fell in step with me. "I know I'm the last person to suggest this," he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his white coat. "But you might want to fix your face. People are worried."
"About what?" I snapped, forcing another pair of doors open.
"Nothing much," he replied. "Nearly ripping doors off their hinges is fine. Everything is fine."
"I don't care about the door. I've been in surgery for nine hours and I need something to eat," I said. Even through the fog of this mood, those words sounded needlessly sharp. "Fuck it. I'm going across the street. To the park."
I'd managed a full week without discussing my crash and burn with anyone, save for Stremmel. Not that he allowed me to say much. I'd also avoided the pond. I'd driven near there three mornings ago but quickly turned around and headed for the gym. I hated the gym.
Stremmel made a sound of disapproval as he stepped in front of the next set of doors. "I can't recommend that," he said. "Emmerling and Acevedo are talking weddings and honeymoons. Just speaking for myself here but I can't stomach that shit."
"Oh, hell," I grumbled. With Stremmel blocking the door, I was forced to pace. "I'm not hungry anymore."
"Unlikely story," Stremmel replied. "I'm blowing off the happily coupled table. I found a place around the corner with decent pizza by the slice."
"Would we be friends or whatever this is"—I gestured toward him—"if we didn't get food together?"
He jerked a shoulder up. "Is that a problem? I can't see how it is. It's not like I can eat three meals a day in the cafeteria while also putting up with your moods."
I swung a glance toward him, tapped my chest. "Mymoods?"
"It's just a slice of pizza, Hartshorn. One I'm expecting you to buy," he continued. "It's not like we're taking yoga classes together. Does it matter that we only hang out when there's food involved? No. Would I hang out with you if you weren't picking up the tab? Also no." He snapped his fingers. "If you don't mind, I spent the morning putting a pair of fools back together after they fell off a bridge trying to take a selfie. I need some carbs and caffeine to make me happy."
I stopped wearing the linoleum thin, tossed a frown in his direction. "The carbs and caffeine are going to make you happy? That's the magical combination?"
He rolled his eyes. "As happy as I get, Hartshorn." He beckoned toward me with both hands. "I'll go without you if you don't get your shit together right now."
"Are you inviting me to join you?"
