Of course, that’s not the whole reason I was in attendance last night.
No. Other than wanting to be there to support her, I also wanted to see Natalie in something other than her scrubs. I wanted to see her in that black dress—the only dress I’ve ever seen her wear—and those strappy heels.
I wonder what Noah would do if he knew I have feelings for his sister. Surely he wouldn’t have invited me to stay at his townhouse while he’s away. It’s a terrible idea, really. But I couldn’t pass it up.
The chance to spend a few months living that close to Natalie? It’s a gift.
Up until yesterday, Natalie was a surgical resident who rotated on and off my service at the hospital. For the last five years, it was my job to mentor her during rounds and guide her through surgeries. I wasn’t allowed to want her.
I’ve stayed in line, kept my hands to myself, and followed the rules. I think I deserve an award, a plaque of my own just like the one Natalie couldn’t let go of last night.
I round the corner onto Noah’s street and see his townhouse up ahead. While I live there, it’ll be a quick walk to and from the hospital. His place is a few blocks closer to Beacon Street than mine.
My cell vibrates in my pocket and I reach down to check who’s calling. My mom’s cheery picture fills up my phone screen. Usually, I wouldn’t let her call go to voicemail. She has good phone etiquette, never lingers on the line or guilts me if I’m in a rush. Sometimes, she’ll put me on speaker so I can talk to Dad too, but right now I can’t answer. I spot a brunette running toward me and pocket my phone, promising myself I’ll give my mom a call back later.
I know Natalie is a runner. She played soccer in college and has the lean figure of someone who enjoys pounding the pavement. From what Noah has mentioned, I know she’s finished three half marathons and was training for a full before her knee started giving her trouble. She’s eased off longer distances since then but apparently hasn’t given up running altogether.
The sun is at my back, so she doesn’t recognize me until we’re three houses away from each other. She stutter-steps and then slows her pace. Her hands prop on her hips and she continues her cooldown as we move closer. I take her in from my vantage point, not used to getting my fill of her. I’ve had to be careful over the years, not looking too hard for too long, never staring though it’s hard not to. Her brown hair is pulled back in French braids, baby hairs escaping near her temples. Her high cheekbones sport a healthy red glow. Her forehead is glossy with sweat. Her white running shorts cut off high on her tan thighs, and her matching tank top is loose, dipping low to show the edges of her blue sports bra.
We reach the stairs of Connor’s townhouse at the same time. The red brick and black shutters on the façade are synonymous with Beacon Hill. His black lacquered door sits stoically waiting for us, but we stay at the bottom of the steps, facing one another.
Natalie reaches up to take out her AirPods. I’m curious what she listens to while she runs. Taylor Swift? Black Sabbath? There’s still so much I don’t know about her.
“How far did you go this morning?”
“Five miles. I would have kept going, but…”
But what? She saw me? Did she spot me farther back than I thought she did?
She rolls out her leg. “My knee was bothering me a little.”
Ah. I glance down at it, my brows furrowed.
“Do you know Dr. Rygar? He’s an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. It might be worth getting an appointment with him.”
She shoots me a teasing smile. “Not everything can be fixed with surgery.”
Says one surgeon to another.
“But he would have good advice for you,” I prod, not wanting her to ignore an injury if it’s causing her that much pain. “He could pass along the name of a reputable physical therapist, at least.”
She shrugs. “You’re right, but I’ve already seen him. Noah recommended him last year, actually. He gave me a cortisone shot and sent me to a PT, which has helped a lot, but I still can’t run the same distances I used to.”
She seems defeated by the notion that she might not have any marathons in her near future.
“You know, for most people, five miles isn’t a stroll in the park,” I point out, brow arched.
She glances over my shoulder, down the street. “True, but I’ve always enjoyed longer runs. They’ve helped keep me sane the last few years.”
I get it. We all do what we can. I use the gym the same way.
She inhales and then releases a heavy breath before turning up the stairs, waving me up after her. She pulls out a key from a tiny pocket in her shorts and unlocks the door.
“I didn’t realize you were moving in so soon.”
I shrug. “No choice. They’re packing up my place right now. It’s either here or a hotel.”
Inside, she tosses her key into a small dish on a table near the door and toes off her tennis shoes.
I stay poised at the threshold, wondering if Noah is home. I glance down the hall, but I don’t hear the TV on. Surely if he were here, he’d call out a greeting.
“I guess this works out better for Noah anyway, right?” she says, glancing sideways at me. “You’ll overlap with him so I don’t have to spend a single minute alone here in this house.”
“How do you mean?” She shoots me a pointed stare, and then it clicks. “Ah, right. He’s given me strict orders to look after you.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to head down the hall toward the large open area that contains both the kitchen on the right and the living room on the left. Centered in the space is an oversized antique wooden table Noah had his parents ship over from France. It anchors the room.
“It’s ridiculous,” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
I set my bag down near the door and walk after her, my focus steady on the row of windows that account for the entire back wall of the townhouse. Beyond the dining table, through the back windows, there’s a clear view of a narrow garden with a barbecue pit and overgrown trees. A winding shaded path leads out to the guest house, where Natalie lives. It’s tiny, no doubt functioning more like a studio than an apartment. It’s probably why she has to use the kitchen in here.
“What’d you tell him?” she asks. “When he asked you to do that?”
I turn to see her filling up a glass of water at the fridge.
“I agreed,” I say with a shrug. There’s no point in lying to her. “If it were me, I’d want someone looking after you as well.”
She looks at me oddly before swapping her puzzlement for a wide grin. “Oh yeah? Going to ensure I make my curfew? Keep tabs on my comings and goings? Ground me if I don’t comply?”
I nearly smirk. “There’s an idea.”
With her attention on me, she nearly overfills her glass of water before she realizes and jerks it away from the tap on the fridge. Water sloshes over the lip of the glass and soaks into her tank top. She groans and reaches for a paper towel.
“I assure you, I don’t plan on babysitting you.”
She’s flustered now when she replies, “Good. I mean, I’ll just stay in the guest house. I’ll be out of your hair as much as possible. We probably won’t be seeing much of each other, really.”