“It’s okay,” I say calmly. “Just stop apologizing so much.”
“Sor—” He catches himself. “Right. Okay.”
“It’s fine,” I repeat.
“I’m usually much more organized about serious things,” Noah says, not quite looking at me. “I normally plan weeks ahead. This was really short notice.” He exhales, shoulderseasing slightly, then nods as if resetting himself. “Okay. So. What should I know?”
I consider that. What does a boyfriend of a few months know? What would I have told him if this were real?
“I’m from a small fishing village in Ireland,” I say. “Moved to the States eight years ago for med school. Now I’m an attending physician at St. Vincent’s.”
He blinks. “Right. What specialty?”
“Internal medicine.”
Noah pauses. “Okay, I have no clue what that means.”
“I mostly take care of hospitalized patients,” I say.
“Oh. Okay. Do you like it?”
“Most days.”
He considers me for a moment, as if he’s trying to guess what kind of days the other ones are. Then he shifts gears. “Do you have siblings?”
“An older sister, Sarah.”
His expression softens. “Older sisters are elite. I stand by that.”
I smile despite myself. “Agreed.”
“Are you close?”
“Yeah. We talk a lot. I don’t see her often, though. She still lives in Ireland. Comes over a couple of times a year.”
Noah nods slowly, absorbing that.
“Okay,” he says after a second. “Is there anything else that might come up? Something I should know so I don’t accidentally say the wrong thing?”
I think about it for a second. “Nothing major. I’m a pretty boring guy.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
He looks me up and down. “You’ve got too many tattoos to be boring.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That was my teenage attempt to look more masculine.”
“Moremasculine?” Noah scoffs softly. “Are you serious right now?” He gives me another slow once-over. “Are you trying to make me feel bad?”
“I’m not,” I say. “I used to be a gangly, skinny kid. Braces, bad hair, terrible skin—the whole package.”
“I don’t believe that,” he says, still studying me, like he’s trying to reconcile the image in his head with the person sitting next to him now.
His eyes don’t move right away, and I’m suddenly very aware of it—the way his gaze lingers, curious rather than awkward. There’s a small, unfamiliar tug in my chest.
“I used to be a major dork,” I say, looking back at the road. “Still am, to be fair. I’m just a doctor now, so it’s mostly limited to my days off.”
