"I'm not sure if there's ever a time when we're not talking about Stremmel's problems," Alex mused. "It's that and Hartshorn trying to get his wife pregnant again. That's all we have to entertain ourselves. Stremmel and sperm counts."
Cal glared at her. "We have never once talked about mysperm count."
Alex held up both hands, shrugged. "Not directly, no, but if Stella isn't pregnant next month, we'll be elbow deep into count, morphology, and motility."
Cal turned his glare on Nick. "Do something about this, would you?"
"I hear good things about eating walnuts though I can't say I've read the research," Nick replied. "Otherwise, stick to the basics. Avoid hot tubs and switch to boxers."
"Ihaveread the research on the walnuts and the outcomes were positive," O'Rourke said, "for men under thirty-five."
Cal Hartshorn was in his late forties, a former army Ranger capable of killing everyone at this table with a teaspoon, our future boss as soon as the current Chief of Surgery retired, and presently grinding his molars at my fellow.
"So then, Stremmel's problems," Nick said. "What do you got for us?"
O'Rourke tapped a greasy finger to a page in his notebook. "He was an absolute monster on Monday and that wouldn't be especially strange but it's the second Monday in a row he's been a monster."
"That's just"—Alex waved a hand at me—"that's neither new nor concerning."
"No, you're right," O'Rourke conceded, tapping the page again, "but Dr. Shapiro's residents have observed the same pattern from her and they've indicated it's a new development. Of course, her worst is nowhere near Stremmel's—"
"Stand in the eye of that storm and then try saying that to me," I muttered.
O'Rourke hit me with a knowing grin. If this little fucker was going where I thought he was going, I'd borrow that murder spoon from Hartshorn and kill him here in broad daylight.
"Shapiro's residents describe her worst days as her being even more high-octane than usual—which sounds fun, it really does—but the Monday pattern is what's new here." O'Rourke pointed his triangle-cut sandwich at me. "Have to wonder what's happening to make these Mondays so monstrous all of a sudden, huh?"
Nick, Alex, and Cal stared at me. "What?" I cried. "I have no idea what her problem is."
"Then what's your problem?" Nick asked.
"I have no problems." When the group shot me unconvinced eyebrows, I added, "Nothing new. Nothing beyond my usual stable of problems."
"Where is Shapiro?" Cal asked. "Why doesn't she ever come to lunch with us?"
"She doesn't like peopling," Alex replied. "You gotta respect her boundaries."
I snorted because her boundaries were my private ropes course. Then I shoved food in my mouth and waved off all the so-called friends gaping at me.
"We're friends, we're not people," Cal argued.
"Friends are people," Nick told him.
"But she's very outgoing whenever I see her," Cal said. "Doesn't strike me as someone who needs a lot of alone time."
"Your observation doesn't make it true. Lots of people can be really strong in work settings and then require twelve hours of uninterrupted silence in order to get up the next day and do it all again," Alex said. "And you know I love you, but I don't think you guys are aware of how socially demanding you can be."
"We haven't been demanding," Cal said, looking around the table for support. "Did Shapiro say we're demanding?"
"No," Alex said firmly. "But I am telling you that you can be a lot to handle. Not everyone is prepared to be initiated into a crew that"—she held up her hand, started ticking off on her fingers—"goes jogging together, eats lunch together, hangs out after work together, has a ton of dinner parties together, even goes on vacations together." She pointed at Nick and Cal. "Believe it or not, some people leave work and elect to live their lives without the involvement of their colleagues."
"Right, so," Nick started with a gesture toward me, "what's wrong with you now?"
"Nothing is wrong with me," I replied.
"You were bellyaching to my wife on Thursday night about these conflict sessions with Shapiro," he went on. "It stands to reason you'd be pissed straight through to Monday. Am I wrong?"
"Fuck, yes, you're wrong," I replied. This was great. I didn't even have to lie, seeing as I'd pissed myself off with how I handled things with Sara after rowing. "What I do on my weekends and why it makes me miserable has nothing to do with those Thursday afternoon sessions."
