“Layla,” came a voice from the other side of the curtain, way too familiar to her already, but brand-new, too.
Because he was saying hername. Deep and scratchy. A rasp of rolling thunder, instead of a lightning bolt. It was definitely the first time he’d ever said it.
“Um?” she squeaked back. She was practicallynakedin here.
“I had someone bring shoes,” he said, not acknowledging the squeak.
“I…Shoes?” She said it like she didn’t know the word. She was still hearing her name in Griffin-translation. Something about the way he said that first syllable, a leaning-in.Lay-la.
“Madame,” came a second voice. “I bring you some athletic shoes. A few sizes, as your friend suggests.”
“Oh,” she managed, her eyes drifting to the hooks.Option two, she thought.They brought me something for option two.
She wanted to cry in relief, if only for having the decision made for her. She’d worry about what not going back would mean later.
“Thank you,” she said, then added, “Merci.”
“The Galeries closes soon, madame,” came the woman’s reply, which was—with the accent especially—very motivating.
She reached for the jeans, face flushing. While she clumsily unbuttoned and unzipped them, she could hear the low tones ofGriffin’s voice speaking to the woman before silence descended again. She wondered if Griffin had wandered away like a cloud of smoke, wafting his way through the don’t-mortgage-your-house-for-it women’s clothing department.
Then, from what sounded like way too close, came his voice again.
“Does this happen to you a lot?”
She paused, one leg in. “Does what happen a lot?”
He cleared his throat. “You go on trips and manage sick people the whole time?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. She lifted her other foot, sliding it into the other leg. Jeans felt good at the moment. Comforting and right.
“Sort of,” she finally said.
“Sort of?”
She hopped a little, settling the jeans over her hips. A good fit, the kind she liked. Loose in the legs, like she was used to with scrubs.
“I travel for work,” she answered. “I do physician leave and shortage replacements at hospitals around the country. So, yeah. Trips. Sick people.”
He made a noise, a littleMmof understanding that she felt strangely warmed by. It was easier to talk to him through a curtain—those dark eyes off her, that frustration on his face hidden from hers. She thought, maybe, that he’d go quiet again, and was prepared to still count one normal, civil exchange as a victory. But right as she did up the button on the jeans, he spoke again.
“What kind of doctor?”
“A hospitalist,” she said, pleasantly surprised by his curiosity. “That’s a doctor who—”
“I know what it is.”
She closed her eyes, pursed her lips tight, grateful he couldn’t see this cringe of embarrassment. Of course he knew what a hospitalist was. Someone with scars like his didn’t escape prolonged hospital stays. He’d probably met a half dozen doctors like her, late adds to an already big care team: trauma and critical care, plastic surgeons, infectious disease specialists, probably a couple of psychiatrists. She thought of the burn patients she’d treated—coming on board for Covid infections acquired during their stays, an allergic response to a new medicine, a patch of bedsores on a part of the skin that had escaped the burn injury.
She almost apologized, but he spoke first.
“You shouldn’t have helped her.”
She froze in the act of reaching for the sweater, back on the boat again: Samantha sick over the side, Emily’s panicked, pleading gaze, Jamie hovering uselessly from far away.
“What was I supposed to do?” she said, too quiet, not sure if she was answering him or asking herself.
“Not help her,” he said, closer now. Right on the other side of the curtain, if she had to guess. The skin on her arms prickled with goose bumps, and she took the sweater off its hanger.
