Page 118 of Clinically Awkward

I survived the weekend without further incident. No additional arrests, no surprise visits from Julien, no apocalyptic phone calls informing me that my employment had been terminated and my body would be found somewhere in the Connecticut River.

Small victories.

I walked into the clinic conference room to find Gabriel, Fitz, Nathan, and Hayden already assembled, looking like extras from a zombie movie. Gabriel had a spectacular bruise blooming across his left cheekbone. Nathan’s knuckles were wrapped in gauze. Hayden looked like he’d aged ten years overnight. And Fitz—because of course Fitz—looked annoyingly chipper despite the split lip and what appeared to be a hickey on his neck.

“Morning, lads!” Fitz said cheerfully. “Lovely day for a crisis management meeting, isn’t it?”

“It’s 8:45 in the morning,” Hayden said flatly. “I haven’t had enough coffee for this.”

“I haven’t had enough whiskey for this,” Nathan muttered.

I sat down at the head of the table—Julien’s usual spot, which felt vaguely treasonous—and looked around at my fellow idiots.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s assess the damage. We were arrested Friday night. Bailed out Saturday morning. Julien is still on vacation until—” I checked my phone. “Wednesday. That gives us two days to figure out how to break the news without getting fired, murdered, or both.”

“I vote for neither,” Gabriel said.

“Seconded,” Hayden added.

Vivian, who’d arrived moments after me and was sitting to my right, rolled her eyes. “You’re all being dramatic. Julien’s not going to care about a bar fight.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at her.

“Are we talking about the same Julien?” Nathan asked. “Julien Darcy? Neurosurgeon? Control freak? The man who color-codes his socks?”

“He’s my brother,” Vivian said. “I know him better than any of you. He’s not going to⁠—”

“He’s going to eviscerate us,” Hayden interrupted. “Professionally and possibly literally.”

“Hayden’s right,” I said. “Julien’s going to lose his mind when he finds out we got arrested for brawling in a sports bar like a bunch of frat boys.”

“Speak for yourself,” Fitz said, examining his nails. “I was defending Vivian’s honor. Very chivalrous, actually.”

“You started a bar fight,” Gabriel said.

“I escalated a bar fight. Quinton started it.”

“I punched one guy!” I protested.

“And that guy happened to be dating Vivian,” Nathan pointed out. “Which brings us to the other problem.” He gestured between Vivian and me. “How exactly are we supposed to explain to Julien that you two are”—he made a vague hand gesture—“involved without him having a complete meltdown?”

“We’re not just involved,” Vivian said, reaching over to take my hand. “We’re together. Officially.”

Oh God. Hearing her say it out loud, in front of everyone, in Julien’s conference room, while we were actively strategizing how to avoid his wrath, made it feel simultaneously more real and more terrifying.

“That’s lovely,” Fitz said. “Truly. Very romantic. But Julien is going to murder Quinton.”

“He’s not going to murder anyone,” Vivian insisted.

“He might murder Quinton a little bit,” Gabriel said diplomatically.

“I’m sitting right here,” I said.

“We know,” Nathan said. “We’re planning your funeral.”

“I want an open casket,” Fitz said. “So everyone can see how handsome I look in black.”

“This isn’t about you,” Hayden snapped.