Neither of us brings up the other tutoring, the sex lessons that keep me up staring at the ceiling with anxiety.
I’m off today, and using my time wisely: lying in Bernard’s bed in sweatpants and a hoodie, surrounded by textbooks, failing a practice quiz on my phone. It would go easier on a laptop, I think, but my brother said no to my request to borrow his, and I don’t have one.
My family wasn’t ever destitute, but getting Jason to the pros was a significant financial investment, and it never really occurred to my parents to save anything for me. I didn’t want to add a computer to my loan burden when there was a perfectly good lab full of them at school. I guess that was short-sighted.
A tap on the door pulls me from the cardiovascular system and my financial pickle. Bernard pokes his head in. “Ella? Can I grab some stuff real quick?”
I glance at the clock. It’s not quite ten, but they must have had a short practice. Or maybe they have a game today. I haven’t kept up. “Yeah. Of course. Come in.”
Bernard edges the door open and pauses at the sight of me buried in textbooks. He's in jeans and a Henley with the sleeves shoved up his forearms, which are extremely muscular, a detail I absolutely do not need right now. "Studying?"
"Dying."
"That bad?"
I hold up my phone and show him the score: 54%. He winces. "The questions are asking me to identify the symptoms and treatments of different M.I.’s.”
He grabs a hoodie from the closet and leans against the doorframe. "Have you eaten?"
"I had coffee."
"That's not food. Come with me to Gianna's and fuel up. You can study there."
I rest a hand on my stomach, which growls at his mention of Gianna’s food. "Fine."
Gianna’s Meatball Joint is a fifteen-minute walk from the apartment, tucked into a block of converted row houses with a faded hand-painted sign above the door. Inside, it's warm and smells like garlic and delicious, savory food, looking all cottage-core with rustic wood and fancy old lighting.
“They’re not really open yet, but Gianna lets the Fury come whenever.” Bernard walks in like he owns the place, which, based on how much money he probably spends here, he functionally might. A woman about our age with dark hair piled on top of her head emerges from the kitchen and points a wooden spoon at him.
"Howie. Sit. You want the usual?"
"Please. And whatever she wants." He gestures at me. “Gianna, this is Rookie’s baby sister. Ella.”
Gianna turns her attention to me and does a full scan. Her eyes move quickly, the way another woman sizes you up when you show up with a man she knows well. "This is the baby sister?"
"Ella," I say, extending my hand.
She shakes it. Firm grip, calloused palms. “You caused quite a stir with Thing 1 and Thing 2.”
I roll my eyes, liking her description of my brother and his lifelong best friend. “Yeah, well, most of that is due to Jason being an idiot.”
"Mm-hm." She looks at Bernard with an odd expression. "Your usual plus a meatball sub for the lady. Sit down."
We take a corner table, and I spread my books out while Bernard gets us water from the metal carafe. It's quiet—too early for the lunch rush, too late for breakfast. The restaurant is empty except for a kitchen worker unstacking chairs and the distant clatter of pans.
"Okay," Bernard says, pulling my review book toward him. "Cardiac symptoms. Walk me through it."
I stare at him. "Right now?"
"You've got the book. I've got nowhere to be. Rookie's doing photos for the beef jerky people until like four." He flips to the chapter on cardiac electrophysiology and turns the book to face me. "SA node. Go."
I take a breath. "The sinoatrial node generates the impulse. It's the pacemaker. Sends the signal through the atria?—"
"Which contract?"
He talks me through the whole thing, and I’m surprised when the answers flow from my mind readily. I’m not even distracted or anxious. Bernard grins. "See? You just nailed it."
I stare at him. I did just nail it. The same sequence I scrambled on my phone this morning came out clean and in order.
