Instead, the words came out of me, quiet and rough. “The guy you’re seeing.”
Her breath stuttered, and the moment cracked wide open.
She drew back, pressing her shoulders into the wall, one hand sliding up to her collarbone as if she needed something solid to hold. The heat didn’t vanish, but it shifted, turned restless.
“What about him?”
I stayed where I was, legs stretched out in front of me, hands planted on the floor. Giving her space without leaving. “How did you guys meet?”
I didn’t care how they met. I didn’t give a shit about him.
Her eyes searched my face, measuring. Then she exhaled slowly. “James. He’s a fourth year surgical resident. Here, at Mission Valley.”
Here. The same corridors, same long shifts, shared call rooms, coffee at odd hours. I kept my expression neutral, even as something unpleasant twisted low in my stomach. Something even more unpleasant burned the back of my throat.
“A surgeon,” I said, keeping it light. “Figures.”
She huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means he’s got impressive time management skills,” I said. “Or none at all.”
Her mouth curved into a slow smile, but it didn’t stick around for too long.
“We work together a lot,” she said. “Different teams, but… same floors. Same cases sometimes.”
I nodded, but said nothing. Forced the feeling down before it reached my face.
She watched me too closely. “Panic attack?”
“Listening,” I said.
“That’s new.”
“It’s called growth, Gordon. Look it up.”
That earned me a heartfelt laugh that bubbled up from her belly, and got me going too. A small reprieve from the shitshow playing out around us.
“He’s a cool guy,” she said when the laughter had simmered down. I noticed her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. “But I don’t know… It’s early days, like my friend Rose would say.”
“Ah, I know that look.”
Her eyes shot up, questioning. “What look?”
“He’s bad in bed.”
She swatted me hard against the arm. “You—”
“What? It’s a common problem among overworked, over-achieving surgeons. He has nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll tell him next time I see him.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” She hit me again, but that cheeky laugh was back. “I was talking about my five year high school reunion, if you must know.”
I blinked. “Five?”
“Don’t. I know what you’re going to say, and just… don’t.”
“I’m just saying,” I replied, unable to stop myself. “Isn’t that a bit early to revisit bad haircuts and unresolved grudges? Usually we get ten years to repress all that.”
“They planned it this way,” she said with a shrug. “Nothing better to do, I guess.”
