"How could I?" I ran my palms over the edges of my armrests. "We were very busy hating each other. Couldn't possibly peel back my bulletproof vest to show you my weak spots. Would've been poor strategy on my behalf."
"I still wish I'd known."
I shot a glance in his direction, but he was glaring at the waves and didn't notice. "Why? Would you have trashed my croutons any less?"
"No, of course not. I just—I just wish I'd known."
I wasn't content with that. "Why? What would've changed? Would you have been measured and cordial that day in the ER? Would you have sat next to me on the sofa in Milana's office? Would you have stomped up to your apartment instead of slamming me up against my door?"
After a moment of consideration where it seemed his scowl couldn't get any deeper without his entire head caving in, he said, "All I can say is I want you to trust me enough to let me hold these pieces of you. I like looking after you."
Reflexively, I said, "I don't need looking after."
He rolled his head against the back of his chair to stare at me, his eyes as dark as night and his pout infinitely kissable. "Yes, you do."
There were no fewer than a million things I wanted to say about that, but Sebastian was already moving on, giving me impatient gestures andlet'sget on with iteyes.
"And where would you go? If you left Boston?" he asked.
I lifted a shoulder. "I don't know."
"Then you're not entertaining offers," he said. "You're just entertaining the idea of another hospital fawning over you, making sure you know you're their prize gem. And you say I'm the arrogant one here."
"I have offers." None that interested me, but that was beside the point. "And it's not about fawning."
"Hartshorn and Acevedo adore you. They'll fawn. Just drop a hint and they'll fawn." He said this with a splash of accusation, like I'd really crossed a line in garnering the respect of my colleagues. What an insufferable bitch, right? "They'll blame me until the end of time if you leave. They'll whip me, both literally and figuratively, until the actual end of time."
"Oh, no. That sounds so awful for you," I deadpanned.
"I'm just saying, you have fans. And you know Hartshorn is teed up to take over as the next Chief of Surgery," he continued.
"And you're teed up to take over emergency surgery."
"Hah. Not until I prove I'm not a liability," he said, but there was no heat behind those words. "I know you think that day in the ER fucked things up for you, but it's going to be okay. It's gonna blow over. It was an accident, and everyone knows that."
I knew he believed that. It didn't make it true for me. I had to see it to believe it.
He reached for his drink, saying, "I don't want to talk about work anymore. We're not there. It's not our problem right now. What were you like in high school?"
"You go first," I said.
"I was a moody little emo-goth asshole," he said. "I was very concerned with moody music and goth books that weren't actually interesting, but made me feel superior for being able to quote them conversationally. If the school uniform would've permitted earrings and eyebrow rings, I would've had a dozen. I would've tattooed my eyelids. Just for the joy of being contrarian. But I was also an expert at all matters related to school offices. I could fix every printer and copier. I was a genius with the laminator and the giant paper cutter of death. I knew the phone system better than anyone."
"That is adorable," I said. "I don't have nearly as much amusing material to share with you. I was a cheerleader, but—"
"Oh my god what?"he sputtered, a drop of beer rolling down his chin. "What was that?"
"Oh. It's nothing. I just—I wasn't very good at ballet or any of the dance classes my mother put me into because I was a chunky little chicken nugget of a kid, which she hated, but I did well with gymnastics. I mean, I'm short. It's not a shock. When I reached high school, I tried out for cheer. Since I could tumble, I was chosen for varsity my first year."
My cheeks heated as he continued staring at me. He was going to say something awful about cheerleaders and how there was probably a cheer-to-plastics pipeline, either surgeon or patient, and I should be proud for leaning all the way in to that stereotype. Then, "Ilovethat. Sara. I can't even handle it. There's like a painful hiccup stuck in my chest right now because I love that so much. Is this a heart attack? I don't know. Don't care. Tell me more."
"Okay, but whydo you love it?" I asked, laughing.
"Because I am obsessed with small, strong as fuck women who can flip around and shit.Obsessed. Just fuckin' obsessed. I watch college cheer competitions on ESPN all the time." He looked me up and down again. "Can you still do that stuff? No, wait, forget I asked. That was stupid. The mental picture is all I need. But hold on, do you have a yearbook anywhere? No, never mind. Don't answer that. What are you doing?"
I pushed to my feet, tugged off the sarong, smoothed my hands down the sides of my thighs. "We'll start small. I think I can still do a back handspring. It used to be my intro story. You know, 'let's go around the table and say one interesting thing about ourselves.'" I did a back handspring. I was Back Handspring Girl. It followed me to med school. I've tumbled in a lot of empty surgical hallways."
"Sara, no. I am telling you no.Don't. I can't bring you home with a broken wrist. Or ankle. Or anything."
