Another thing I hadn't understood was that paying attention to all these little cues for all those years turned me into a dysregulated wreck. I'd been working on straightening out my nervous system for years now. But I still hadn't sorted out the contradiction inherent in desperately, desperately wanting to be deemed worthy—my pick me problem—and refusing to believe that anyone could ever want me because I was an epic mess.
Want me, please, though you won't and you absolutely don't so leave me alone at once.
Big old messy mess.
That was the state in which I found myself stalking the halls of the surgical wing on Tuesday evening. I was finished with my cases for the day, but I didn't know where Sebastian was—and I needed to know.
The thing about us grown kids of chaotic homes was we never stopped noticing everything. Maybe we weren't living on the edge of that knife anymore, but there wasn't a time when we stopped tuning into tones and behaviors and energies.
I knew Sebastian wasn't thrilled with me right now, and that was why I needed to keep an eye on him. Not because I was concerned about running into him. Not for me. No, my concern was for him. I had to make sure he was all right. The way we'd parted in Jamaica was not the best, and even if I could've done better in those moments, that didn't change my need for time. Another thing I needed was to keep Sebastian in one piece while I worked through this. All I had to do was keep an eye on him. From a distance. Without him noticing.
Nothing messy about that.
I dropped my hands to my hips as I stalked back to the top of the hallway. There were tons of hiding spots in this hospital. I knew because I'd played this exact game with him before and it had taken me an eternity to find him camped out in that weird little exam room in the ER.
As I hooked a right down another hallway, I spotted a familiar face. I held out a hand to stop him. "Hey. Hi. You're the trauma fellow, right?"
The man grabbed the badge clipped to his waist, the one that announced his name was Bay O'Rourke and he was a surgeon, and he frowned at it for a moment. He appeared confused by the information he found there which wasn't a great sign. "Yeah. I guess so."
"Right, then, do you know where I can find Dr. Stremmel?"
His gaze sharpened as he stared at me. "I know where he is, yeah."
"And?" I crossed my arms over my chest. "Will you tell me where he is?"
He gave me an all-over study, the kind that said he didn't know me but he already knew he didn't like me. Then, "No, I don't think I will."
These freaking trauma surgeons. They were made of stubborn stuff. "Why not?"
"Let's just call it professional discretion," O'Rourke said. "Judgment call, you know?"
I pressed my fingertips under my glasses, to my eyelids. I was exhausted yet too wound up to get much sleep. I just needed to buy myself a little time and then everything would be fine. Everything would settle down. "My professional discretion suggests you should tell me where to find him."
"Is there a specific reason I should do that?"
I did not need any more power struggles in my life. I did not. "I need to check on your boss. If you don't tell me where he is, I will assume you don't know and have been wasting my time. I'd prefer to not waste my time."
"Why do you need to check on him?"
"I see you've conceded to wasting my time." I turned on a heel, my sneaker squealing against the tile. "Thanks."
I didn't make it two steps before O'Rourke called, "I sent him home."
I swung back to face him. "You sent Stremmel home? Are we talking about the same person? Because the Dr. Stremmel I know takes orders from just about no one."
O'Rourke laughed. "I wouldn't say he takes them, no, but he needed to go." He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was obvious he didn't want to elaborate. It was also obvious I wasn't leaving without more information. "He has a migraine. Depth perception"—he waved a hand in front of his face—"all fucked-up. I took his last case of the day and kicked him out. He needs to sleep it off."
He'd held my hand.
That was all I could think.
When I was sick and struggling, he'd held my hand and teased me enough to get my mind off my stomach. He'd stayed with me while I vomited in a bush and he'd gathered up my hair, kept it away from my face. I didn't know when it was that I'd convinced myself I didn't need that, but I did. I needed someone who would stay when I wasn't pretty or perfect, who didn't expect me to hold myself in or smooth down any of my savagery.
And if I needed that, Sebastian did too.
"Okay. Thank you." I went to leave, but quickly realized I needed a little more. "O'Rourke. Do you know where Dr. Emmerling is right now?"
He let out an irritable snicker. "Do I look like a switchboard? Wait. No, don't answer that. Forget it. No one from my generation should know what a switchboard looks like. Emmerling went into the OR the same time I did. Probably closing now, if she's not already done."
"Thanks," I called.
"He doesn't let me slack off when he's fucked up," O'Rourke said. "Don't fuck him up again, okay?"
"Can't promise that," I said to myself.
I caught Alex as she exited from her OR, her hair in two perfectly plaited French braids and a slight imprint on her forehead from wearing a headlamp and loupes for hours.
"I need your help," I blurted out.
"Can you walk with me to post-op?"
I grabbed her by the shoulders. "Send your residents to post-op. You don't need to go with them. They don't need you to micromanage and you don't need to waste your time doing their work for them."
"Wow. We are having some real talk and you're telling me how to get my house in order tonight. Okay, then," she mused. Before I could apologize—my good girl was dying from all this—she gave orders to a pair of residents. When she was finished, she leaned back against the wall. "What's up, babe?" She ran the back of her hand over her mouth. Her stomach growled loudly. It sounded like a jungle cat. "Ignore that. I just need thirty or forty tacos. I'll be fine."
My stomach gave a matching cry, though this one was less feed me tacos and more all the stress hormones you're dumping into your bloodstream are gonna mess up your gut for days.
"I'll ignore yours, you ignore mine," I said. This was it. This was how a bitch leveled up to best friend status. Out with it in a surgical hallway while one person's stomach yelled for tacos and the other's threatened an irritable bowel war. "That thing you asked me about? With Stremmel? Yes. Okay? Yes. For the past two months."
With both hands, she mimed an explosion. Then, "That's awesome. I like both of you. Now I get to like you together."
"Really? Oh—I mean, thank you?" I waved that away. "You told me once that you had keys to my place and Stremmel's. That Hartshorn and Acevedo had given them to you back when they lived in the building, and if I ever needed someone to water plants or be there for a delivery—"
"Right, right. Yeah." She frowned. "You need my keys? Why? If the sounds I've heard coming from your place are any indication, I think he'll be happy to see you." The shock must've registered on my face because she pushed off from the wall and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "What I meant to say was let's go down to the locker room and I'll get you that key. Also, good for you. I know you're super private and I have to remind myself to respect that—"