"Also avocado." He glanced at me, half a smile on his lips and a question in his brows. Fair, seeing as I'd just rubbed his belly. "When I can find a decent one."
I studied him, still trying to suppress that laugh. "And the rumors I've heard about you being the next Chief of Emergency Surgery? That has nothing to do with your insistence on staying here with the terrible avocados and the cold hurricanes?"
Sebastian started up the dock toward the Esplanade, the footpath that ran the length of the Charles on the Boston side of the river. We were a block away from the hospital and another block from our apartment building though he wasn't heading in that direction.
"I don't know about that." He slipped his hands into his jean pockets. "Nothing has been finalized. Especially not while I'm stuck in treatment with you for apparent anger issues." He shot me a knowing glance. "How do you like Boston? Coming from New York and Southern California and all."
I looked around. "It's nice. I never imagined myself living in a small town but I like it here. It's quaint."
He barked out a laugh. "You are brutal."
"You've mentioned that before." I grinned at him. "Boston was a good change for me." Especially after my dad's college roommate was appointed Chief of Surgery at my last hospital. "I liked New York a lot but it was never my town."
"And now you get to enjoy the leaves." The jazz hands made another appearance and now I was fully smiling. Damn endorphins. "Look. I'm starving and I require a gallon of coffee. You can interrogate me about this when I'm caffeinated."
"I have little desire to interrogate you," I said, turning down the path, away from Sebastian. "Enjoy that coffee."
"Wait. Wait," he called. "Come on. We'll get breakfast."
Hot tea sounded good. Maybe toast. But— "I've endured one meal with you. I don't need a repeat."
"Why are you like this?" He fell in step with me and took hold of my elbow, turning me back in his original direction. "I actually need an answer."
"You'll have to explain what you mean as I'm certain I don't know."
I knew—of course I knew. I was messy and aloof. That raging bitch of mine poked holes in a lot of my relationships but I needed the boundaries those holes created. The good girl could befriend anyone and people-please her way to some super-destructive behaviors. I knew all of these things—I just wanted to hear him articulate a few of them and see how long it took for him to describe me as bitchy to my face.
He was silent for a considerable time, long enough to make me wonder whether he'd respond or ditch the question altogether. Then, as we approached the Fielder Footbridge, he said, "I mean, you're a five-foot-whatever plastic surgeon with all this hair"—he gave my ponytail a sharp tug—"and you take zero percent of my shit, whereas most people take a minimum of fifty percent, often upward of seventy percent. Why the fuck are you like this?"
I glanced at him as we crossed the bridge. He hadn't…he hadn't said anything I'd expected. That I'd prepared myself to hear. "I don't drink coffee."
"Of course. Tornadoes don't require caffeine for propulsion. Just oxygen."
With a laugh, I said, "I could go for some tea. Maybe toast or, I don't know, a muffin. No blueberries though."
"Did you—wait." He stopped walking but I continued on as he said, "Did you agree with me? What the hell? I've always heard people talking about the effects of sea air but I've never seen it firsthand. This is amazing."
"I don't believe we're close enough to the sea for any such effects," I called.
He jogged to catch up with me. "There's a little brunch place up ahead. They have bakery stuff. Bread. You know, for toast."
I didn't respond to that because I couldn't decide whether I was making a colossal miscalculation by going along with this or simply having an ordinary, healthy interaction. Could I have a normal, healthy interaction with a man when our entire relationship was extraordinary and profoundly unhealthy? Was that possible? What about this man? Could I do it with him?
But I felt good and energized, and I didn't want to strangle him right now, not entirely. Maybe this wasn't a miscalculation. Maybe it was just tea and coffee, and enjoying our success in not drowning one another this morning. It didn't have to mean anything.
We cut through several side streets toward the café on the corner of Mt. Vernon Street. "Up ahead," he said, turning his face to the sun. The rays shone bright against his dark hair. "It's warm. How does this happen? There was frost yesterday morning and we're in the strangely hot and also spooky part of October now. As if that's normal."
"You can complain about the cold but not the heat," I said, stripping off my fleece jacket. I rolled my shoulders as the strain from the rowing throbbed in response. "Oh, shit. This is not good."
"I said one thing about the erratic autumn weather," he replied. "Nothing else to say—on that topic."
"I meant my shoulders," I said. "I didn't think I'd feel it so much. I have three skin grafts back-to-back tomorrow and I really don't need my hands shaking because I'm remarkably bad at rowing."
We stopped outside the café. I stepped toward the windows to read the menu posted there while kneading my overworked muscles. I needed to make sure there was something I'd actually eat—not just hate and pick at for half an hour while pretending everything was fine—before going inside. I couldn't sit there with a cup of tea and answer questions about what I did or didn't eat as I'd prefer falling into a bog to any such discussion.
"Enough of that," Sebastian growled, batting my hands away.
I expected a lecture about me working the wrong spot or a bit of him reveling in my discomfort. I didn't expect him to bring his hands to my shoulders and work his fingers into the knots gathered at the base of my neck.
"I—uh," I said, my eyes drifting shut as he pressed into the tender spots. "You're not even going to take the shot and agree that I'm bad at rowing?"
He worked his way down the ridge of my shoulders to my upper arms and I really didn't understand this. We weren't in the apartment foyer and no one was yelling and when did sidewalk massages before brunch become something we did? Together? How did it become part of our power struggle, and where was I when that transformation occurred?
"Nope, not going to do that." He was so close. If I leaned back a tiny bit, I'd connect with his chest. "Though I'm not in the OR tomorrow and I did offer to handle the rowing so this is entirely your fault."
"Oh, great," I said. "I'm glad we're back to assigning fault. That's fun. When should we start on the psychiatric diagnoses?"
"Why haven't I seen you at any of Acevedo's dinner parties?" he asked.
I stifled a groan. There was no way to go into a dinner party as both an introvert and a criminally picky eater and come out alive. Even the strongest, most fully recovered parts of me struggled with this because it was simply rude to go to someone's home and not eat the food they prepared. It wasn't people-pleasing this time. It was manners—and bad manners were one big people-pleasing fire drill.