“No. I liked it.”
“But something went wrong.”
He coasted to a stop at a red light, behind a moped. How were they talking about him again? “I got bored. Wanted to try something new.”
“No.”
“No?”Shite. Most people shook their heads and left it at that.
“Med school is what—five years, minimum? Plus clinical experience. That’s a lot of effort to walk away from.”
Like he needed the reminder.
“And you were good at it.” A statement, not a question.
“Now, why would you think that? You just heard three of my former colleagues tell me to piss off forever.”
“Awo, but that was personal—which I also don’t understand. You seem so...”
He raised his eyebrows. He’d learned to give her time to finish her sentences. She liked to process things, as if she were thinking in Amharic and translating it to English before she spoke, like when he first started speaking French, before he started thinking in French, too. But she’d probably been speaking English her whole life. Maybe she just wasn’t comfortable thinking aloud. Or was too wise to.
“...so...” she said.
Patience.
“...nice.”
“Really? After all that? Ouch.”
She laughed. “There’s nothing at all wrong with being nice. But I’ve seen you in action. The way you helped me through that panic attack, the way you saved that guy’s life, the way you took on that goon... You’re calm, you’re efficient, you’re...”
She pressed her gloved hands to her cheeks. He could swear her skin was turning that delicious mahogany.
“I bet you had a good rapport with your patients,” she continued. “That alone...”
The moped ahead moved off, forcing him to take his gaze from her.
She cleared her throat. “A good rapport alone gives people faith, and faith is a powerful thing. And you are obviously intelligent. You were good at it, weren’t you?”
He shrugged.
“You’re allowed to admit it. You were a good doctor, a good paramedic and now you’re a good medic. Yes?”
“I guess.”
Herturn to wait forhimto continue. She’d be disappointed. Aye, he could be good—the best—but only under the right circumstances, with the right artificial help.
“So why did you really walk away from it—the hospital?”
“Maybe I was just walking to something else.”
“Maybe,” she said, evidently not feeling it.
His chest felt weighted. He’d rather be flirting. Or dodging real bullets.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... It’s a painful topic, yes?”
He swung the steering wheel, turning onto the approach to Putney Bridge. Not too much more of this. “Yes.”
