We let out twin groans of exhaustion, our “Oh-thank-God-that-day-is-over” noises, then shared a knowing grin. It was nice to be able to wordlessly communicate with someone who knew exactly what your day had been like.
“I swear, it doesn’t matter if you’re on day shift or night shift. Two o’clock is the witching hour. Pushing through that halfway point is theworst.”
I groaned and nodded my agreement.
After spending a few minutes reclined on the couch, Whit popped back up and got to her feet.
“Grabbed our mail,” she said, dropping my half unceremoniously in my lap as she wandered toward the kitchen of our small duplex. “Water?”
“Please, yeah, thanks.”
A luxe midnight blue envelope caught my eye as I leafed through the small pile of bills and junk mail.
“Fancy. Late Valentine?” Whit ribbed me, returning to the living room and placing my water on my side table.
I chuckled, shaking my head. In high school I’d really been too focused on academics and volleyball to consider dating. I had a couple boyfriends in college, but it never got serious. All in all, my love-life had been pretty absent until the last six months, when I’d been swept off my feet by the arrival of a new doctor at our hospital, Boston General.
Brock met all the criteria on the serious-boyfriend “checklist”—GQ-model handsome, good job, committed. He was eight years older, which meant unlike many guys my age, he was ready to settle down. He had a good job and was financially secure. His dark hair was always perfectly coiffed, and his teeth were remarkably white. He could’ve been cast as a more stoic McDreamy.
The first couple months of our relationship were a whirlwind of fancy nights out at the opera or the ballet. Brock had fantastic taste and a sophisticated upbringing, and with him I got to explore the more high-society side of Boston. During the winter we visited the holiday markets, saw a Christmas-tree lighting, sawThe Nutcracker. We visited the Fine Arts Museum and took a helicopter tour of Boston. We ate at all the best restaurants in the city.
As the months progressed, Brock and I set a standing Thursday night date night. I spent a night or two per week athis Boston loft apartment, which had a sleek and minimalist black-and-white design with large floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Boston Skyline. I’d met all his friends and more recently his sister, all of whom exuded that same effortless put-togetherness that I wished I could achieve.
I appreciated that with Brock, he said what he meant and meant what he said. Since we’d met he had pursued me single-mindedly, making his interest towards me clear. With my limited energy, I had found out quickly after college that I didn’t have any patience with dating games of cat-and-mouse or the push-and-pull of casual dating relationships.
So it was nice to know I had a steady boyfriend, a date to any social occasion or holiday event. I mean sure, I didn’t imagine I could sit around in sweats doing jigsaw puzzles with the guy (did he own sweats? I don’t think I’d seen any in his closet), but Brock was a safe, smart choice. He brought me a dozen red roses every week before our date, which I kept in a glass vase in my kitchen. Freshening them up each week made me smile.
My eyes focused back on the midnight blue envelope in front of me, and I noted the Vermont return address. I flipped it over, opened the flap, and pulled out the cream-colored cardstock.
“Birch Hollow High Class Reunion,” Whit read over my shoulder. I tossed it on the coffee table.
“I probably won’t go.”
I always madesure to get extra rest on the days leading up to my Thursday date with Brock so I could put my best date-night self forward. He’d be picking me up in his red Porsche 911. Brock was obsessed with that car. I admit I don't know much about cars, but the heated leather seats always felt like heavenon my stiff back. Another thing I enjoyed about Brock was that he always took the wheel in planning our dates. He wasn’t one of those “whatever you want, babe” kind of men. He was assertive and certain, and I never once felt his attention from me stray to a beautiful waitress or other nearby patron.
This time he’d told me to “be sure to dress up.” I was never a slob on our dates, but I sometimes just wore jeans and a stylish top. It sounded like this occasion called for more than that, so I enlisted Whit’s help.
We’d settled on a fitted black wrap dress that hit me just below the knees. I knew Brock loved me in black, and the silhouette was sophisticated and made me feel older and more cosmopolitan. I adorned my ears in simple studs and chose a necklace that accented the dress’s low-cut neckline. I reluctantly slipped on my strappiest silver heels—my feet would be killing me by the end of the night (probably my back and hips, too), but the lift made my legs look more shapely than they had in years.No pain, no gain, right?
Though it wasn’t a fact I’d admitted to anyone, my confidence had taken a bit of a hit after my diagnosis. I’d always veered toward pear-shape, with thin arms, a trim waist, and thick, muscular thighs. Volleyball practice five days a week will do that to a body. I was never overly confident in my appearance, but back then I had appreciated how my body worked for me on the court.
Over the last couple years, I’d felt my hard-won athleticism slipping away. Fortunately, my doctors had caught the RA early, and the joint damage at this point was relatively minor. I still hit the gym a couple times a week when I could, putting in time on the elliptical machine or using the pool to swim laps. Even on my best days, though, I couldn’t manage more than an hour before my body stiffened up and my energy was zapped. Afterwards, I’d have to take a warm bath in Epsom salts to get my body relaxedenough to sleep. On particularly bad weeks, though, a trip to the gym felt like a distant Everest, and all my time off work was spent in recovery mode.
As I got ready, my eyes fell to my dresser and the framed photo of Brock and me at a hospital event. I smiled down at it: we looked picture-perfect. I was a big believer in printing physical photos—call it the 90s child in me. I knew almost everyone had made their albums digital at this point, but I still enjoyed the feeling of seeing a tangible, framed photo, one I could pick up and admire.
I took a deep breath, the underwire bra poking uncomfortably against my upper ribs. I was typically a sports-bra-under-my-scrubs kinda girl, but at least I still knew how to clean myself up nice. One added benefit of my softer body was that I’d gone up a cup size from my high-school B to a generous C cup. This wrap dress cinched my upper waist and magically deemphasized the bit of weight I now carried around my stomach. I added a touch of lipstick and admired the effect in my full-length mirror.
Taking a break from cooking dinner, Whit poked her head in from the hallway and whistled, admiring my completed look.
“What did that random patient say the other day?TotalAnne Hathaway vibes. Yes, mama.” She pretended to fan herself with the wooden spoon in her hand.
I laughed. “Okay, says Miss Hilary-Duff-Lookalike. Besides, I think that guy was on morphine.” I rolled my eyes playfully.
“Hey, those are both timelessly classy ladies, and relatively drama free rom-com queens. We could do worse. I’m here for it.” She pointed the spoon at me and wandered back toward the kitchen.
From my room, I heard the doorbell ring. I opened the front door and there was Brock, a dozen red roses in his hand.Consistent, I thought to myself.That’s how I would describe Brock.He leaned in to give me a chaste cheek kiss.
“Lovely,” he said appraisingly.
