"Don't remind me," I said with a groan.
Chapter3
Sara
My sneakers squealedagainst the laminate floor as I rounded the corner to Dr. Milana Cuello's office. I would've preferred to slip into the restroom to check my hair and straighten myself before the first conflict resolution session with Stremmel but I was already running late. Just a few minutes, but I hated being late. It always filled me with the most pointless panic. I told myself it was pointless and that worrying in this way was a waste of energy but I was already wasting a ton of pointless energy so there was no stopping this mess now.
The truth was, I didn't choose the messy life.
All this messy chose me—and I was okay with that. I mean, I had to be. I was a perfectionist good girl with the heart of a raging bitch. Messy was the only way to rock this bun.
I wasreallygood at my job, yet stupid old imposter syndrome kicked my ass on the daily.
I was scrappy as fuck and more delicate than anyone had the right to be.
I was vain as hell yet bristled at being judged on my appearance first, my surgical pedigree second.
I swore fluently and often.
I came across as inconsistent and moody. Hot and cold.
I was thirty-nine years old and a pickier eater than most toddlers. That, plus an endless list of chronic digestive issues meant no one could take me anywhere—but don't even think about not inviting me.
Even my hair got in on the action. Some of it curled, some of it fell stick straight, and the rest existed on a spectrum of wavy to frizzy.
I came by the mess honestly—as honestly as anyone could when growing up with drama-addicted parents who would've been better off divorced but elected to cheat on each other and complain about their unfavorable prenup to anyone who would listen, me and my siblings the most frequent audience. Despite living through this marital master class, I still found myself wanting to settle down with someone. Just as soon as I met them and learned how to be vulnerable. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
All of that left me holding the bill of sale for a whole lot of emotional garbage, most of which I'd processed and recycled into the kind of high-value skills that made me look like a well-adjusted, functional adult until I destroyed an exam room. Appearances, those funny little liars.
I stepped inside Dr. Cuello's office, surprised to find it filled with warm sunlight and green plants, a large Dominican Republic flag and crammed bookshelves—and Sebastian perched on the arm of the sofa, the hint of a smile lingering on his lips.
The man smiled? Since when?
Out of pure reflex I smiled back, but he was quick to destroy the moment with a pointed glance at his smartwatch followed by a bent-eyebrowed stare. He raked that stare through my probably wild hair, over my white coat, and down to my lemon-lime sneakers.
What an asshole.
Just for that, I abandoned all discomfort over my late arrival and the state of my hair.
"Dr. Shapiro, you've found us," Dr. Cuello said, gesturing to the sofa. She was the kind of sixties-ish woman who could wear a poncho and make it look good, which was a true accomplishment in my book. Essentially, I wanted to be able to wear a blanket and call it fashion. Was that too much to ask? "Please make yourself comfortable. Dr. Stremmel and I were just trading Puerto Rican restaurant recommendations since we've made a habit of bumping into each other in line for the new Caribbean food truck. I miss the flavors of home even more when winter starts creeping in. Perhaps we could conduct one of our sessions over lunch?"
Oh, I hated that idea and I'd find a way to wiggle out of lunch without insulting Dr. Cuello and her food in the process, but those priorities were secondary to glaring at Sebastian as he pushed off the sofa's arm and stalked to the bookshelves.
I settled into the corner of the sofa closest to the door. "I was late finishing with the residents in my skills lab. Thank you for waiting."
It felt as strange to say that as it sounded. It would've been so much simpler to apologize for running late and it would've felt better too—until all the little concessions and apologies tightened and calcified inside me, a brittle organ that functioned only when fed a steady diet of shame.
I hadn't learned it was shame until the past few years. Before, I'd thought this was perfectionism, type A personality, oldest sister syndrome. What harm could come from always wanting to be the top of my class, look polished and put-together all the time, solve problems before they materialized? What was wrong with controllingeverything?
The organ still ticked inside me. It sputtered in innocuous moments like these when I saidthank you for waitinginstead ofI'm sorry, and it panged with hunger when I stood up to badass bully surgeons like Stremmel because it would be so, so much easier to stay quiet.
Dr. Cuello was asking him something about a restaurant and scribbling a note on the pad perched on her knee. "I love a good rice and pernil lunch plate too," she said. "Especially when it's made right."
He nodded in agreement. He wasn't smiling anymore. No, the relaxed, amenable version of him I'd found when stepping into this office was long gone, and since I was the only change in this dynamic, I earned the prize of being the stick up his ass today.
Awesome.
"If not all of us together, then you two should visit the food trucks. It would be a fine opportunity to learn something about each other outside your hospital roles," she said.
