Grant’s low chuckle sends a thrill shooting up my spine. I glance at him, but he’s already looking away again.
I also find myself watching him in the OR that afternoon. He’s so incredibly competent as a surgeon. Focused, meticulous, and steady.
I look at him as we’re washing our hands after the last surgery of the day.
“Good work today,” I tell him.
His hairline lifts. “Thanks.” He walks with me after we’re done at the sink. “I’m a little confused.”
“Yeah? What has you so baffled?”
“I can never predict how you’re going to treat me at any given moment.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah, I can’t either. I can’t decide how I’m supposed to interact with you now.”
“You aren’t going with polite disinterest?”
“It’s just . . .” I grit my teeth, then unclench them. “I wish you weren’t who you are.”
He hangs his head once we step in the office door. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I owe you so much. Much more than just an apology.”
I think about that for a while as I document. When else am I going to have one of my former bullies at my mercy like this?
We end up walking out of the hospital together. It’s late, and we’re headed to the mostly deserted parking garage.
He peeks at me. “Are we friendly now?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I shrug. “I’m not sure what I’m doing. I did have something to ask you about, though.”
We stop by my car. I bite my lip, unsure if I really want toextend our relationship beyond the strained politeness and weird awareness we’ve adopted this week.
“You said you would give me money if I wanted.” I grin at him and lift my eyebrows a few times.
He chuckles. “Have you always been so blunt?”
“Yes. In case you were wondering, it was extremely out of character for me to leave you in the dark about how I knew you. But I kind of liked watching you stew.”
He laughs a little more at that. I lean against my car, feigning a casualness I don’t feel. A breeze touches my cheek. It’s finally blessedly cooler now that it’s September, over five weeks into Grant’s three-month rotation, though blazing heat will likely appear again like an uninvited guest.
“Before I make my request,” I say, “aren’t you ever going to ask me about the changes? About why I look so different you didn’t even recognize me?”
“You have changed,” he hedges, “but you seemed familiar. I just wasn’t expecting to see you in this setting. You have to admit, it’s a big coincidence.”
“You figured I was struggling, like my mom?”
“I knew you were smart. You had a lot working against you, though.” He shrugs. “And most of us have changed since high school. Not so much physically, for me, but in other ways.”
“Back then, you wondered how I managed to be poor and fat at the same time. It seemed to perplex you.”
He winces. “God, what an asshole. I know better now.”
He’s saying some of the right things, but I still have trouble letting it go. I’ve never really gotten to say my piece.
“I wasn’t trying to lose weight,” I say. “I have an autoimmune condition I wasn’t treated for. And once I had my own money, I started doing some of the activities that made me feel good, that brought me joy, like dance classes. I have access to different food, and not so much anxiety about having to go without. But it wouldn’thappen that way for everyone. I’m sure they teach you it’s some moral failing, in med school, being fat. But that’s not true.”
“I know. I promise. We need to do better as a profession, that’s for sure.”
“Well, yeah,” I say. He’s taken the wind out of my sails a little bit. I expected to hear a lecture, but he seems sympathetic. I point to my hair. “Dyed.” Then my teeth. “Braces.” Then my body. “Better clothes.”
