"Yeah. I'm leaving," I replied, the words exactly as sharp as they needed to be. "I have to go."
"Okay," she said, pulling her robe tight. "Do you want me to drive you or—"
"No," I snapped, still looking for my damn shoes. Even with my gaze glued to the floor, I saw her recoil at my words. "No, Stella. I'm going and you're staying right there."
She banded an arm over her waist, gathered the lapels of her robe in her other hand and held it to her breastbone. "Oh. Oh, okay." She nodded as if she understood—she didn't—and lifted a pillow, revealing my shoes. "Here you go."
I didn't look at her. Couldn't. Couldn't melt for those dimples again. Couldn't see forever in her eyes and then walk away. Couldn't risk accepting the pittance she offered me because I would. I'd take this fractional part of her life and pretend I was okay with it. I'd do that until the day I lost my shit and actually killed Harry. And that day would be tomorrow.
"Thanks," I barked.
It sounded like a slap and the way she stumbled back told me it landed that way too. Good. I wanted her to hurt.
"Do you want to come back? When you're done?" she asked. "I don't care if it's late. I'll give you a key and you can—"
"No," I replied. "No, I'm not coming back here."
"All right," she said slowly. "What about tomorrow? Do you want to get brunch or go for—"
"No," I repeated. "Not tomorrow. Definitely not tomorrow."
"Definitely not tomorrow," she repeated. "Okay. What about Monday? Will I see you Monday at the pond? Will you be there like usual?"
I jerked a shoulder up while I tied my shoes. "It depends on how the weekend goes, Stella. I can't predict what will happen with my patients and they come first. You can't expect anything more from me."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her bobbing her head as she processed my words. Through the dull ache of this moment, I knew I was being harsh. Excessively so. But I was too fucked up to protect her feelings. If anything, I wanted to wound her. I wanted to hit her with all the harshness I had in me, just rip her the fuck open. I wanted her to know what it was like to be kept in the dark. To be left scrounging for scraps.
"Cal, I don't know what's happening," she whispered. "What did I do?"
I spied my wallet on the floor, plucked it up before glancing at her. I shouldn't have. Fuck, no. Should've ditched the shoes and the wallet and skipped that last look because it broke me. My chest was heavy and my head pounded and I couldn't manage a deep breath and it fucking broke me.
But I looked again, stared at her this time. I memorized her big, dark eyes and the tears shining back at me. Her pinched brow, her bottom lip snared between her teeth. Her glossy hair sliding loose from her bun, one tendril after another. Her arm folded over her waist, the other across her chest as if protecting her vital organs.
Stella broke me and I'd asked for it.
I cut a wide swath around her, calling over my shoulder, "You can let Harry know you're free this week."
31
Cal
"Hey."
I opened my eyes and found Stremmel staring down at me, his arms folded over his chest.
"What are you doing here? Tonight's game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. Doesn't your girlfriend get free tickets to those things? Shouldn't you be with her?"
"Not my girlfriend," I answered, shutting my eyes again.
I'd managed to steer clear of this conversation in the handful of days since running out of Stella's house like my hair was on fire. It meant dawdling in post-op and spending an excessive amount of time drilling my residents during rounds and inviting myself into a few cath lab cases to avoid lunch with my friends but I didn't count that as a loss. No, the real loss would've come in the form of Nick and Alex blinking at me with a mixture of pity and we told you so. Them reminding me I'd spent eight months imagining her, and in the two months I had her, never relinquished my Stella-in-the-sky ideals. Never believed her when she told me where she stood and what she wanted.
"I don't care if she's Joan of fuckin' Arc, if she can get you into that game, you're morally obligated to go," he cried. "Can she get tickets for me? If she did, I'd be her personal pony and let her ride me down to the Garden tonight."
You and Harry.
I wanted to slap myself. I hated the noise in my head right now. Resenting her for doing exactly what she told me she did wasn't helping anyone. But I was finished hating her. If I ever did. Probably not. I missed her and I ached for her, and I wanted things to be different. I wanted to be enough for her. I wanted to change her too, but only this one small issue.
It was small but it was major.
"That paints a picture," I grumbled.
"Hartshorn," he snapped. "Seriously. What the fuck is going on with you? What are you doing on the floor?"
I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes with a groan. God, I was tired. Even with claiming an extra hour of sleep because there was no fucking way I could go back to the pond, I was exhausted and sore. I'd never known the pain of heartbreak, never considered it manifested itself as true physical distress. And this was one heart I couldn't fix.
"I'm on the floor because I dropped my pager and I didn't feel like getting up after I put it back together."
He circled his hand at me, wanting me to elaborate. "Why are you here?"
