“Well, I know nothing about writing a novel, but I’m fairly certain they don’t write themselves.” Even without looking at him, I can hear the smile in his voice.
“And I’m fairly certain time doesn’t stop, so…” I shrug and finally look up to meet his gaze.
He bumps the side of his foot against the side of mine, sending an electric sizzle charging up my thigh. It’s such a casual thing, so innocuous, but I feel that point of contact everywhere.
“Is this why there are so many books all over your mom’s room?” Cosmos asks, eyes sparkling playfully. “Are you a romance writer working on a deadline?”
“No,” I scoff. “Of course not. My aunt brought those.”
I could explain that I’m getting my MFA and working on a literary historical fiction novel, but what if he hates historical fiction? Or worse, asks to read it?
“What are you reading?” I point to the book he’s tapping against his thigh to change the subject.
He turns it over and shows me the cover.The Book of Hoursby Maria Rainer Rilke. One of my favorites. A hot doctor who reads Rilke? How is he single?
“May I?” he asks, motioning at the bench next to me.
I nod, but scoot closer to the edge so there’s plenty of space between us. He sits down with a heavy sigh and rubs the back of his neck.
He’s silent for so long that I wonder why he stayed. A bird chirps from somewhere nearby. I’m not sure what else to say, and I’m not one to fill the silence, so I turn back to my computer and stare at the blank screen.
“I like to come out here and read poetry when…” He sucks in a breath and scrubs his palm along his cheek, absentmindedly and repetitively. His expression is cast in shadows from a passing cloud, but the pain on his face is easy to read. Something happened.
I rub my thumb rhythmically over the smooth surface of my computer. “Did you… did you lose someone?”
He drags the toe of his shoe along a crack in the cobblestones and looks down at them as if he’s looking through them, beyond them, back into the sterile room where they perform surgeries.
“When I was little, I wanted to be a superhero. Save lives, you know?” He tilts his head in my direction and looks up. “Either that or a salsa dancer.”
I think he means it as a joke, but it’s easy to picture him salsa dancing. Every move he makes is controlled and fluid at the same time. Casuallysensual. I can almost feel his long fingers wrapping around mine to lead me in a dance, thighs tangling the way they do for salsa dancers, a palm spread against the small of my back, pulling me closer. Picturing it makes my cheeks burn and my insides melt. I need to stop thinking about the way he moves.
“I didn’t realize that being in a position to save lives also means there’s the possibility of losing them.” He makes a sound that’s too derisive to be a laugh, and I want to reach out and touch him, offer some comfort. But what comfort can I give? I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone on an operating table. I never will.
“What did you want to be?” he asks.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, even when I was little. But after the feedback I got today, it feels too raw and vulnerable to say it aloud. It feels stupid to want something so unattainable. So, I deflect. “Nothing as exciting as a salsa dancer.”
He chuckles, low and soft, but the sound dies too quickly on the breeze and silence replaces it again. He taps his book against his leg and pastes on a smile. “When things… don’t go well, reading poetry helps. I guess you could say poetry is my medicine.”
I like the thought of poetry as medicine. It makes sense to me. I’ve experienced it myself. Books have always been my escape, but when Mom was first diagnosed, I couldn’t focus on anything but poetry. I devoured poems like air. Nothing else felt right.
“I can understand that. Poetry is…” I trail off, struggling to find the words, feeling things I don’t have a vocabulary to communicate.
“‘Ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.’”
I smile, recognizing the quote. “Mary Oliver. Yeah.”
A bird lands on the tree in the courtyard and sings, like it’s calling to a friend. Somewhere in the distance, another bird answers.
The courtyard door opens, and Dr. Barbie, from the cafeteria the other day, walks out. “I thought I’d find you out here.” The smile she gives Cosmos is gentle, warm, a little flirty.
What was her name again? Sarah? No, Samantha. That’s it.
She startles when she notices me, and her gaze swings quickly between the two of us. I stand up to leave. “Enjoy your book.”
“You too.”
I make the mistake of looking at him and feel the change in the air when I do. The breeze stops. The bird is silent.
