I know I haven’t been a spectacular date. I haven’t wowed him with either my intellect or charm. In fact, I’ve been rather distracted. “Is that good or bad?”
“It’s... You’re slightly easier to talk to when you’re in a coma.” He winces again. “And that completely didn’t come out right. I mean, I can’t tell what you’re thinking, what you think of me. Usually I can tell, especially with women. And that sounded obnoxious, too. I’m blowing this.”
I can’t help but smile. “You’re not. I think you’re charming.”
He wipes his forehead in exaggerated relief. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Entirely my fault. My mind is elsewhere.” I’m the one botching this date, which is not going to make my mother happy. She’ll want a full report.
“Completely understandable.” He takes a deep breath. “I know you need a friend now more than you need further complications, even if they come with parental approval.”
He intends me to smile at that, and I do. Heischarming. He’s...safe. He won’t leap up on top of the table or take me running over rooftops or talk in cryptic riddles. And that’s agoodthing. I need safe and stable and good. Also, he seems to inexplicably like me, as distracted and moody as I’ve been. He’s perfect. Almost too perfect. He could be the fantasy man in a coma-induced world, and Peter could be real and waiting for me to wake up in Lost...except that Mom is here.
I do my best to hold up my end of the conversation for the rest of the dinner. The falafel is spicy, but I choke it down with lots of water. I stick to only the one glass of Chardonnay.
He pays, and I don’t object. I have no idea if I’m still employed, and he is. Plus this was his idea. His and my mother’s, oddly.
I stand and pick up my purse. It isn’t truly mine. I found it in the hospital’s lost-and-found. Mine was lost in the car wreck. I’m also wearing clothes from the lost-and-found. “About the second part of the date...the apartment is bound to be a disaster zone. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”
“I have experience transforming disasters. As I told you, I’m excellent at alphabetizing. Probably should have been a librarian. I’m told the hours are much better.” He folds his used napkin as he stands and tucks it under the rim of his plate.
“I think you’re exactly where you should be. You seem good at it.”
“I am.” He opens the door to the restaurant for me, and the bell above it rings as we exit. “I don’t mean that as conceited as it sounds. Part of why I chose medicine is that I am good at it. Trust me, I’m terrible at lots of things.”
“Like what? Tell me one of your flaws. So far, I don’t think you have any.”
William smiles. “In that case, I don’t want to shatter your illusions of me.”
“Given that you are so perfect, why aren’t you dating anyone?” I imagine my mother concocting him in her kitchen, adding all the ingredients to make the perfect man. Even his imperfections are perfect. He should be able to erase Peter from my mind.
“You seriously want my dating history this early into knowing me?”
“Or your flaws. Your choice.”
He heaves an exaggerated sigh as he unlocks his car door and ushers me inside. “You’re not asking the easy questions. How about where I come from or which sports team I like? Can’t we start there?” He gets in and starts the car.
I laugh. “Okay. Fine.”
I guide him to our apartment, obscurely relieved that he doesn’t know where it is. At least he doesn’t know everything about me already.
As he parks in front of the building, I look up at the darkened windows. Mom was right. I don’t want to do this myself. The falafel rolls inside my stomach, and I wish I hadn’t eaten it. I want to ask him to take me back to the hospital to be with Mom. Instead, I step out of the car. So does William.
“Do you want me to go first?” he asks.
I shake my head and walk toward the apartment building. I stop. Turning, I hold out my hand toward him. “Can we go in at the same time?” I know I sound like a child, but Ifeellike a child, as if I’m returning home with a bad report card.
He takes my hand. His hand is soft, warm, reassuring. I think of Peter’s hand, rough and hard from climbing and swinging, but also as warm and comforting. I walk up the steps to the apartment, holding William’s hand.
I unlock the door and push it open.
The odor of overripe fruit and rancid milk rolls into the hallway. William takes a step backward. “Coma,” I remind him. “I don’t normally keep the apartment like this.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to faint?” I look at him curiously. I’ve never seen a man faint before. I don’t think I’d be able to catch him effectively if he really swooned. He’s very broad-shouldered, rather muscular. He must work out. Or heft his patients up regularly. For a second, I’m distracted by the image of him bench-pressing patients.
“Just wishing for a hazmat suit. I’ll be fine.”
