Doctors in formal wear always look faintly absurd. I know what their days look like. I know who threw up in whose shoes during residency. Seeing them with champagne flutes and wearing something other than scrubs feels like everyone is in costume.
Savin meets me near the entrance and hands me a glass.
“You clean up well,” he comments with a whistle.
“You look like a man who spends too much time in committee meetings.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “Cruel.”
He laughs and steers me toward a cluster of board members. I smile when required, shake hands, and answer questions about trauma volume, staffing needs, and donor priorities. A retired banker tells me he has “always admired medicine,” and I stop myself from asking whether he admires funding it.
Then, Savin is pulled away by the chief of surgery, and I end up seated beside Karpov from neurosurgery while someone on stage thanks a list of names.
Karpov leans toward me with a grin. “You look like you’d rather be intubating someone.”
“I’d rather be sleeping,” I admit with a chuckle.
He laughs and holds out his drink. “Fair.”
A waiter sets down a plate of canapés. Karpov picks one up, eyes it, and says, “I never trust food this small.”
“That one looks expensive and disappointing.”
Karpov points at me with the canapé. “Someone has strong opinions.”
“I have many. Most would get me removed from this ballroom.”
“That’s why you should stay.”
He starts telling me a story about a resident who fainted during a craniotomy after bragging all week about his stomach. I laugh despite myself. Karpov is good company when he isn’t trying too hard. He does voices. He imitates the resident perfectly. I sip my champagne and relax my shoulders for the first time all night.
Then, the back of my neck prickles.
When I look up, Lev is standing across the room in a dark suit, watching me. I suck in a gasp, but I can’t look away.
He should not be here. He should not know where I am. And he definitely should not be looking at me like he walked into this room for me.
Every person between us disappears. Karpov says something, and I miss it. I’m too busy watching Lev mouth something in my direction.
Leave.
I stop breathing for a second, then force it back.
“Polina?” Karpov asks.
I tear my eyes off Lev. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You went pale.”
“I… I need the restroom. Excuse me.”
Karpov glances over his shoulder, following my line of sight, but Lev has moved. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.” I set my glass down before I drop it. “I’ll be back.”
I stand too fast. The room tilts, then settles.
Savin spots me from across the ballroom and starts toward me with concern on his face. I lift a hand and mouth, “I’m fine.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets me go.
