I walk to the fridge, which looks a lot more normal since we moved the food from my fridge into it. “Yesterday’s leftovers?” I ask.
“Sounds great.”
I scoop the leftovers onto plates and pop the first one in the microwave.
“I guess you’ll need to give Robbie back the key?” Drew asks, as we wait for the food to heat up.
“Yeah, I was planning to do that tomorrow.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just give me the key and his number.”
“You don’t have to—” I begin, but I pause when I catch Drew’s expression. Clearly, he thinks he does, and this isn’t an argument I’m going to win. “Thank you.”
After dinner, I change into sweatpants and come back out to the living room. There’s no sign of Drew, so I assume he’s in his room.
I turn the TV on and lower the volume so it won’t bother him, then hit play onGrace General. Drew didn’t seem too into the show, so I doubt he’ll care if I watch it without him.
Two minutes later, Drew appears with his laptop in hand.
“Was the noise bothering you?” I ask, reaching for the remote to turn it down.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Do you care if I watchGrace Generalwithout you?” I tease.
That earns me a roll of his eyes. “I think I’ll get over it.”
He sits on the opposite end of the couch and opens his laptop. At first, he pretends he’s not watching the show, but ten minutes later he sets his computer on the floor.
“I doubt whoever wrote this show has ever met a doctor,” he scoffs. “Or been to a hospital.”
“Not realistic?”
“Ally, that orthopedic surgeon has a stethoscope around his neck.”
I blink at him. “Is that not a thing?”
“No,” he replies. “Surgeons don’t carry stethoscopes.”
“Really? Never?”
“I guess cardiac surgeons do, and maybe keen general surgeons who do ICU. But definitely not ortho. They don’t listen to hearts.”
“What about neurosurgeons? Do you have a stethoscope?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You can’t listen to the brain, Ally.”
I giggle. “So, no? You must have bought one when you got into med school, though?”
He pretends to think about it. “I think I had one in med school, yeah. You can use it as a reflex hammer.”
“Really?” I’m struggling to imagine this. “What part?”
“The edge of the diaphragm. That’s the part that goes on the chest.”
“It wouldn’t work on me,” I tell him. “I barely have reflexes.”
“You barely have reflexes,” he repeats, as though I’ve said something absurd. “Of course you have reflexes, Ally.”
