I slide my phone back into my pocket and turn the corner.
“Dr. Trooper.” I nod in greeting as I watch him pour a cup of coffee.
“Diana. How’s the patient in 405 doing?”
“Better. The prescription has taken down the fever and the swelling. I think he should be able to go home by tomorrow.”
“That’s good.” He takes his cup and heads for the door.
“Oh, and Diana?”
I turn to look at him as I start to pull my food from the freezer. He’s waiting at the entrance.
“Yeah?”
“Think you’ve got something in the fridge.” Then he’s gone.
I take a beat, confused as hell, before I open the fridge and see my name on a bag.
I pull it out, and inside is the same meal from last night. Still warm, as if it was just dropped off.
Perfect. Just like everything else the man does.
I pull my phone out and worry my lip between my teeth as I debate whether to call or text him. In the end, fear of not knowing what to say more than “thanks” wins out, and I open a chat.
Thank you for dinner.
I send a picture with it so he knows what I’m talking about. Which I’m pretty sure he does. He was the only one at the restaurant last night who I knew, and the only one who heard me say how it was something I could eat almost daily.
Quicker than I expected, he texts back.
Hopefully it’s still warm. I took a guess on when you’d been taking a break.
Oh my gosh. Was he here? Or did he just have Dr. Trooper drop it off?
I know they’re close, but how close? Are all members in the club close? How does that even work? I had one, maybe two best friends growing up. When Mom got sick, everything outside the bubble just disappeared, including friends. And then she died, and I focused on school. Since then, unless someone works at the hospital, I don’t talk to them. Not that I don’t want to, but I just don’t have the time. After work, I sleep or fix up the house. There isn’t a lot of socializing in my life, even if I had a ton of people asking to hang out nightly. Which I don’t.
It’s perfect. You didn’t have to, but I’m totally eating it over the frozen roast beef and mashed potatoes I had waiting for me.
His response is almost immediate.
Sounds horrible. Remind me to cook enough dinner for you to have leftovers.
I shake my head at his words and let my fingers fly. Not putting much thought into what I’m saying, just telling the truth.
Leftovers never last. Between my late-night cravings and Nana, our plans for a good lunch or dinner the next day go out the window when midnight hunger hits.
I set my phone down and dig in. The smell of the food is too good to resist any longer.
A few more texts come in, but I ignore them till I get halfway done. Which doesn’t take long. I learned early in my career that it’s best to speed through eating because you don’t know when your break will suddenly end. And with the way today keeps going, I’m going to need my energy.
When I finally look back at my phone, I see he sent four more messages.
Double remind me to make more than I should.
Or maybe I should just make you midnight snacks to prevent the issue.
A leftover before the leftover sort of thing.
