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Connor and I make eye contact. I nod. He raises an eyebrow. And that’s as far as we get communication-wise.
I force myself to walk over to the cabinet to grab a bowl at a slow-normal pace. Even though I usually skip breakfast, my stomach is about to revolt and start eating my other organs if I don’t get food inside it soon. I settle for a bowl of healthy bran cereal that tastes like sawdust in my mouth. I don’t even know who bought it. Probably Noah, just as a front for his candy stores.
Connor, meanwhile, is eating a heaping plateful of eggs and toast and bacon. He’s sipping from a fresh cup of coffee and the aromas are killing me. I munch another bite of bran and know I most closely resemble a cow chewing cud. Thank God Connor refuses to acknowledge my presence.
Every time my spoon clinks against the side of my bowl, I flinch. Every time his coffee mug hits the counter, my hand tightens around my spoon. Our exchange of eating at opposite ends of the kitchen island can’t last longer than five minutes, but I’m near my breaking point by the time he finishes the last bite of his toast. There’s an untouched slice of bacon on his plate that I know he’s about to toss. My eyes home in on it wistfully. My mouth salivates.
He pushes his plate in my direction instead of loading it in the dishwasher. Connor is notoriously tidy. He doesn’t leave his dishes lying around for me to take care of, so this gesture is pointed.
I don’t take the bait though. I wait for him to grab his stuff off the counter and head out the door. One second passes, two, three, four, five, then I yank the bacon off his plate and eat the whole thing in two bites. I hate how good it tastes.
Though neither of us initiated conversation, it’s still clear who came out the victor of this round. I dump the rest of my cereal down the drain and flick on the disposal.Chapter SixteenConnorI have plenty of friends. Buddies from college. Guys I studied with in med school. A crew I meet up with on Saturdays to play football in the park. In other words, a full roster. I don’t need another friend in my life, and I’m uninterested in being rejected by Natalie for a fourth time. She might not see it that way. In fact, I know she doesn’t. She thought I should have apologized yesterday at the hospital, but that’s laughable. Here are the three times in which she stomped on my heart and expected me not to react: first she put parameters on our would-be relationship, demanding we only spend one night together rather than actually pursue something serious. She wanted a one-night stand. Fine. I gave in even though I didn’t agree. Then when it actually happened, she left me high and dry. If you’ve lost count, that’s strike number two. Now, she wants us to forget about all the kissing and glorious sex in the study room at the fundraiser because apparently she thinks it would be best if I stayed in her friend zone. No thanks. As I said, I don’t need another friend.
The funny thing is, I was going to apologize about Saturday. I had it planned out in my head, but then she torpedoed that idea at work yesterday. Now, I’ll deliver that apology over my dead body.
I bet she expected me to capitulate to her, to say something like, “Of course, Natalie. Whatever you want. I want you in my life however I can get you. Friends is fine. Let’s go get our nails done together, and after, we can talk about where we were when we got our first period.”
I’m not handling this well. I’ll admit that. But there is such a thing as being pushed too far. I’ve waited for what feels like an eternity to finally fess up to the feelings I have for her, and now it’s turned into a royal mess.
She doesn’t want to have a relationship with me. Noted. I can take a hint.
Also, for the record, I like to think I would behave like a perfect gentleman if not for the fact that Natalie and I have to constantly see each other throughout the day. As if living on the same property isn’t bad enough, we have to scrub in for a case together later that morning, and it’s important that she and I work in sync to ensure the patient isn’t under anesthesia for longer than necessary.
As the only attending in the operating room, I’m technically running the show. Natalie knows that, and though she defers to me and gives me all the platitudes one would expect in a situation like this, it’s not hard to read between the lines. It doesn’t help that the case is more difficult than usual. The patient has facial burns in areas that require extreme caution. I make it clear to the tech running the mesher that there can be absolutely no mistakes. We need every spare millimeter we can get from the autograft.
