My heart drops. “Sure,” I say.
I follow him into his office and sit down. The glare from the lights paints a bluish glow over our skin. It’s one of the things medical dramas get wrong about hospitals and ORs—the lights aren’t dim. In reality, medical settings are so bright you can see into everyone’s pores.
“I’m not really your boss,” Dr. Fields says. Which is an interesting way to begin a sentence. It is true, though—we have a director, and Dr. Fields doesn’t have authority over me, other than the power dynamics present between doctors and nurses.
“Yeah,” is all I say.
“Dr. Gambill mentioned that he’s pretty certain there’s something going on between you and Dr. Wyndham. Which isn’t against hospital policy, but it’s somewhat frowned upon. Dr. Gambill was concerned about Dr. Wyndham talking to the med school interview committee on your behalf.” He holds his hand up. “Not that you needed it. And I’m aware he had a prior friendship with the physician conducting the interview, so it wasn’t a formal recommendation.”
I sigh. I hate Dr. Gambill. George. Whatever. I don’t hate Grant anymore, but I swear, some people come in and out of my life only to fuck everything up for a while.
“I went to high school with Grant,” I say, and Dr. Fields’s eyebrows fly up. “He . . . wasn’t kind to me. That’s an understatement, but I couldn’t stand him. We’re getting along better as adults. But there’s a history there.” I swallow. “I’m not trading sexual favors to get ahead, if that’s what anyone thinks.”
Dr. Fields flushes brick red. “I know you wouldn’t do that,” he says. “Your application speaks for itself. I just wanted to letyou know.” He brushes nonexistent dust from his desk. “I didn’t know you knew Dr. Wyndham from before.”
I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that I’m secretly impressed by these mythical women who can somehow improve their career trajectory with sex.
“I didn’t ask him to call the committee,” I say. “And at that time, though we knew each other from before, nothing was going on. I was still angry at him, based on our history. I think it was his misguided attempt at making up for how he treated me.”
“So that’s why you seemed so tense around him at first.” He rubs his chin. “I’m glad he has evolved as a person, then. And that you’ve, uh, worked things out.”
“Do you plan to have a conversation with him too? Or just me?” I sit up straighter.
Dr. Fields flushes again. “Him too, obviously,” he says. “It sounds like we have a few things to discuss.” He smiles. “For what it’s worth, though, Iamglad you got into med school. It’s well-deserved. Just, you know, be careful.”
I smile back. It’s not until later, when I’m in my car and on my way home, that I start to get anxious. What if George contacts someone and gets me kicked out of med school before I even start the program? Could he really do that?
Damn it. Now I’ve got something brand new to worry about.
I’m in a foul mood the day before Halloween. Normally it’s my favorite time of year. I should be high on the fall weather, the rich colors of the leaves—cranberry red, mustard yellow, fiery orange— and the ambient pumpkin scent in all my favorite places.
I haven’t spent any more time with Grant this week. I’ve declined other invitations to hang out, which he has extendedwith increasing levels of desperation, and now we are at the end of his rotation. I couldn’t stand it anymore, though. Even if our families come around, the road there feels too fraught. The fact he gave his parents a piece of his mind is good, but I can’t decide if that matters.
I also feel icky and worried about all the stuff with George. So there’s that.
Now I’ve left the clinic early to meet Dad for our monthly dinner, and he’s not here yet. I’m standing outside the barbecue place, surrounded by the scent of smoked meat, tapping my foot against the pavement. I call him again, then text. No answer.
I sit on the curb and wait longer. The sun is setting now and it’s cooling by the minute so that I have to wrap my sweater tighter around me.
We’ve been meeting like this for a few months now. Has he forgotten? I’m reminded of a few occasions, just after he and my mom divorced, where I waited on him—at school, at a friend’s house—and he never showed, so someone had to call my mom to come get me.
He’s got a new girlfriend now, this lady who works down at the post office in Blacksburg. Could he be with her? But no, he would have called or texted.
Or maybe he decided not to make the drive after all. Still, I think he would have let me know.
My thoughts circle, just like they did when I was a kid—has he been drinking? Did he get arrested? Is he dead?
Although I would have heard about that last one.
I’m left with an uncomfortable conclusion—he’s always disappointed me. This stretch of good behavior lasted longer, and he seemed sincere, but it’s possible he’s incapable of true reform.
I stand up and brush my hands over my pants to wipe offthe bits of debris clinging to them. I text him again when I get to my car.
Me
I guess you aren’t coming.
I lean my head against the headrest. My emotions press against my skin, and I hold them back like a dam. I will not shed any more tears over that man.
