“Nah.” He smiles at me, and my stomach flutters. “I’m into movies and television. And books. I love disappearing into fiction.”
“Huh.”
“I’ve shocked you into silence?”
“I guess I just never knew you were a human being.”
His smile drops, just for a moment, but it’s enough for a tiny fissure of regret to burrow into my chest. Maybe he has a heart, after all.
We get back to the lounge, where he unwraps his lunch and begins eating it in a standing position, like he’s prepared to take off the second he gets done. He opens his mouth again to say something, but a few others filter into the lounge, so we aren’t alone anymore.
I find him watching me as I eat, though, and the back of my neck prickles. What am I going to do here? It almost feels like we’re becoming friends, despite my protests, and I can’t have that. I can’t let my guard down.
10
KENDALL
I wear three-inch heels to my med school interview because they inject a little confidence into my posture.
One of the faculty members, Dr. Phillips, gives me a warm smile. He’s a white dude in his late sixties with silver hair and a penchant for clearing his throat frequently. He’s got two colleagues with him, and we’re seated in a large office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking downtown Louisville. We’ve been chitchatting, and I get the sense they want to put me at ease before they get to their written questions.
“So, you’ve been working as a nurse for six years. Is that right?” He’s got a little file open in front of him.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’ve had an opportunity to work in several different settings too. I think it’s given me a unique perspective.”
“I would imagine it has.” He smiles at me again, looking for a moment like a kindly grandfather, and my heartrate settles a little more. “One of the doctors who wrote a letter of recommendation for you said that you faced adversity growing up, and that’s why you didn’t apply sooner. Can you tell us about that?”
Are we getting to the meat of the interview? The other faculty members watch me.
I inhale. Normally I don’t think of my upbringing as something I overcame—that’s just some bullshit people like to imagine. I endured it, but I don’t think it helped me or made me a better person. I think that’s what the interviewers are hoping for, though, so I give them what they want. At least my sob story is good for something.
“I did experience poverty growing up,” I say. “I worked hard for my grades in high school because I knew that could be a way out. I got scholarships for my undergrad, and that helped tremendously.”
I feel gross recounting all this. The interviewers hang onto my words. I did work hard for my grades, and I wanted to go to college, but it’s like I’m inspiration porn for them or something.
“I do think it helps me connect with some of my patients, though. Those who are struggling financially.” That part is true, anyway.
One of the women nods. I forget her name—it starts with an S, maybe? Dr. Smith? Dr. Sullivan? She looks at me as she speaks. “We’ve heard other good things about you. I happen to be friends with one of the residents you’ve been working with, Dr. Wyndham, and I spoke to him recently. He mentioned to me how impressed he is with you.”
My mouth falls open, but I quickly close it. My heart pounds. How could he not let me know he said something to one of the interviewers? And does he think I can’t do it by myself? I’ve doneeverythingmyself, damn him.
I know my smile is strained, but I can’t help it. My thoughts whirl for the rest of the interview, one of them rising to the surface often.
What is he playing at here?
I find Grant early the next morning before our day at the clinic begins. He’s at his computer, checking his appointments.
“Hey,” I hiss. His head snaps to me. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you contacted the interviewing committee?”
His lips purse before he speaks. “I know Dr. Sanders and her wife well. I see them all the time. It was just a casual conversation.” He lifts his hands. “And I meant it. All I said was you’d make a great physician.”
I roll my eyes. “What is this, then? Another attempt at getting into my good graces?” My fists clench.
“I thought we established there isn’t a way for me to do that.” He lowers his brows. “Right?”
“I mean, no. There’s not. But just so you know, I don’t really like surprises. I don’t want things to be just sprung on me.” I wave my hand around.
He nods. “Noted.”
