She dabbed her lips—they were so pale, barely even pink—and set the napkin beside her mostly untouched pasta. She'd moved it around plenty but she'd hardly made a dent.
And then she held up her phone to me as the timer counted down the final five seconds she'd set for us. After swiping away the alarm, she slipped the index card off the table. "I didn't get yours, so you're not getting mine."
Sara pushed away from the table and I had no choice but to watch her cross the restaurant. She didn't bother with backward glances, not when she was busy walking like the floor owed her money.
I returned to my beer and pizza, and attempted to figure out what the ever-loving fuck happened here tonight. I was halfway through the last slice of pizza when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I assumed it was Sara texting me a thesis on my arrogance though I was wrong. When I saw O'Rourke was calling, I tucked the phone against my shoulder, saying, "What's up?"
The blaring roar of the emergency room came through the line before he said, "I'm early but I gotta deal with an issue. Consider this your fake crisis call so you can get the hell out of whatever you've gotten yourself into now."
"I don't get myself into things," I said, dropping the last of the crust to my plate. "I actively avoid getting into things. I hate things."
"Yeah, yeah. I don't have time to unpack any of that tonight but maybe tomorrow if you buy me lunch."
"I'm not buying you lunch."
"That's cool. I'll get Acevedo to pick up the tab. He'll want to hear about this. He pays for updates on your misery." A siren wailed nearby and O'Rourke groaned. "Really gotta go now. Be good."
He hung up as the server came to gather our plates. I pointed at Shapiro's pasta. "She said no arugula. What does this look like to you?"
The server frowned at the dish. "Why didn't she say anything?"
I motioned to the empty seat. "And you think I have any idea?"
Chapter 5
Sara
My good girl always did her homework. She couldn't live in a world where she didn't comply fully and confirm to everyone that she was perfect and worthy of the little slice of space she occupied.
That good girl was shaking in her boots as I jogged up the stairs to Milana Cuello's office, right on time for this week's session. The other side of me welcomed the opportunity to show off Stremmel's epic inflexibility. Milana was sure to see how that man was impossible. She'd sympathize with me. She had to.
As I exited the stairwell and approached her office, I found Stremmel leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on Milana's door as if he could force it open by will alone. He wore the same dark blue scrubs as last week and hadn't yet realized his forearms were too profane to flash around these halls. Unfortunate. Someone really needed to talk to him about modesty.
I stopped several feet from him and grabbed my phone. I had no intention of speaking until the session started and I'd divert myself by any means necessary. Even when the session did get underway, I intended to let Sebastian implode and prove my points.
However.
"Last chance," he said.
"Excuse you?"
"Last chance, " he repeated with a scowly side-eye. "Still have that index card?"
"You had plenty of opportunities to take advantage of my index card. You chose not to and that was all your decision."
"Hmmm." He crossed his arms over his chest and went on staring at the door. Then, "Hmmm."
"What?" I snapped.
"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how we're going to end up with another homework assignment because we didn't complete this one."
"I completed my part of this," I argued. "You're the one who couldn't be bothered to write down five little things."
He turned his head and proceeded to drag his stare from my sneakers to my (again, still, always) untamed hair. "And you think that actually matters?"
I shoved my fists into my pockets. "You should've done your part last week. Or at any time prior to this exact moment."
"I'm ready now. Got an index card I can borrow?"
Before I could tell him what I thought about lending him anything, Milana swept into the hall, all smiles and silver hair. "Ah, my friends! You're back for another visit. Come. Inside now, inside."
Sebastian resumed his spot at the bookshelf and I sat on the sofa, my hands clasped in my lap. Battle stations ready.
"Don't get too comfortable," Milana called from behind her desk. "We won't be sitting today." She hefted an old milk crate onto her desk. "Playing is much more fun. We don't play enough as grown-ups, do we? It's like we forget how to do it."
"Or, after four years of undergrad, four years of medical school, another four or so years of residency, and then a year or two of fellowship, you have a bunch of socially stunted, sleep-deprived teenagers who know how to cut people open but not how to take a day off," Sebastian said. "Comes with the territory, wouldn't you agree?"
She chuckled at him. "I call it job security." With a fond smile for each of us, Milana carried the crate to the coffee table. "As I said, we'll be playing today." She beckoned to us, adding, "Up. On your feet."
I stood, shrugged out of my white coat, and draped it over the arm of the sofa. When I turned back toward Sebastian and Milana, I was greeted with a decidedly masculine snort.
I threw what the fuck? hands at him but he shook his head with a slight laugh. I went on glaring until he said, "It's nothing. Just"—he glanced down at my t-shirt, the one that read Running On and the chemical structure of ATP, the stuff that carried energy in cells—"nothing. Forget it."
"And forget we shall," Milana said as she plucked a squishy ball emblazoned with a pharmaceutical company's logo from the crate. "Since this is not my first visit to the circus, I am not going to ask you about the homework from our last session. We'll play our game and have fun instead. All right?"
"This is obviously a trap," Stremmel said.
I ran my palms over my thighs, knowing he was right about that yet completely unwilling to tell him as much.
"Trap? From me? No," Milana drawled. "I'd never." She tossed the ball from hand to hand. "All I want you to do is play a game of catch but do have a care for my plants. The string of pearls needs only a slight invitation to fall apart, and while the pothos looks hardy, it offends easily." She lobbed the ball to me. "Sara. Start us off. My one rule is we don't let the ball hit the floor."
"And if we do?" Stremmel asked.
"You won't," she said.
"If we do?" he repeated.
With a deep grin, she said, "Embrace the challenge, Sebastian, even if you don't know what might come of it."
It started out simple, just me and Sebastian throwing pharma swag back and forth across Milana's office. But then she reached into the crate and retrieved a plush pineapple. "Let's add this one," she said. "Sebastian, you're up."
He caught the pineapple after sending the ball to me. It took us a few tries to get the rhythm right but we got there while Milana slathered on the praise. Sebastian wanted no part of that. He narrowed his eyes or locked his jaw every time she acknowledged us for playing along. All of that was annoying enough but he did it while flaunting those damn arms at me too. Terribly rude of him.