I grip the bottle in question. He issucha snob.
“I drink soda too,” I tell him. I lift my chin. “I tend to just have what I want.”
“Oh. That’s fine.” He gulps. “Dr. Fields was telling me you’ve only been in this setting a few months?” Grant stares at me.
Why is he still looking at me?
“I worked in the OR exclusively before this, yeah.” I stuff a bite of salad in my mouth, aggressively chewing.
“Ah. So, where else have you worked? Is this your favorite?”
This asshole’s trying to make nice. Ha. Fat chance, motherfucker.
“Labor and delivery at the start of my career. I did some outpatient urology, then the OR, and now this hybrid job.” I cram another bite of spinach and feta into my mouth. The hint of sweetness from the dried cranberries and the creamy feta make for a delicious combo, but Grant’s ruining my lunch. I don’t ask him any follow up questions.
His face falls a little bit when I glance at him. An unwanted pinch of empathy wells up. He has no idea who I am. He’s going to think I’m just being a bitch, and though I shouldn’t care, I find myself wanting to explain.
Under normal circumstances, I’ll talk about anything with anyone. My friends joke that I would read my diary on stage if someone asked me to. But I don’t owe him anything. I clamp my lips shut.
Dr. Fields furrows his brow at me. He’s a young surgeon,only in his early thirties. No gray hair yet, and he’s still got the enthusiasm of a physician early in his career.
“Kendall here has applied to med school,” Dr. Fields says. He glances at me, then back at Grant.
Grant’s eyes flash with surprise before he adjusts his expression to one of nonchalance. God, I hate him.
“Yeah?” He spears a piece of broccoli. I bet he eats the same bland meal every day. “I know a lot of nurses go for their nurse practitioner degrees, but I think med school’s the way to go if you want to further your education. There’s a big problem with scope creep with the midlevels.”
My hands tremble with my rising ire. Of course his mind would immediately jump to how doctors are superior to physician’s assistants or nurse practitioners.
“That’s my backup plan,” I say. “If I don’t get into med school, I mean.” I swallow. “I would never step outside my scope. I would work closely with a physician.”
To my delight, Grant’s face blooms in red, creeping from his neck to his hairline. The pink of his skin stands out against his dark blond hair. Unfortunately, the flush only serves to make him hotter. The warmth moving over his angular jaw and smooth skin is a fascinating sight.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sure you’ll be a great clinician no matter what you choose.”
I scoff. “It’s not always a matter of choice, anyway.”
Dr. Fields’s eyes dart between us. I know he’s trying to figure this out. An awful idea comes to me then—what if Grant knows who I am, and he’s pretending not to? I could think of a few reasons for that. He can feign ignorance if I’m the one who brings it up. Or maybe this is all a sick ploy to humiliate me all over again.
But no, this isn’t high school. That’s not what’s happening. There’s genuine puzzlement on Grant’s face.
“You mentioned urogynecology, right?” Dr. Fields grips his fork. His smile grows strained.
I nod. I’m almost done with my salad; I can get out of this in five minutes. “I like the idea of helping women. Not enough people care about pelvic problems or about women who develop symptoms after giving birth. I want to be a part of helping them improve their quality of lives.”
I side-eye Grant, lifting my chin. I’m glaring at him as though he might be personally responsible for all the fourth-degree perineal tears in the world. I’d love to blame all of women’s suffering on him. “If I go the nurse practitioner route, I’d help with the non-surgical stuff.”
Dr. Fields folds his hands together. “That sounds great, Kendall. Honestly.”
Grant rubs the back of his neck. His skin’s still splotchy. Ha! He’s angry now. He was always easy to rile. He hasn’t changed at all; he’s just hidden his uglier side from view. I bet he’s pursuing becoming a surgeon only for the money, and he doesn’t understand caring about something just because you’re passionate about it.
“I actually have an idea,” Dr. Fields says. His gaze darts back and forth again, landing on each of us in turn. At some point, I might have to tell him about our history, but I don’t feel right about that, even though Grant was awful to me in the past. “Grant has a quality improvement project he’s working on. We’re trying to further cut down on hospital readmissions. Maybe you could help him, Kendall. It’ll be a good thing to talk about in your interview, and you already have a hand in patient care. What do you think?”
My face tingles. “Oh, I doubt Grant has time to meet with me.”
Grant’s made of marble next to me. His arm brushes mine, and I swear cold seeps into my bones from the touch.
“I could probably make a little extra time,” Grant says, hisexpression stoic, like he might deserve praise for enduring the hardship of my presence. That weasel.
