“It’s stale in here,” I mutter, swapping my scrubs for jeans and a blue blouse. Outside, someone’s blasting music from a parked car. The bass is heavy and the lyrics are obscene. Someone never left their frat house.
Julian glances at me as he buttons his shirt. “You sure you’re up for the bar tonight?”
“Of course. I’ve only been up for twenty-eight hours,” I say, and he grins. He knows I’m rounding down.
A beat of silence lingers, speaking the words I don’t need to say.I don’t have someone waiting for me any longer, so I have time for the bar.
He sits on the bench, lacing his boots. “Robyn, two and a half years is a long time. You’re allowed to miss him, you know? Wonder what he’s up to.”
The sound of his voice settles into the quiet. It’s slow and unhurried, giving me time to process how I want to answer. I stare at the locker door in front of me, a hairline crack running through the paint. “I don’t really wonder. It’s not my business now.”
“Robyn?” He’s closer, leaning on the locker next to mine and looking down at me over the open door.
“Not like before.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I zip my bag. “He’s probably figuring things out. Like I am, it’ll just look different for him.” A flash of his kiss withTessa assaults my mind, and I have to remind myself to inhale. “He’s not the villain, Julian. He just… wasn’t ready.”
Julian nods slowly. “And you were.”
I press my lips together in a tense smile. It’s hard to face it but the question lingers even if I don’t speak it.Would we be here if I were?
Twinkle lights spillfrom the rafters like golden vines, catching in the glossy beer glasses and half-empty plates. The place is packed, a few residents are already at a long, communal table near the bar, laughing too loudly at the two guys from trauma halfway into a round of beer pong. Yeast and cheap IPA foam mix into the unmistakable smell of summer trying to break through spring’s chill.
A couple of nurses scooch farther down so Julian and I can sit next to each other. He meets my eyes, a question in his blue gaze, until I give a subtle nod. Then turns his charm on the peds RN that gave him shit this morning.
“Okay.” Jordan, the tallest trauma resident, turns around and claps his hands together. “For the next”—he checks his phone—“hour, no one’s allowed to talk about rounds or patient load.”
His friend, I don’t know him as well, so I can’t remember his first name, slides a pitcher of beer onto the table. Foam sloshes over the rim and onto his wrist, then he brings his wrist to his mouth and licks it. Staring at me.Is that supposed to be sexy?
“I’ll do you one better,” Marisol says, the peds nurse next to Julian, raising her plastic cup. “Whoever breaks the rule, buys a round.”
“Bold move,” Julian responds, smirking and tracing circles on her glass. “How about we turn it up a notch? Shots?”
“Worth it.” Marisol grins, leaning back as a song thunders from the speakers.
At the other end of the table, someone throws a balled-up napkin at the dartboard. “I’m telling you,” Daniel says, a general medicine fellow—broad-shouldered, ashy-blond hair curling around his eyes, “Robyn’s got the best aim here.” His smile is flashy yet charming. “I’ve seen her toss a glove into a biohazard bin from, what, five feet away?”
Julian snorts. “Please. That’s just muscle memory from throwing candy wrappers at me during med school. I kept passing out during pathology.”
“Guess I’ll have to test that,” Daniel says, his eyes glinting and wrinkly at the corners. “Winner gets lunch?”
As he points at the dartboard, his gaze drags down my face, then lingers on my chest. The air between us tightens before I break it with a half smile.
“Maybe on lunch,” I say. “But I’ll definitely play.”
I stand next to him in front of the dartboard, behind the line on the floor, the music from the patio muffled by bodies and laughter. Holding the dart, I raise my right hand and squint, then throw and hit the triple twelve. I turn around and smirk at the fellow.
He brushes against my arm as he lines up his shot, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth—concentrating way too hard.
“Watch and learn,” he says. The dart hits a single eight, nowhere near the bullseye.
I snort. “That’s adorable. You aiming for the wall or the board?”
He grins, unbothered. “Just warming up. You should come axe throwing with me, Robyn.”
I snort. “No, thank you. I spend enough time in the ER asis.” I toss my dart, hit a double ring. I have no idea what I’m doing, but he doesn’t know that.
