To the way she'd said my name when she thanked me, like it meant something.
My phone buzzed with an incoming trauma alert, jolting me back to the present. But as I headed toward the trauma bay, I made a decision. Sometimes you just had to take the shot.
During a quiet moment around 2 a.m., I finally sent the message:
Tomorrow's your last day off this rotation, right? Would you like to come over for dinner? I actually cook — not just reheat things. Fair warning: I tend to go overboard in the kitchen when I'm trying to impress someone.
I hit send before I could lose my nerve, then immediately wanted to crawl under the nearest gurney.When I'm trying to impress someone?Could I have been more obvious?
Her response came twenty minutes later:
Izzy
You want to cook for me? That's... actually really sweet. What time?
6 p.m.? I promise not to poison you.
Izzy
Deal. But just so you know, my standards are pretty low. Last night I had cereal for dinner.
Challenge accepted.
I spent the rest of my shift planning the menu.
By 4 p.m. the next day, my apartment looked like a Food Network show had exploded in it. I'd been cooking since I got home from my shift, running on three hours of sleep and pure nervous energy. The beef had been braising in red wine and herbs for hours, filling the apartment with rich, savory smells. The polenta was keeping warm on the stove, creamy and perfect, and asparagus spears lay ready for a quick roast in the oven. And on the counter, cooling in individual ramekins, sat six perfect servings of tres leches cake.
I'd stopped at three different grocery stores to find the right ingredients, spent an hour on the phone with my mom getting her polenta technique right (again), and reorganized my living room twice.
At 5:45, I was pacing around my kitchen, checking and rechecking everything for the dozenth time. The beef was perfect, tender enough to shred with a fork. Everything was as ready as it was possible to be.
So why did I feel like I was about to perform surgery without anesthesia?
The knock at my door at exactly 6 p.m. made my heart jump into my throat.
Izzy stood in my doorway holding a bottle of wine, looking slightly uncertain in dark jeans and a soft green sweater that brought out the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Her hair was down, falling in waves around her shoulders instead of her usual severe ponytail.
"Hi," she said, offering the wine. "I wasn't sure what you were making, so I brought some Tempranillo. It goes with most things."
"Perfect," I said, stepping aside to let her in. "And thank you. You didn't have to bring anything."
She stepped into my living room, and I watched her take it all in — the plants lining the windowsills, the cookbook collection that took up an entire wall, the warm light from the salt lamps I'd scattered around the room. Her eyes lingered on the kitchen, where steam was rising from various pots and pans.
"Jimmy," she said slowly, "what exactly did you make?"
"Braised beef," I said, trying for casual and probably missing by miles. "With polenta and asparagus. And, uhm, a surprise for later."
She stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head with something that looked like amazement. "You made all this from scratch?"
"It's not that hard once you get the hang of it," I said, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I, uh, I like to cook. Really cook. It relaxes me."
"Jimmy." Her voice was soft, almost wondering. "No one has ever made me a meal like this before."
The way she said it made my chest tight. Like this simple thing was somehow precious.
"Well," I said, "there's a first time for everything."
We ate at my small dining table by the window, the city lights twinkling beyond the glass. I'd been worried the conversation might be awkward in the intimate setting of my apartment, but it flowed as easily as it had at the coffee shop. Izzy told me stories about firehouse pranks and the ongoing war over condiment theft that apparently rivaled international conflicts in its complexity.
