Page 7 of Clinically Awkward

Vivian blinked at me. “Opt out?”

“Yeah. Look at the evidence.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of Julien’s office. “Your brother accidentally got married in Vegas and now has triplets. Gabriel went from single dad to married man in what, less than a month? It’s a trap, Viv. The whole thing is a trap.”

“A trap,” Vivian echoed, amusement creeping into her voice.

“A marriage trap,” I clarified. “You start dating someone, things get serious, and before you know it, you’re married with kids, and you can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. Or your own name. Or what freedom felt like.”

Vivian responded, “That’s a very specific fear.”

“It’s a legitimate fear,” I insisted. “I’ve watched it happen twice now. Julien used to be the most organized person I knew. Now he’s got a wife who reads tarot cards and triplets who’ve turned his life into a sleep-deprived nightmare. Gabriel used to have hobbies. Now he has a five-year-old and a wife, and I’m pretty sure the last book he read was Goodnight Moon.”

“Gabriel seems happy,” Vivian pointed out.

“That’s what they want you to think,” I replied. “It’s all part of the trap. They lure you in with happiness and companionship, and then BAM—you’re married, there’s a baby, and you’re shopping for minivans.”

Vivian stared at me for a moment that stretched long enough for me to wonder if I’d sprouted a second head. Then she burst out laughing—not the cute, polite kind you gave your boss, but a full, unrestrained laugh that lit up her whole face, her eyes crinkling and her shoulders shaking as if she’d just heard the punchline to the world’s best joke. If you didn’t know Vivian, you’d think she was always this easygoing, but you’d be wrong. She was the ER’s undisputed queen of dry wit and stone-cold logic—my favorite person to argue with and, inconveniently, the sibling of one accidental Vegas groom.

“What?” I asked, already bracing myself for the mockery that was surely loading in her brain. My voice came out more defensive than I wanted, which—of course—only made her smile widen.

“You,” she managed between fading laughs, “you sound exactly like Fitz.”

That stung more than I cared to admit—a punch to my ego by association. Fitz: my best mate, emergency room Casanova, serial charmer, and walking cautionary tale. If there was a romantic disaster waiting to happen, Fitz was probably already inviting it for drinks. I liked to think I was at least trying for dignity.

“I do NOT sound like Fitz,” I protested, sitting up straighter—like posture could save me from the comparison. “Fitz is actively trying to sleep with half of New Haven. I’m trying to avoid the entire concept of romantic entanglement. We are not the same.”

The words left my mouth with a sharpness that surprised me. Was I really that different, or just telling myself I was? For a split second, I caught myself wondering if all these so-called principles were just armor—if maybe I was hiding behind a wall of “man of principle” bluster because I was, deep down, terrified of being the next guy suckered into the marriage minivan industrial complex. I shook off the thought, but it lingered, buzzing at the edge of my self-assurance.

Vivian just grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’re really not that different. Fitz avoids commitment by sleeping around. You’re avoiding commitment by... not sleeping with anyone at all. Same fear, different playbook.”

“It’s a completely different philosophy,” I countered, channeling all the self-righteousness of a man holding a paper shield. “Fitz is a man-whore with a British accent. I’m a man of principle.”

“A man of principle who’s afraid of dating.”

“I’m not afraid of dating. I’m intelligently avoiding a societal construct designed to trap unsuspecting men into domestic servitude.” The line sounded brilliant in my head; out loud, it sounded... well, maybe a touch desperate.

Vivian grabbed her phone, thumbs moving with mock-fervor. “Note to self: Quinton has lost his mind. Possible causes: too much ER exposure, contact high from Fitz’s cologne, or a legitimate psychological break.”

“I haven’t lost my mind,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. “I’m the only sane person in this entire clinic.”

“Hayden would disagree.”

Of course she brought up Hayden—the resident grownup in our ragtag hospital crew. If there was a crisis, Hayden fixed it; if there was a childish spat, Hayden refereed. She probably kept a secret stash of gold stars for good behavior.

“Hayden thinks the rest of us are children. That doesn’t count.”

“Fair point.” Vivian set her phone down, amusement still practically vibrating off her. “So what’s your grand plan? Just... never date anyone ever again?”

“For at least a year,” I said, with the conviction of a man trying to convince himself. “Maybe longer. I’m going to focus on my career, my hobbies, my personal growth⁠—”

“Your personal growth,” Vivian echoed, deadpan, like she was annotating the transcript of my midlife crisis.

“Yes. My personal growth,” I repeated, a little too loudly. “I’m going to become the best version of myself without the distraction of romantic entanglements.” Even I could hear the edge of desperation now—but if you said something enough times, it became true. Right?

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s strategic.”

“It’s sad,” Vivian countered, but there was fondness behind the jab. “And also, you’re going to crack. Everyone cracks eventually.”