She ran a hand over her hair. “Not this time, no. Not really. But it’s fine. I’ll catch you later. Thanks.”
I watched her turn and walk down the hall, and I couldn’t shake the sense that I was missing something. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was the one being strange while Meri and Jenelle were cruising along, good and golden.
But it wasn’t just with Meri or Jenelle.
Iwas missing something too and I didn’t know how much longer I could ignore him.
After seeingpatients in the clinic, I dragged myself to a meeting of the resident wellness council. We’d made a lot of progress on making the surgical residency program sustainable and creating better systems to support folks through it all, and I was extremely pleased with that work, even if it had turned my personal life into a sexually frustrated hell.
I hated when my colleagues balked at these initiatives by suggesting we’d survived just fine without all this coddling. The thing was, we hadn’t survived just fine. The “It was good enough for us” arguments missed the fact that too many people were exited from highly competitive residencies such as this becausethe ethos—one we were damn proud of—was sink or swim. There was no mechanism for supporting surgeons who were pregnant or had families. There were no mental health resources for those who were overwhelmed by the exhaustion of this work and the enormity of teaching yourself to disconnect from human emotions. There were few, if any, truly functional structures in place for handling bigotry, harassment, or abuse. And no one gave a fuck about whether these folks had any amount of balance in their lives.
However, that these meetings were always held in the evening and consistently went over the scheduled time really called into question whether we were missing the whole point. We sure as hell weren’t modeling any amount of balance. I was hoping the next generation could run with that ball.
It was almost nine when I made it back to my office. As I hung up my lab coat, I noticed a box on my desk. It was small with a metallic sticker that caught the light. I recognized that logo.
When I reached for the box, I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked beneath it. I dropped into my desk chair and dedicated an entire minute to debating which item to open first. In the end, I put down the box.
The note was written in a clear, blocky print and my heart was pounding too hard for me to comprehend the words on the first read.
This might not solve your situation, but it has to make up for missing dessert.
Call me anytime.
No signature,just a phone number with a 530 area code.
But I knew.
I ran my fingers over the words, feeling the indentations in the paper. A shudder moved through me, a great twisting spasm that pulled at my shoulders and spiraled down until my knees shook under the desk. I pressed the note to my chest as my body curled inward with need—but not a sexual one. After a day spent in a state of perpetual arousal, I could recognize the difference.
And that difference hurt. It ripped me open and made no move to clean up the mess.
I could’ve survived if it was only sex. I could’ve muddled my way through if it was just about getting him out of my system. I could’ve pretended none of it mattered.
I allowed myself a moment for this wave of emotion to rush over me. To grieve the distance I had to put between us. To rage against the outrageous unfairness of it all. To stitch my own battered soul back together again because I was always the one who had to make the impossible choices.
I pried open the box. A gorgeous cupcake from one of my favorite bakeries sat inside. The swirl of whipped cream piped on top of the chocolate ganache told me it was Boston cream because I knew my cupcakes as well as I knew my cardiac anatomy.
On my walk home, I kept a hand in my pocket, pressing his note to my palm. I wanted to know when he’d found the time to run all the way to the Newbury Street bakery and back, and I wanted to know why he’d chosen Boston cream. Had I told him I had a soft spot for all cupcakes with filling in the middle? Had we gotten into that over the buffet at his friend’s wedding? Or was it a wild guess?
I recited his phone number in my head as I climbed the stairs to my floor. The lights were off and there was no sign of Brie,which bothered me much less than it had this morning. My heart rate seemed to thump to the rhythm ofCall me anytime.
I wanted to call, if for no other reason than to ask why he’d chosen that flavor. And also because I didn’t have it in me to hold him off much longer. Not when he could make me ache with a few words or unravel me with a cupcake.
I wanted to call just to ask him what the hell he expected me to do about this. How was I supposed to juggle my responsibilities, my reputation, with his desire to look after me and my bruises?
And I wanted to know if he could be patient. If he could wait. If he’d still be there in a month or two. In a year. What if it was longer? Would he get tired of it? Get tired ofme? Would he walk away like everyone else did and leave me to find out about it on social media?
In the end, I stood in my kitchen and devoured the cupcake.
I’d intended to nibble my way through it while watching something mindless, but I cut it into quarters and ate one segment after another as I stared at the note. I heard the words forty different ways in my head and imagined him writing them with all the confidence in the world.
I didn’t call.
Eleven
Whitney
Rule Number Four:
