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“What else am I supposed to do with my day?” He sat down on the couch with a huff.
“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
He didn’t argue. The refrigerator was depressing though. I managed to find some eggs, green onion, some Romaine lettuce, and made a little salad, scrambled some eggs, and put them into small tortillas. He watched me the whole time with a curious look in his eye, like he wasn’t sure if I was real, or if I was a figment of his imagination.
I wasn’t sure if I was real, either. It all felt like a stupid dream, and at any second, I’d wake up.
He ate sitting at the table. I watched him, then started to clean the kitchen. It was a mess, because of course it was. We didn’t talk, and the only sound was the TV, tuned to Law & Order: SVU. Nothing was better for ambiance than the cold, hard hammer of justice.
When he finished, he joined me in the kitchen, and helped finish straightening. I brushed up against him several times, and it was like a dance, a domestic approximation of a mating ritual. I wanted to tell him how badly I needed him in my life, even if he wasn’t my teacher anymore, but I kept my mouth shut. He was too drunk for that conversation, anyway, and I didn’t even know if I ever wanted to have it.
I steered him to the couch and sat him down. “No more drinking.”
He smirked. “Unless you’re staying over, I don’t know how much of a say you have.”
“You want me to stay over?”
“If you do, I can promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
I was tempted. But again, drunk.
“Maybe tomorrow, if you stay sober.”
“You’re coming back?”
“Someone needs to feed you and make sure you stay alive.”
His smile slowly disappeared. “You’re not my girlfriend. You don’t owe me anything.”
I curled my toes and took a breath before answering. “I know that,” I said slowly. “But without me, you’re going to spiral into self-pity and alcoholism, and honestly, that would be a fucking waste of your talent.”
“Ah, thank you,” he said, smiling again. “I knew you cared. About my talent, at least.”
“Don’t be a dick. Seriously, don’t.” I walked toward the door. “No more drinking.”
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, darling.”
“I guess you will.”
I went to leave, but he called my name, and I paused, looking back.
“You showing up was the highlight of my day,” he said, eyes looking tired and glassy—and yet still handsome, despite everything.
I felt a little thrill, and hid the smile by leaving, and closing the door behind me.
He was a goddamn mess. Without his job, I could only imagine what he was going through. He spent his whole life in that hospital, and basically treated this apartment like some place he had to go to between shifts. Surgery was his entire life—and now, his life was crashing down.
He needed me, like I needed him—and maybe even more.
26
Piers
I woke up hungover again, but at least the sweet memory of Lori cooking me dinner and making sure I didn’t drown myself still lingered in the back of my mind like a soothing balm.
Even if I knew it was wrong to want her to keep coming back.
I showered, made coffee, and was tempted to break into the bottle of vodka I had hidden in my closet—but decided against it.
Drinking wouldn’t solve my problems. I was being pathetic, and I knew it. I was wallowing in my anger and self-pity, all because I didn’t have any other direction in my life. I’d spent so long becoming a surgeon, then defining myself through my work. Without it, I didn’t know what I was, or what I’d do.
But Lori showed me something by coming to my apartment, despite everything.
She gave a shit about me, and maybe I could give a shit about myself, too.
I turned on the light in the small office I had next to my bedroom. I barely used it, since I spent all my time in the hospital, but now I went through my filing cabinet and began to amass a pile of patient charts and folders that I’d kept over the years.
I was meticulous about my charting, to the point that I made backup copies, just in case something happened at the hospital. My patients came first, always before my loyalty to the institution. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the most recent charts—these covered my early career, up to about a year ago, when I started to keep everything in my office at the hospital. Which meant Gina and Caroline had all of those.
Still, it was a good thing I started out so intense about my paperwork, because buried in the relatively large stack I had balanced precariously in front of me on the kitchen table were several very rich and very old patients that might be my ticket back into the administration’s good graces.
