Because dreams, I wanted to say,are a luxury.When you were sure you could eat, sure you had a place to sleep, when you knew that your place in the world was secure, you could have dreams. And maybe I had access to them now, but, like my tendency to add water to empty bottles of dish soap, pragmatism was a habit I’d yet to break.
“I needed money,” I said truthfully. “I worked through undergrad. Got a full ride to med school, but on matriculation, they make you sign a document saying you won’t get any other jobs. I didn’t have a car, and they wanted me to do some rotations on other campuses. Rent within walking distance of the hospital was out of control. All of the study materials cost hundreds of dollars,and none of that was factored into my living stipend. One of my upperclassmen was making five hundred dollars a post promoting Sleepytime tea on her blog, and it seemed like a good gig, so I tried it out. As it turns out, I’m very good at being exactly who people want me to be, so I blew up. And now here we are.”
I folded my arms around myself, suddenly cold. I could feel Mal’s gaze on me, his pity. He’d grown up differently than me, with two loving parents and a financial safety net sturdy enough that he could pursue an artistic career without the pressure of providing for himself. I wondered how he saw me now, if the quick glimpse I’d given him of the person who existed behind the glitz and glamour of my platform and of my friends in high places had lost me my luster.
“You know, my friend Kelechi is obsessed with you,” Mal said. “She just discovered your page last week, and she’s watched basically all of your content. Was just telling me that she wished she’d had your page as a teenager. That you take a lot of shame out of difficult topics.”
I blinked up at Mal, but his focus had drifted to the bodega across the street, his face perfectly placid as he spoke.
“I’ve been following you for years. In that time, my dad’s been diagnosed with high blood pressure. My mom has sleep apnea. I’ve had about a hundred sore throats. And when I had questions about why the minute clinic didn’t give me antibiotics, or my dad wanted to know why he had to take meds when he felt fine, I could go to your page and find an explanation that made sense. And you were always humble about it. Talked about things in a way that helped me understand, or at least gave me a place to start. You aren’t going to convince me that all of that was a fluke. That you aren’t at least a bit passionate about it. If it was just aboutthe money, you wouldn’t bother putting in the effort. You would just, I don’t know, do what everyone else is doing, and sell yourself. Post pics of your face, or your body.”
“I do a little bit of that too,” I said.
Mal looked directly at me. Under the shroud of night, his eyes were dark.
“Oh, I know,” he said.
I shivered, and this time, it wasn’t from the cold.
“Social media is how most people get their information,” I said, ignoring the stammering in my chest, the way it felt like I was losing hold of invisible reins. “I like that I can teach people through it. I feel like I might be doing something... good. Filling in gaps in medical knowledge. Meeting people where they are. So in a world without limits, I’d probably keep doing that, but make it bigger. Create courses, maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it like you have.”
Mal nodded, satisfied.
“There’s a lot of value in that,” he said. “And honestly? You’re probably closer to it than you think. You already have the platform. And clearly, the charisma. The sky’s the limit for you. You can go anywhere you want to. You just have to point to your destination on the map.”
I bit back a smile. Mal sounded so earnest, so matter-of-fact, that I couldn’t help but believe him.
“You know there’s no need to butter me up, right?” I reminded him. “I’m the one trying to get in your pants.”
Mal laughed, then placed his hand over mine and squeezed. His hand was large, its hold as firm as it was familiar.
“I know that too,” he said. “And I’m not trying to butter youup. I’ve just admired you for a while and wanted to make sure you knew.”
The temperature had cooled to a crisp sixty degrees, but my body buzzed with warmth. Not from the wine we’d drunk earlier, or even from embarrassment, but from the balmy sensation that came with being properly perceived.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” Mal said. “I didn’t do anything.”
I chewed on my inner cheek.For listening, I wanted to say.For seeing me, even before we met, even when I was just one of a hundred physician-influencers and you a picture of a crushed juice box, but especially now that we’re both flesh and blood.
“For imparting your wisdom,” I said instead. “Youarewiser than I expected, you know. Considering all ofthis.”
I gestured down his muscular frame—which looked even better outside of a suit jacket—and Mal ducked his head as if to hide his face from view.
“Just because you think I’m cute doesn’t mean I can’t have important things to say,” he grumbled.
“I mostly think you’re greedy,” I teased, delighted by his sheepishness. “Your inner monologue is supposed to be allprotein, macros, gains, not sage life advice...”
“Come on, now you’re just being mean—”
“It’s okay, Malcolm, you can talk to me about your max reps or whatever. I speak gym bro—”
I was interrupted by a ding: a notification from my rideshare, informing me that my driver would be arriving any second.
“My Uber’s almost here,” I said, still laughing. “So if you’re going to kiss me, you should probably do it now.”
Mal chuckled, shaking his head, then bounced to his feet. A true gentleman, he held out a hand, and I took it, cataloging the fizzy sensation that rose up in my throat as he helped me up. Then, holding my gaze, he pressed soft, lingering lips to my knuckles.
