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I should go home.
That’s what I do most of the time on nights like this. It’s fine as long as I keep my beeper handy.
Tonight, however, going home is not an option.
Connor is there.
Probably.
My anger flares at the idea that he might be out with Dr. Navarro. Maybe he’s taking her for a late dinner. Maybe her hand is snaking underneath the table to grip his knee again. Maybe it’s even seeking out new, forbidden territory. I want to growl.
I know they’re friends. I know they’ve done research together. However, I also know she put her hand on his knee earlier because she’s interested in him. I know what I saw was not a friendly touch. Friends don’t grip knees. Friends don’t look at each other the way she was looking at him.
I go lie down in a call room, folding myself into the bottom bunk and trying to convince myself I’m comfortable. The mattress needed replacing ten years ago, but it’s fine. It gives me something new to stew about.
My phone dings with a new text and I reach for it instantly, hoping to see Connor’s name and then feeling deflated when I see Lindsey’s. It’s silly. Connor doesn’t even have my number.
Lindsey: I know you’re saving lives at the moment, but I’ve been browsing online for dresses we could wear to the hospital’s fundraiser next week. I took the liberty of ordering you something. You cannot wear that black dress again!!! It’s threadbare at this point AND it’s not fancy enough. You’ll thank me once you see what I picked for you.Oh God, I’d completely forgotten about that event.
Natalie: Can you send the link? How much did it cost? I’ll Venmo you.Lindsey: No link. You’ll freak, I think. Just trust me. Also, don’t worry about $$. It’s a gift for me, really, to get one evening without having to stare at that black eyesore.Natalie: The dress is not that bad! But fine. Thanks. It’s not like I have time to go shopping before next Friday anyway.Lindsey: Good! I’ve also booked us hair and makeup appointments too. OKAYDON’TKILLMEBYE.I know she expects me to protest—I’ve never been one to enthusiastically plop myself down into a salon chair for hours on end—but I think back to Dr. Navarro and the way she looked at the coffee shop earlier: smooth coifed hair, perfectly applied makeup, tailored clothes. She made me feel childish in comparison because I know I could never transform myself into someone so refined even if I were given all the right tools and all the time in the world. I’d only end up poking an eye out with a mascara wand.
I have half a second to wallow and then my beeper goes off and I bolt out of bed.
All thoughts of Connor and Dr. Navarro and fundraisers and fancy dresses are long gone as I step back into the role I’m most comfortable with. No evening gown will ever feel as good as a white coat. The rest of my night passes in a blur of activity, and the next morning, I crash on my bed in the guest house, too exhausted to worry about anything but sleep.Life stands in the way for Connor and me. Our shifts don’t overlap over the weekend. When I get home on Saturday, he’s already gone. My anger over what he did during the lecture dissolves and morphs into despair over the fact that I haven’t seen him since I bolted from the auditorium. I head out for brunch on Sunday morning with the two other new fellows, and when I return to the townhouse, there are two guys waiting for Connor on the stoop, tossing around a football.
They eye me as I make my way up the stairs.
“Friend of Connor’s?” one of them asks with a wide smile.
Before I can answer, the door opens and there he is, the man himself.
He’s wearing workout clothes and a backward baseball hat. He looks like the big man on campus instead of the intimidating surgeon, and I freeze on the top stair as he turns around and spots me.
“Oh, hey. I was about to lock up,” he says, putting his key into his pocket.
“Headed out?”
He nods. “Going over to the park for a game.”
I stand beside him and look up, trying to train my features into something akin to boredom rather than disappointment.
I think he can see right through me because he tilts his head and studies me. “Want to come?”
“I’m supposed to meet Lindsey in fifteen. We’re going to a movie.”
His friends comment to Connor that they’ll be late if they don’t hustle.
“Later?” he asks, looking back at me as he starts to head down the stairs after them.
I nod. “Sure.”
Later means nothing. Later isn’t a concrete plan at a concrete time. After our movie, Lindsey talks me into a pedicure, and then I’m home again, all by myself. I sit in the guest house, looking out at the garden and past the windows into the townhouse, waiting to see movement, but it’s late afternoon by the time I huff out an indignant groan and force myself to go to the grocery store. I pick the worst possible time. It’s so packed, it takes me twice as long as it normally would, and when I get home, I see a note on the counter from Connor.
