“Your hatred of cute things is one reason I’m convinced you’re part demon.”
“I don’thatethem.” She yanks the invitation from my grasp, and her pretty lips curl. Is that disgust or disbelief? Not sure. Perhaps a bit of disdain, too. “Who names their daughter Sapphire?”
“What should I do, Joss?”
It would be nice to see some of my old friends again, Grace included. I’d truly like to go, but going alone, aware she knows about my unrequited crush on her... And did I mention thealonepart?
Ugh.
“Obviously, you’re not going.” Joss continues to scowl at the invitation. “I mean, duh. Asher, the girl broke your heart. Why would she even invite you?”
“We’re friends. And she didn’t break my heart, really. Not on purpose.” I scratch my neck. “She didn’t even know. I read into something that wasn’t there.”
The truth? She didn’t take me seriously. Same as Katherine. No one takes me seriously, it seems. I’m not even sureItake me seriously. That’s the theme of my life—work, women, whatever. Not serious. Not important. Not good enough. Feel like a bit of a fraud if I’m honest.
Hoping the new stint in therapy will help.
But seriously. When did I get so... needy?
Don’t like it. Not at all.
What is this...squirmyfeeling that likes to linger in the dark places?
“You sure this girl wasn’t just leading you on?” Joss asks.
I’ve considered that. Disregarded it, too. “Grace wouldn’t do that. She just thought I was joking when I flirted.”
Skeptical Joss emerges. “I don’t buy it.”
It’s true, though.
Perhaps I was born with some sort of shroud over my personality, one that tells others I lack depth. Asher Foley is a running joke. Not serious boyfriend material. The funny doctor. A class clown.
A few patients recently left me for my older partner. Why’s that again? I don’t know. Don’t know if I want to know.
Recent comments from nurses and fellow surgeons have me itchy. Implying I’m first-rate fun, but perhaps practice second-rate medicine?
Never spoken directly, of course.
But are they thinking it?
My statistics are great. Complications low. Patient satisfaction high.
But I feel like an imposter. These weights of inadequacy aren’t particularly light. Who keeps putting them on me?
Oh, right.
Cue Taylor Swift: It’s me. I’m the problem.
I want to laugh it off. Take the invitation from her. Trash it to avoid everything. I shrug instead. “She thought I was joking, and I thought she was shy. It’s not a big deal. It’s just—”
I don’t want to go alone.
Can’t say that.
Not even to Joss.
She doesn’t know all my insecurities. Or... I don’t think she does. And I divulge little of my love life to her, just as she does to me. She knows, however, that my awkward past withthe girl who didn’t know I was in love with heris the reason for my strict No Dating At Work policy—something that came up very early in our friendship.
