"No, because it's a fucking sandwich, not a bag of croutons that belong on top of a salad. That's weird." He looked to Milana. "That's weird."
She held up her hands and let them fall, silently choosing neutrality in this battle.
"My croutons are not subject to your approval."
He cocked his head to the side. "And yet my treatment plans are subject to your approval?"
"Yeah, when the plan is lazy. There are better options than sloppy staples, especially when we're talking about faces, especially when we're talking about younger patients who—"
"Then your primary concern is aesthetics," he interrupted, nodding to himself like this confirmed all his worst suspicions. "Should've guessed that. Plastics and all." He lifted his shoulders and I could hear the smugness vibrating off him. "My primary concern is saving lives."
I bit into another crouton, staring at him all the while. I made him wait for my response, and I could tell from every tic of his scruffy jaw that he hated it. When I was good and ready, I said, "You're not accomplishing what you think you're accomplishing by drowning me in condescension. Instead of validating your expertise, you're undercutting yourself and showing your whole ass in the process by telling us"—I gestured toward Milana—"that the only expertise you value is your own. That doesn't speak fondly to your growth mindset, now does it, Dr. Stremmel?"
He didn't respond. I had to work at swallowing my smile. I wasn't positive but it seemed like he was grinding his teeth. He went on staring at me, his dark eyes hard and his arms locked tight across his chest. It was audacious of him to walk around with those bare arms, not a thermal shirt or fleece jacket to protect us from all that tanned, muscular obscenity. And that was no exaggeration. Stremmel was quite obscene and he deserved none of it. He had no more use for that crisp jawline than he did those broad, powerful shoulders.
Milana glanced between us several times as the silence thickened. Well, it wasn't entirely silent. These croutons were as good as pins loudly stabbing my Sebastian Stremmel voodoo doll.
Eventually, she broke the tension, saying, "You might not recognize it, but we've made progress today."
"Because there's no broken glass on the floor?" he asked.
I crunched down on a pumpernickel crouton as hard as I could manage. When I glanced at him, I found his gaze locked on me. Not exactly on me, but the hot pink t-shirt tucked into my green scrub bottoms. It read Scrubs and Scalpels, with an anatomically correct heart and a pair of surgical blades crossed like a pirate's skull and bones. His brows lifted and he laughed, a single ha that barely registered as a sound.
Then he met my eyes, his permanent scowl shifting into the finest fragment of a smile. I arched a brow in challenge and he responded with an eye roll so epic he probably gave himself a tension headache.
Ignoring all of this, Milana continued, "Progress doesn't stick unless you practice it. For this week's practice, I'd like you to share a meal—"
"No." I shook my head. The pumpernickel turned to bile, sharp and bitter and miserable in my throat.
"Go ahead and put me down for no as well," Sebastian said.
Because this kind woman with her gleaming hair and potted plants had an evil side, Milana repeated, "I'd like you to share a meal. Here are the requirements. You must convene outside the hospital complex. You must sit down at a table to eat. I might be old-school but I'm telling you coffee is not a meal. Not in my book. Finally, you must learn five new, non-professional things about each other."
Sebastian unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets, his scowl deep enough to stir up a thunderstorm of its own. "Here's my requirement. That hour of extracurricular work counts as one of the eight sessions."
I would've thrown my support behind this proposal if I wasn't busy cataloging ways to dodge the assignment entirely. If I asked around, I could probably find someone who needed a kidney. Donating a kidney would excuse me, right? It would. It would destroy my schedule but it was all about bargaining away the bad.
"This won't be the last assignment," Milana said. "But I'll consider your suggestion if this assignment is completed to my satisfaction by next week's session."
I closed my reusable snack bag and shoved it in a coat pocket. I couldn't think about next week's session yet, not when this one needed to end. I'd prepared myself for these visits but not activities outside the hospital. I really hated group projects. They always had a way of growing legs and ruining my life.
"I'd like you to make that allowance," Sebastian pressed.
"Dr. Stremmel, I'm aware that you are accustomed to getting your way. You've earned it. But you get your way on the surgical wing. Not in this office, not unless you earn it here."
I pushed to my feet. I didn't know if we were finished or not but I didn't have another minute in me. "Thank you for your time," I said to Milana. "Excuse me."
Before she could respond, I was out the door.
Maybe it was just me but being a people-pleaser had never been about making anyone happy. We called it people-pleasing but what we meant was we did whatever it took to keep from altering the status quo. Working extremely hard in school had been one of my most socially acceptable forms of maintaining the status quo and getting a dash of validation in the process. There was nothing to see here so long as I was earning good grades and engaged in the right after-school activities. Being obsessively obedient and helpful was another. Everyone loved the kid who was so damn mature for her age. They never saw it as the outward manifestation of inner stress. They never stopped to ask how that kid got to be so mature. They never asked why she couldn't just be a kid. They only reaped the benefits.
I didn't give a damn about pleasing people but I knew everything about playing the right part.
I knew better now. I knew I didn't have to do any of those things anymore but I still felt the twinges of guilt when it came to asserting my needs—or walking out of a counseling session when I'd had enough.
That same guilt ate at me now, hours after the session. We had homework to do and I always did my homework, even if it was homework that forced me out of my comfort zone.
After a bit of research, I drafted a text to Stremmel.
* * *
Sara: Here's a screenshot of my schedule for the week.
Sara: Here's a list of restaurants that work for me.
Sebastian: I thought you'd fight this to the death. I'm disappointed you caved so quick.
Sara: Shut up and choose a place.
Sebastian: I've been to Pastoral. Acevedo's brother-in-law lives near there. That works.
Sara: Date?
Sebastian: Yeah, I guess it's a date if that's what you want to call it…
Sara: No. It is NOT a date. You need to tell me when you're available, as in day and time. Which date?
Sebastian: Ah. Okay. Monday? 7 or 8?
Sara: 7 will be fine.
Sebastian: It's a date, right?
Sara: For fuck's sake, no!
Sebastian: Did I just hear you screech from three floors away?
* * *
I tossed my phone aside and groaned up at the ceiling. I'd distracted myself reading menus and forgotten for a few beautiful minutes that Sebastian was upstairs. By virtue of sturdy yet randomly flimsy brownstones, everyone in the building's three apartments knew when the others were showering, climbing the stairs, or loudly breathing. Forget about watching TV or having sex.