Ex Marks the Spot
Lena
The chile relleno at Sadie's is committing chemical warfare on my sinuses while Nathan performs his one-man show titled "Boston: Your Escape From Everything Complicated." My phone vibrates against my thigh for the eleventh time since we sat down—Bad Decision apparently has strong opinions about my dinner plans—and I'm starting to worry it might burn a hole through my scrubs.
Yes, I'm wearing scrubs to dinner. Nathan said "casual" and my wardrobe consists of scrubs, slightly nicer scrubs, and that one red dress currently haunting my closet like evidence of poor judgment.
"The fellowship at Mass General would change your career trajectory," Nathan's saying, cutting his enchilada with surgical precision that makes me wonder if he practices on his food. "You'd be working with the best thoracic surgeons in the country."
"Mm-hmm." I sneak a glance at my phone under the table.
Bad Decision:Where are you?
Out.
Bad Decision:With who?
Whom. And it's dinner.
Bad Decision:He touching you?
My stomach clenches, that specific combination of guilt and arousal that should probably have its own diagnostic code. Nathan's still talking—something about Boston, about opportunities, about escape routes disguised as career advancement—while I'm texting a man whose hands have SINS and RAGE tattooed across them.
"Lena?" Nathan's voice has that particular frequency of concern mixed with condescension that they must teach at Harvard. "You seem distracted."
"Just thinking about what you said. Boston. Fellowship." I take a sip of water to avoid elaborating, but the glass is empty and now I'm just miming hydration like an idiot.
"You'd be perfect for it. We could..." Nathan reaches across the table like he's going to take my hand, and I instinctively pull back. His face does that thing—that micro-expression of hurt masked by understanding that probably gets him laid at medical conferences.
"You're special, Lena."
Special.Right. Code for "I see damage I can fix" or "you're exotic in that working-class-with-trauma way" or my personal favorite, "I think saving you will make me feel important." I've heard it from every doctor who's tried to extract me from my life like I'm a splinter that needs removing.
"Nathan—"
"Just think about it. Boston's far from Phoenix. Far from..." He waves vaguely at my existence. "A fresh start."
Fresh start. Like I'm produce about to expire, needing immediate relocation to maintain freshness.
My phone buzzes again. This time I don't hide it.
Bad Decision:Angel. Answer me.
He's a colleague. It's professional.
Bad Decision:Professional doesn't make you answer texts at dinner.
Hypocritical much?
Bad Decision:I'm not trying to steal you to Boston.
Wait. How does he—? My head snaps up, scanning Sadie's windows. Nothing. But the feeling of being watched makes my skin prickle.
"Everything okay?" Nathan asks, following my gaze.
"Fine. Just thought I saw someone."
"Your brother?"
