17
Polina
I spend the week trying to outrun a man who keeps catching me anyway.
Not in person, on the street, or at my door.
He catches me in the gaps.
Between surgeries, while I wait for a call from pathology. In the elevator after a twelve-hour shift. In my kitchen, as the kettle starts, I remember the last time he stood there with his sleeves rolled up, acting like he belonged in my apartment.
I take every case I can.
A ruptured appendix comes in at six. A multi-car collision dumps three patients into trauma after lunch. I take two and hand the third to Savin only because I need another surgeon. A drunk man with a gash on his face calls me a bitch while I stitch him up. I tell him I’ve been called worse by better men.
Savin notices on Tuesday, when he catches me outside recovery and invites me to a hospital fundraiser on Friday night to “blowoff steam.” A charity gala with donors and board members. A room full of people who want doctors in formal clothes so they can clap for us between courses.
I tell him no.
He asks again on Wednesday.
I ignore him on Thursday.
By Friday, I’m too tired to come up with an excuse.
As I sign my last chart and scrub out, Savin is waiting near the locker room doors with his suit jacket over one arm and a look on his face that says he already knows I’m trying to back out.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He holds out his hands. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You’ve got that look on your face. Whatever speech you rehearsed, save it.”
He falls into step beside me anyway. “Just come for one hour.”
“That sounds less like an invitation and more like a hostage situation.”
“I’m not picky about methods.” He hooks a thumb toward the elevator. “Show up, drink something overpriced, let three donors thank you for being a hero, and then disappear if you want.”
“Why do you care so much if I go?”
“Because all week, you’ve looked like you’re waiting for bad news. I can’t fix whatever that is, but I can drag you into aroom with food and intelligent conversation until you remember there’s a world outside trauma.”
I sputter my lips and reply, “You make this sound like I’m the one who needs charity.”
He shrugs. “Maybe you do.”
“One hour.” I hold up a finger. “I need to run home and change.”
His grin comes fast. “That’s all I need.”
“Do not make me regret this.”
“No promises.”
I go home, shower, and choose a black dress that hugs my body, skims my knees, and makes me look more rested than I am. I leave my hair down, put on dark lipstick, and fasten my mother’s bracelet. I try not to think about what she would say if she saw me standing here choosing a dress while a Morozov keeps pulling at my life from the edges.
The hotel ballroom is full by the time I arrive.
