You do know that you were comatose by the time that stranger brought you a plate of dessert to check on you when he thought you fell into another wall.
The stranger then came to fetch me to change you into something more comfortable and insisted he sleep on the couch until I told him I do not allow sleep sweat on my couch.
The stranger is taking us to breakfast right now to thank us for last night.
And the stranger was worried about you all morning because he knows you don’t like to travel alone.
Devon: I panicked.
Tara: You don’t say.
You should call him.
Devon: I can’t.
Tara: I know you’re scared. It’s scary.
Devon: You are never scared. You are Xena: Warrior Princess. She-rah of Metropolis. Velma Dinkley.
Tara: Who the fuck is Velma Dinkley?
Devon: We are no longer sisters.
Tara: Anyway…
I’m always scared. Everyday. Give the man a chance.
I love you, nutty sister.
Devon: I love you more. I took the rest of the tiramisu from the fridge.
Tell Marcello I’ll text him later.
Tara: I told him not to give you his number.
Devon: I got his mom’s number, too.
Tara: Stopppppp.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jeff
Lesson 30: Sometimes Meredith really does know best.
Devon is missing in action. And no one but me seems to think there’s any cause for concern. It’s been two weeks since Tara’s apartment, undoubtedly long enough to nurse a hangover and rest her legs after sprinting full speed out of that bed and out of my life. Hell, she got over national humiliation in less time than this. But she hasn’t texted—hasn’t shown up for poker night or happy hour—and hasn’t gone with us to CHOP to volunteer.
Syd tells me she isn’t feeling well, which I believe is code for lying in bed watchingVampire Diariesso she doesn’t have to see me, but that feels a little egocentric. Last week, Syd and I took a few selfies with the obnoxious positive message latex-free balloons Syd asked me to pick up for the patients, and sent them over to Devon. She sent back a thumbs up on the group chat. Not even a haha or a lol. I mean, I was holding a balloonthat says Inhale Good Shit in front of my face and Syd held one that says Exhale Bullshit and all we got was a lousy thumbs up? This is more than just her usual avoidance. This is next level. And I feel a little pathetic, but every day that passes without the sound of her laughter or the sight of her smile makes the ache beneath my ribs spread deeper into my gut. I cannot separate my homesickness from my Devonsickness.
I sit down at the table by the window in the hospital’s cafeteria and stare at my phone. It’s been two days since I last reached out. Two days of waiting, checking my phone like an infatuated teeny bopper. Oh, and performing surgery, of course. I can feel the acid eating away at my serosa as the worry gnaws through my brain. With Devon m.i.a. and my sister avoiding me, I’m spiraling. Even the intense focus that usually washes over me in the OR is interrupted every so often by someone else’s phone pinging and my desperate mind thinking it might be mine. It might be her.
I could just shoot her a quick text. She’s teaching anyway, probably doing the Macarena for her eighth graders, wearing her “Surely, Not Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting” tee shirt. I smile at the image. Lucky kids. They get a 180-day ticket to the Devon Gallagher one-woman show.
“Why are you smiling like that at your soft pretzel?” Kevin asks as he slips into the seat across from me.
I rub a hand over my face.
Kev looks me over and starts to unpack his lunch as his eyes assess.
