Oh my god.
He'd held my hand the whole time.
There had been some doctoring but he'd held my hand.
While I'd been deep-breathing away the reflux and spasms.
He'd held my hand.
Chapter 21
Sara
I glared down at my paper. "You're giving me terrible directions."
"You're terrible at listening," Sebastian replied.
"I'm listening to you give me terrible directions," I said, nudging his flank with my elbow. "'It's round and sometimes wooden.' What the fuck is that?"
"It's the best description I can give you based on the rules," he said, elbowing me back. "Can you stop squirming? Jesus Christ, you're like a sack of angry cats."
"Why would anyone ever have a sack of cats? No wonder they're angry, they're in a sack being carried around by some maniac like you."
I capped the marker and shoved it in the cup on the coffee table. We were sitting back-to-back on the floor of Milana's office, Sebastian holding a card with an object on it while I attempted to draw that item based on his vague clues.
It wasn't going well.
We'd walked in here with a cloud of awkward hanging over us. Aside from the very weird way we left things over the weekend, we hadn't seen much of each other all week. It could've been a product of my schedule being chaotic or he could've been avoiding me. I didn't know which one it was, though the part of my brain that liked to believe everything was my fault and I could make everything better if I just tried hard enough was eager to dismiss all matter of my schedule. Even if it was especially chaotic on account of an upcoming event. I'd shared so much personal information—all the uncomfortable, unpleasant stuff too—and no one liked that. No one wanted my problems.
"The object was a fruit bowl," Milana said in that warm, marveling at the whole damn world way of hers. "A fruit bowl. Sara, you had the right idea going. Sebastian, you offered some good clues. It was a tricky challenge that tested your ability to hear each other and process that information through your own filters. Well done."
Without any warning at all, Sebastian pushed to his feet which had the pleasant effect of sending me sprawling back on the floor. "Thanks for nothing," I said.
He rolled his eyes at me and offered his hand, but I didn't need it. Nope, all good here. But then he barked out a laugh, a mile-deep belly laugh that filled me with heat like I'd been doused with actual fire. Pointing at my t-shirt, he said, "Wrong. Completely wrong."
I glanced down at my shirt. Inside an anatomically correct rib cage sat a hot pink cartoon heart. The text read The way to my heart is through the fifth and sixth ribs. On the back it said And also food. Don't forget food.
"Any idiot would aim for the ninth and tenth. Same result, half the mess." He shook his head at me like I'd insulted him to his core. "Really, Shap. I expected more from you."
"I thought you didn't make a habit of expecting anything at all."
He lifted his brows as though he hadn't hammered me over his thoughts on expectations in the jousting ring. "When it comes to you"—he dropped a glance to my shirt—"I guess I expect better than bad practice."
"Bad practice is what landed us here." I waved at Milana's office.
"We put that argument to bed weeks ago," he replied. "You should leave it there. In bed. Where it belongs."
I didn't know what the hell he was trying to accomplish with all those references to beds, but I ignored him as I rocked up to my knees.
Once I was settled on the sofa and busy with the croutons I'd brought with me today, Milana said, "It's my observation that you experience the most friction in the places where you're most similar."
Sebastian snorted and I was proud of myself for ignoring him. Very proud. Meeting his eyes and acknowledging inside this room that we were carrying on a sexual relationship wouldn't end well for me. For either of us.
Even if it was a train wreck in process, a disaster built of anger and resentment, and blankets tucked up to my chin and glasses of water, I wouldn't be able to hide the fact that I wanted it again tonight. I wanted it to end, but I didn't want that at all. I wanted to stop screaming at him all the time, I wanted to stop being angry about everything, but the crazy, disastrous thing we had seemed to require that catalyst. I couldn't get what I wanted without dropping all pretense of being perfect, being in control.
I couldn't control him any more than I could control the tides, and dammit I'd tried. All I ever did was try to exert some control over him and every single time he shot me down and he swore I didn't want that control, I didn't need it.
"The things you struggle to accept in yourself are the same things that activate you in response to each other," Milana continued.
"That's funny, seeing as I don't have much history of screeching at people or destroying exam rooms," Sebastian mused from his usual spot at the bookshelves.
"You are a trauma surgeon." I said this as if I was speaking to a small child. "All you do is yell. We've all seen it. We've all heard it. You yell in the halls, you yell in the elevators, you yell in the OR. I'm not sure which part of your training teaches the shouting, but it's high time you accept that you and your brethren are loud as hell. You're not an ortho bro. You're not calm like neuro and you're not cranky like cardio. You're trauma and you yell. It's how you tell us that what you're doing is really fucking urgent and everyone else has to get out of your way. Sometimes it is necessary to yell at you to get your attention. You are so accustomed to communicating that way that you don't listen unless someone meets you at that level."
There was a solid minute where it seemed like Sebastian heard and received those words, but then he said, "I've never once destroyed an exam room."
I turned to Milana, shaking my head. She gave me another one of those trust the process nods. "I won't be here next Thursday so—"
"Where are you going?" Sebastian asked.
"Does it matter?"
He rolled his eyes the way someone would wind an old watch. I could almost hear him ticking. Then, "I asked, didn't I?"
"Asking doesn't entitle you to an answer," I replied.
"Sebastian, it is worth noting that you are scheduled for time off next week," Milana added. "At least that's the information that was provided to me. Your medical assistant told me you had travel plans."
He pushed a hand through his hair, nodded. He was completely unaware of these plans and something about that tickled me. "Oh. Right. Yeah."
I gestured to myself because I could be tickled and prove a point at the same time. "Look at this. It's me not badgering you for information about your plans. See how it works?"
Milana gave a soft clap of her hands and smiled at us like this conversation was a real breakthrough or something. "Seeing that you'll both be off-site and unavailable for our session, I'd like to give back an hour of your time in appreciation for the work you've done over these past few weeks. When you return, we'll engage in our last session." She nodded, adding, "No homework this week. Just promise me you'll both give yourselves the opportunity to rest and refill the well before returning. You deserve it."