“Better than eating with the skeleton in the office I normally eat with.”
“Barely a step up if you compare the two.” With a deep breath, she nods. “Okay, I’ll join you for lunch.”
“Perfect.” Together, we walk across the street and step up to the outdoor counter. I order a large roast beef sandwich to split, extra horseradish sauce, a fruit cup, and two waters. I pay despite Palmer putting up a fight, and then we both take a seat outside under a red and white umbrella. We’re off in the corner to grant us some privacy, which seems like what Palmer needs right now.
Instead of talking, I fold my hands together, lean back in my chair, and wait for our sandwich to be delivered—despite all the questions I’d like to ask her, starting with, How long are you here for? Followed up by, Would you like to go on a date with me?
But as promised, I don’t talk. We sit in silence. Awkward, uncomfortable, agonizing silence. What I wouldn’t give to be in her brain right now, to hear her thoughts.
Does she regret all the things she said to me?
Did she really not remember who I was?
Does she ever think about me?
Yeah, that last one is wishful thinking.
But hell, I’ve never stopped thinking about her.
Our sandwich is dropped off, along with another basket. I take one half of the sandwich and place it in the basket with some fruit and a fork and hand it over to her.
She shoots me a shy glance. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” I say before picking up my sandwich and taking a massive bite. I feel her eyes on me, so when I make eye contact with her, I say, “What?” my mouth full of roast beef.
She chuckles quietly. “Take a big enough bite?”
I chew. Swallow. “It’s better that I take big bites to silence myself.”
“Oh.” She smirks, and I’m relieved to see the tears that were present on the sidewalk are gone, which means my work here is done. “Well, you don’t have to be quiet if you don’t want to.”
“Just respecting your privacy. Seemed like you were upset back there. I won’t pry.”
With her good hand, she picks up the sandwich and struggles to keep it together. Roast beef falls out the side, the bread starts to slide up, and there’s no chance she’s getting that in her mouth in one piece. She sets it down with a frustrated groan. “How long do I have to keep this cast on?”
“Up to eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks?” she says, her voice rising. “Seriously?”
“Which is why you need to come up with a better story than falling off a picnic table, because after eight weeks of having a cast on your arm, you’re going to want to impress people.”
She spears a piece of fruit with her fork. “You don’t think falling off a picnic table while clutching a bottle of wine is going to impress people?”
I shake my head in humor. “I’m not sure it would speak to your brand of jet-setting around the world and eating the finer things.”
“Especially since it was the seven-dollar wine from the Liquor General,” she whispers.
A hearty laugh pops out of me. “Yeah, that might set you back a few followers.”
“You’re probably right.” She attempts to pick up her sandwich, but all the meat falls out again and she grows even more frustrated. Not sure she wants my help, I step in anyway and pick up the sandwich for her, nodding for her to take a bite. “Oh God, you don’t have to feed me,” she says in horror.
“Just take a bite. Once it’s smaller, you can probably grip it yourself.”
“This is humiliating,” she mutters as she leans in and takes a bite.
“More humiliating than asking to press my chin dimple?” I raise a challenging brow.
She groans. “I forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and she chuckles. I jut my chin out in her direction. “It’s yours to poke if you want to.”
“I would rather fall off the picnic table again than follow through on that drunken request.”
I gasp in feigned shock. “Why, Palmer Chance, is my chin dimple not appealing to you anymore? Does this mean you’re going to revoke my GQ card?”
She tries to uncap her water but struggles, so I reach out and do it for her. “Thank you,” she says quietly before she adds, “You just love addressing the elephant in the room, don’t you?”
“Might as well, right?” I nudge her foot under the table. “It’s not that big of a deal, you know.”
“Easy to say when you’re not the one embarrassing yourself.”
“Isn’t that what being a human is all about, though?” I ask. “Moments of embarrassment mixed in with joy and sorrow? We have emotions for a reason, and what’s life without experiencing them all, even if it means hitting on your doctor?”
I lift her sandwich, and she takes another bite.
“Plus, you’re never going to have any good stories to tell in your old age if you go through life like a stone wall, feeling nothing. Some of my best stories were born from embarrassing moments, and those stories brighten people’s days.”
She swallows. “Okay, so brighten my day with one.”
“I thought me personally feeding you was brightening your day already, but I see you’re demanding.” She smiles, and I love that I can turn her day around. I love that we can have this interaction without the past drowning us. “Something to brighten your day? Hmm . . .” Just the thing comes to mind. “Well, as you know, I went to medical school.”
“What?” She gasps. “No, I had no idea.”
“Sarcasm—you’re speaking my love language.” I offer her another bite, and she takes it. “But yes, I went to medical school, and because I’m so amazing, I was in an accelerated program. But because the workload was not only ambitious but exhausting, I found myself worn down most of the time. I survived on a healthy diet of Red Bull and Snickers.”
“Seriously?”
I nod. “Oh yeah, gained a solid twenty-five pounds while going through school. You wouldn’t have recognized me.”
“Kind of like I didn’t recognize you now?”
“Worse. But that’s beside the point. I was going through my clinicals after a long night of studying, and I’d had barely any nutrients, because—”
“Snickers and Red Bull.”
I point at her. “Precisely. And before I know it, I have to administer a steroid shot to a lady who has fifth disease.”
“What’s that?”
“A children’s disease. Kids just get a rash on their cheeks and arms, sometimes body, but adults have much worse side effects. This lady, for instance, just looked like she got off the surface of the sun. Her body was bright red, and she could barely use her hands. Well, I had to give her a steroid shot in the glute . . . which happened to be the first time I ever stuck someone in the butt.”
Her lips turn up. “Please tell me you fainted.”
“Oh, I fainted, and I fainted hard. I was so scared about breaking the skin that I got myself worked up to the point that the room started to spin, and instead of asking for assistance, I powered through. I wound up sticking her, but before I could actually administer the drug, I face-planted right into her crack and bounced off and onto the floor.”