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But I’m thinking about two days from now. The clinic. The procedure. Alester Chandler’s name on the paperwork. Petra’s steady, disapproving face. The fact that soon this whole arrangement may stop being paperwork and start becoming real inside my body.

I have chosen it. I know that. I’m not ashamed of it.

But suddenly I want one night that is not about the contract. Not about money. Not about the clinic. Not about being sensible because every other part of my life demands it.

Just dinner. One dinner.

I type: What time?

His reply is immediate.

D: Seven.

Me: Send me the restaurant.

A few seconds later, a location comes through. It’s a Thai place. Public. Not far from campus. Reasonable.

I forward it to Simone with a message.

Me: I passed neuro. Also I may be having dinner with the wrong-number doctor who helped me study. This is the location. Please do not yell until after I shower.

Her reply comes almost immediately.

SIMONE: Congratulations.

Then: I’m yelling now.

Then: Wear the green top.

I laugh for the first time without feeling like I’m trying to outrun panic.

I start walking home. My stomach still aches faintly from the injection. My head is tired. My body feels heavy from the crash after the exam. But underneath all of that, something bright and nervous keeps moving.

Two days from now, everything becomes serious again.

Tonight, I’m going to dinner.

* * *

The green top Simone told me to wear is hanging in the back of my closet because I bought it six months ago during a brief, delusional period where I believed I might become the kind of woman who goes places. It is soft, fitted, and cut low enough that I stand in front of the mirror for a full thirty seconds and whisper, “Absolutely not.”

Then I put it on.

The jeans are dark. The boots have a heel. My hair comes down after two attempts at making it look casual, which only makes it look like I spent twenty minutes trying to look casual.

I do my eyeliner.

Then I stare at myself.

This is insane. I don’t even know what he looks like. He could be bald. He could have a soul patch. He could wear those square-toed shoes that men buy when they have given up on beauty and arch support. He could be sixty-five and fond of talking about golf.

I’m dressed like I’m going somewhere with mood lighting.

“It’s not a date,” I tell my reflection.

My reflection has cleavage and doesn’t believe me.

“It’s dinner,” I clarify. “A thank-you dinner. A normal dinner. A medically educational dinner.”