From the sounds of her occasional murmurs and "Oh, that's interesting," Sara had the same idea.
When the meal arrived, Dr. Shapiro was two tables away, his hands braced on the backs of the chairs of a couple seated there. I stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to catch my eye. I wasn't in the business of making his daughter wait and I was very good at glaring holes through skulls.
He knew I was watching him. I could tell from the way he cut his gaze to the side and shifted to avoid accidentally meeting my eyes. He wasn't budging.
I glanced over at Sara only to find her frowning at her plate. "Excuse me," I said to the server as she filled our wine, "this is not what the lady ordered. She asked for grilled, not pan-seared, and none of the mango salsa." I picked up the plate, handed it to the server. "Thank you."
"I'll take care of that right away," she said.
Sara lifted her glass to her lips, took a tiny sip. "You didn't have to do that."
"You weren't going to say anything, and as I believe you've stated on more than a few occasions, I like being an asshole."
"You aren't being an asshole."
"No? A dickhead, then?"
"Not that either." She laughed. "You're using these powers of yours for good."
I glared over at Dr. Shapiro again. The couple he was talking to noticed, making some playful shooing gestures, though he responded to that by fully turning his back to me.
Another thing he and my father had in common was that you couldn't tell them anything. You couldn't argue with them, couldn't reason. That was the trap of the narcissist. Trying to have a conversation with them was like playing one of those finger trap games, as it was never a conversation. It was stupid chess. None of it mattered, but they'd weaponize everything in reach and change the rules while they played, all to keep up the pretense of winning.
They were never, ever wrong—which meant everyone else was always wrong. Even if I rattled off the twenty most offensive things he'd said tonight and called on him to account for that shit, Dr. Shapiro would spin that into me being a lunatic, Sara being an idiot for bringing me along, and he being the victim for having to endure it.
I couldn't tear into the guy. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't. It would follow Sara forever, much like the single scatterbrained moment that probably wasn't scattered at all yet still trailed her like a ghost. More than that, it wouldn't help. No one ever told off a narcissist and lived to tell tales of victory.
No, I wasn't going to yell at this guy on Sara's behalf.
I could do better than that.
It wasn't the reactions that gained ground. It was pivots. Maneuvers.
In record time, Sara had a new plate of grilled red snapper sans salsa, and Dr. Shapiro showed himself back to the table. He motioned toward her with his rocks glass. "Good choice. That looks light."
And that was it. That was fucking it for me. "You know, I'm surprised to see a smart guy like you drinking bourbon," I said to him. "But I guess we all choose the ways we kill ourselves."
Sara brought her napkin to her lips, smothering a laugh.
"Bourbon? No. No worse than anything else." He turned his attention to the plate in front of him, his face twisted in a smirking pout. "No worse than wine. I've done my research."
I reached for my glass. "I bet Morty Speeback knocks back no more than two glasses of red a day and tells everyone he meets to do the same. That's why he hands it out by the case."
"Actually, yes, he does do that," Sara said. I could hear the fight in her voice and I loved it. "He's been saying that for ages. Isn't he eighty-seven? Eighty-eight?"
"And still practicing?" I asked.
"Apparently," she replied. "I might have another twenty surgical years in me, but not a day more."
"Then it's about time you stop trying to save the world," Dr. Shapiro said. He set his fork down, visibly perturbed. "I don't know what the point of working in Boston is, but you can do all the reconstruction you want at home. You know my facilities are better than anything you're going to find anywhere else. What more do you need?"
I held up a hand. "You're trying to poach her? From one of the largest and most widely respected teaching hospitals in the world? The one with access to an unimaginably vast research system? The one with the nearly unlimited alumni network? And the facility is your selling point? That must be one fuck of a facility."
He brushed that off with a curt shake of his head. "Teaching is a waste of time. Sara shouldn't be spending her days with interns and residents nipping at her heels."
I turned to her. She was picking at her fish. "I've never once seen a resident or intern anywhere near your heels."
"That's because I know how to work them and not let them work me."
I motioned to the goddess beside me. "That's how we do it in Boston."
Later, I'd milk her for advice on handling O'Rourke because I obviously needed it.
Ignoring me, Dr. Shapiro said to Sara, "You don't want to waste your time at a big, bloated facility like that. Your OR getting bumped for emergent cases, different techs and nurses every day, no control over your schedule. The hours alone are reason to walk away. You don't want those kinds of conditions."
"I've always believed it's better not to tell people what they want, but that doesn't seem to be the standard here so I'll say with comfort that Mass will fight you to the bourbon-hastened death for Sara."
He was polite enough to force an appeasing grin before saying to her, "I just want what's best for you." He held her gaze for a second before beaming at someone over her shoulder and calling, "Did they let Ron Gilletti in here?"
Dr. Shapiro pushed away from the table, his cloth napkin falling to the floor as he moved to greet the man.
"That was fun," Sara murmured.
"I know you're being sarcastic, but I have to say it is fun to run through an offensive line like that. I'm not positive, but it feels like I worked through some issues tonight. It sucked, yet it was strangely productive."
"I'm happy you feel that way," she said, managing a small laugh. She rubbed her knuckles across her chest several times, winced. "I might require your services again in the future. Not sure I'll ever be able to endure another one of these evenings without you running interference."
"Sign me up. I'll be there." I gave her leg a squeeze. She didn't look great. "Are you okay? You demolished that snapper."
"It's what I do," she said. "Shove food in my mouth to avoid being mentally present for the backhanded flogging." I followed her gaze to her father, the man he'd called Ron, and a pair of women who seemed much too young for either of them. Much too familiar with them as well. The body language spoke in bold shouts. "Gross."
I reached for my wallet. "Are we done here? Or do we have to play a few more rounds of being less important than everyone else on the island?"
She set her napkin on the table. Flattened a hand to her belly. "You're not paying for this."
"Oh yes, I am." I flagged down the server, handed over a card. "Just you wait."