We stopped outside the café. I stepped toward the windows to read the menu posted there while kneading my overworked muscles. I needed to make sure there was something I'd actually eat—not just hate and pick at for half an hour while pretending everything was fine—before going inside. I couldn't sit there with a cup of tea and answer questions about what I did or didn't eat as I'd prefer falling into a bog to any such discussion.
"Enough of that," Sebastian growled, batting my hands away.
I expected a lecture about me working the wrong spot or a bit of him reveling in my discomfort. I didn't expect him to bring his hands to my shoulders and work his fingers into the knots gathered at the base of my neck.
"I—uh," I said, my eyes drifting shut as he pressed into the tender spots. "You're not even going to take the shot and agree that I'm bad at rowing?"
He worked his way down the ridge of my shoulders to my upper arms and I really didn't understand this. We weren't in the apartment foyer and no one was yelling and when did sidewalk massages before brunch become something we did?Together?How did it become part of our power struggle, and where was I when that transformation occurred?
"Nope, not going to do that." He was so close. If I leaned back a tiny bit, I'd connect with his chest. "Though I'm not in the OR tomorrow and I did offer to handle the rowing so this is entirely your fault."
"Oh, great," I said. "I'm glad we're back to assigning fault. That's fun. When should we start on the psychiatric diagnoses?"
"Why haven't I seen you at any of Acevedo's dinner parties?" he asked.
I stifled a groan. There was no way to go into a dinner party as both an introvert and a criminally picky eater and come out alive. Even the strongest, most fully recovered parts of me struggled with this because it was simply rude to go to someone's home and not eat the food they prepared. It wasn't people-pleasing this time. It was manners—and bad manners were one big people-pleasing fire drill.
"I've been there several times." My tone was way too defensive to be believable. I tried again. "Nick is amazing and his wife is really sweet. I've always had a good time when I've been to their house. It just doesn't work out all the time. That's all."
"Acevedo lived in the third-floor apartment before me," Sebastian said. "Emmerling has been on the second floor for as long as I've known her and—"
"And Cal Hartshorn lived in my apartment before me. I know. I'm familiar with the recent history of the doctor dorm."
He murmured something as he worked back up to my shoulders and neck. "I'm just saying, it's a good group."
"Yes and that's not intimidating at all," I sang.
"Excuse me but did you just suggest you find anyone intimidating? Because I'm pretty sure you could boil water with nothing more than your side-eye as a heat source."
"Has anyone ever told you that you exaggerate profusely?"
"No. Never. That is completely new information." He brushed the loose strands from my neck and twisted my ponytail around his fist. "The Acevedos are having a small party in a few weeks. You should come."
I tried to shake my head but he stroked a thumb down the line of my neck and I melted a little more. "I will have to think about that," I managed.
"What's there to think about? Acevedo's making tacos. End of deliberation."
"Maybe I have other plans," I said.
"Maybe you should cancel them."
"Maybe I don't like parties," I replied.
"Neither do I," he said. "I don't like people. They're exhausting." When I didn't respond, he continued. "You should come anyway."
"Why?"
If there was one thing I always wanted—regardless of whether it was healthy or safe—it was approval. Choose me, include me, praise me, validate me. I wanted it when it was unavailable—hello, mother; hello, father—and I wanted it when it didn't make sense. Like right now. I wanted Sebastian to tell me that he wanted me at this party. No damn sense—and also, what the fuck was wrong with me?
We were white-knuckling it through conflict resolution counseling, not coupling up for dinner parties with the friend group.
"You're thinking too hard, Shap. It's tacos and Acevedo's new residents. Hartshorn will show up at least an hour late, Emmerling's husband will do something crazy like climbing on the roof to check the shingles, and O'Rourke will tell stories about Minnesota."
"And what about you? Which role do you play?"
"I find a comfortable spot to sit and not speak to anyone. But listen, you should come along. All anyone talks about is surgery, the food is amazing, and the people are chill. You'd like it."
"That sounds…" Honestly, it sounded fun. But also overwhelming and impossible to slip away unnoticed when I was maxed out. "It sounds great but I really need some time to check my schedule."
