"It's difficult for me," I said. "Being open with people. Private is so much simpler, you know? I can keep on pretending that everything is fine, everything is just as perfect as it looks on the outside, and no one has to know about the mess on the inside." I ran a finger across my forehead. "I'm an enormous mess, Alex. So much of me is a mess. It doesn't even make sense how much of a mess I am. How is anyone allowed to be my age and do this job and also be"—I waved a hand at my scrubs—"held together with nothing more than a stretched-out hair tie and five dozen wonky medical t-shirts?"
She gave my shoulders a squeeze. "I'd give my left tit for your t-shirt collection."
I blinked fast and sucked in a deep breath. I was not going to cry at work. I was not going to cry at work. "Well, you'd need to give that tit just to fit into my t-shirts. How did you get all the boob and I got none?"
She shrugged. "It's not like it does me any good."
"You make it seem like I don't live downstairs from you," I said. "I've heard what your husband has to say. I own three white noise machines and keep them running all the time for that exact reason."
"Ahhh. That's why it was all so muffled," she said. "It sounded like you were getting pounded in an aquarium. I was very confused. Not that I was listening closely or anything. I was aware of the events in an abstract sense. Abstract only. Although I was like, 'Good for her. Good for Shap. Get some, girl. You deserve it.'"
A loud, gangly laugh burst out of me. "I can't believe we're talking about this."
"Doesn't it feel good though?" She steered me down the hall, away from the operating rooms. "To actually say what you want instead of what you should? Don't waste that kind of energy on me, okay? Whether you like it or not, I need you. I need a girl surgeon friend, but more importantly, I need you—the very smart, very sophisticated mess who jumps in the middle of me micromanaging my residents and lets me make a fool of myself in text messages."
"Thank you for saying that," I said.
"I'm not just saying it. You should know I'm a mess too. Whatever you have, I have it in a double-D cup."
I was prepared to argue this point. To tell her there was no way she could have the same fucked-up souvenirs I had, but then I realized it didn't matter. It didn't have to matter. I didn't have to let the mess matter. "Thanks, Alex."
"No problem." When we reached the lounge, she marched toward her locker and fished her keys from her bag. "Are you staging a surprise attack on Stremmel?"
"We need a bit of time," I said, fluttering my hands because I didn't know what else to do with them. "Apart, that is. But I have to check on him."
"Do you actually need time apart or is it safer to put distance between yourself and big feelings, and call it time?"
I fetched my coat from my locker, scarf too. "In this instance, I really need to do something. I need to prove I can do something. And big feelings are completely terrifying."
She bobbed her head as she unthreaded the key from the ring. "Don't prove yourself out of a good thing. I say that with zero context on your situation and a lot of history with my own desire to prove points." She held out the key. "Make choices that scare you. They're the best ones."
It didn't occur to me until reaching the landing outside Alex's second floor apartment that I had no plan to speak of for this visit, no idea how I was going to explain my presence. There was no way around it: I was breaking the rules Sebastian had established last week in Jamaica.
I knew he didn't understand why I needed this time and I couldn't justify that to him right now, but I could be that person who stayed with him while he needed it. I didn't know for sure though it seemed like that was better than justifying anything. Or, I hoped it was.
When I arrived on the third floor, I was shocked to find that I could see straight down to the foyer from here. The staircase wound its way up the building, a perfect oval of railings and overlooks, and I should've made this connection sooner though I'd missed it. I'd missed so much.
"Sebastian?" I knocked on the door and waited a minute.
A spike of doubt hit me when I pushed the key into the lock. This could be an enormous mistake. He could hate me for inviting myself into his space when he'd never once asked me up here. And maybe he wanted to be alone. It wasn't like I wanted anyone around to witness a truly terrible irritable bowel flare. There would be no handholding through that.
"If he wants to be alone, he'll tell me that," I murmured to myself as I turned the key.
The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the street-facing windows. I closed the door as soundlessly as I could manage and used the brightness from my phone's screen to orient myself. I found a bread crumb trail of outerwear and shoes leading into the kitchen, a deep, brick-walled galley blocked by a pair of legs in navy blue scrubs. He held his forehead in one hand, his elbow in the other.
I dropped to my knees beside him, ran a hand over his scruffy jaw. He kept his eyes closed. If he was surprised by my appearance tonight, he didn't show it. "What do you need?"
"Nothing."
"That can't be true," I whispered. "You're sitting on the floor and making like you intend to stay here for more than a minute. Tell me what you need right now or expect me to use my own methods to figure it out."
If he recognized those words, he didn't let on, giving a single shake of his head. Then, he leaned his cheek into my palm. We stayed there, silent with his skin warm against mine. After a minute, I took his wrist in hand, found his pulse.
"Don't doctor me," he rasped.
"Sorry, have to. I don't make the rules." I reached for the prescription bottles sitting open on the countertop, read the labels. "How long has it been since you took these?"
"Don't know. An hour, maybe? You don't have to—whatever. You don't have to stay."
Ignoring that, I put the lids on the bottles and gave him a quick study. "Do you usually need to sleep it off?"
"Yeah." He hooked an arm around my waist, caught the edge of my t-shirt between two fingers. His touch was light, like the way you embraced someone you barely knew and hadn't seen in ages. Hello, you resemble someone I met in another life. Are you that same person? Will you be that person today?
"Then we need to get you off the floor and out of those clothes." I knew he really didn't feel well because that last remark earned neither an arched eyebrow nor an amused scowl. "Can we do that?"
"Are you here right now?" he asked, those two fingers clinging to my shirt becoming a fist at the small of my back. "Is this actually happening?"
"No, I'm not here," I whispered, pushing his hair off his forehead. "Not yet."
"But, Sara—"
"Shh. Let me put you to bed. Okay? Let me do that. There's nothing else for you to worry about tonight."
There was a second where it seemed like he wanted to push back, wanted to push me away. I knew because I did the same thing. Then, he flattened his hand on my back, saying, "My right eye is a disco ball. I was going to stay put until it resolved."