I shrugged. "I'm here because I was paged."
Stremmel rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "This exchange is not amusing," he said. "You're not on call. Who paged you? Better question, why are they paging you when you're not on call and you should be at game seven? Have we no values around here?"
I considered him for a moment. "You're a hockey fan, Stremmel? Wouldn't have guessed that."
Another eyeroll. I could almost hear it, like winding an old-fashioned clock. "I'm a fan of championship games," he said. "That shit is far more interesting than slogging it out through the regular season. I know that knocks me down a few pegs as far as true fans go but I won't apologize."
"Wouldn't ask it," I replied.
"Who paged you?" he asked. "I want to know who doesn't respect protocol. I want to yell at someone."
I waved him off. "It's not that," I said. "My resident paged me instead of the on-call attending because he knew the on-call wasn't going to handle the issue the way I wanted. My resident did everything right."
"Which one?" he asked, glancing down at his phone. "O'Rourke? Or Popov?"
"O'Rourke. How'd you guess?"
"Your favorites are easy to spot. For a guy with your background, you're not so good with the poker face." Stremmel motioned toward my clothes. "Whatever it was, it couldn't have been that important if you haven't changed. And I'm still annoyed you're here over a page that didn't require scrubbing."
"You keep on being annoyed," I replied. "It works for you."
He peered at me, his head tipped to the side. "I think you're looking for an excuse to hang out here."
"You know all about that. Don't you, Stremmel?" I asked, pushing to my feet. I stood for a second then dropped onto a bench. "You think I don't notice you coming in on your days off?"
"None of those days featured the final game of a playoff series." He glanced at his watch then back at me. "Goddamn. I was supposed to leave three hours ago. Are you finished here or what?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I'm not scrubbing tonight."
He held up his hands. "Since you're obviously not going to the game, you can buy me a beer."
"I'm not the best company tonight."
Stremmel pressed his palm to his chest. "I've never in my life been good company. Hasn't stopped you from dragging me to holiday parties and happy hours and everything in between."
"That's what I do, Stremmel," I snapped. "I drag people along and make them do things even when they tell me they don't want to and it's not their way and it's never something they'll want. I figure they'll start to like it."
He snapped his fingers, motioned for me to stand up. I didn't. "You can buy me a beer b
ut I have conditions," he said. "I don't want to talk about anything. At all. Ever. We're just having beer. We're not discussing your problems or my problems. No teachable moments, no life coaching, no management conversations about five-year plans or growth potential. Just beer."
Stremmel turned toward his locker as he changed out of his scrubs. I glanced down at my phone, hoping to see a text from Stella because I'd hoped for that since the minute I left her house. I wanted her to send me long messages about misunderstandings and it not being the way it looked and correcting my assumptions. I wanted her to tell me I was wrong and I wanted her to be right about that.
"I mean it," he continued. "No mentoring, Hartshorn."
"I take it you've noticed my efforts," I said.
"They're hard to miss, dude," he replied. "You're pretty overt about your intentions. If you're trying to do something, it's difficult to tune that shit out."
"Thank you for humoring me," I said. "I'm realizing I'm not as successful at bending people to my will as I thought."
He turned, his shirt bunched under his chin as he buckled his belt. "You're decent about it," he said. "I've met some real assholes but you're decent." He smoothed his shirt down, shoved his phone and pager in his pockets. "You're not about preaching at people or wrist slapping. You're not a douche. And it's not all about the ego with you either. You're not a leapfrogger, you don't use people. You're just a decent dude who puts in the work without expecting much in return."
I pointed toward the door. "So, that's what you're doing with this feedback. Awesome."
Stremmel shook his head, muttering to himself, "I'm not in LA anymore."
"I guess it's a market. I don't know. They sell ravioli," I continued, "but they have a counter in the back. You have to buy some pasta first and put a good tip in the jar, and then ask for a seat. All cash. I don't think it's completely legal but they'll hand you a jelly jar of wine to go with the raviolis. Heavy pour and they keep it full. Things aren't so bad with a jelly jar of wine and some noodles."
"That sounds like going to confession."
"Not far off," I replied.
"You want to get ravioli and wine," he said, as if it was the strangest thing he'd ever heard. "You and me in a back room in the North End, drinking some under-the-table wine. During the National Hockey League's championship game. That's what you want to do."
"Well, I don't have tickets to the game and I don't want to watch the game because with my luck, I'll probably see a shot of Stella in a private box with a douchey guy named Harry all up on her and then I'll throw a massive clot and die of an aneurysm. So, yeah. I want to eat some fucking ravioli and drink a gallon of fucking wine, and I won't want to talk about a fucking thing."
Stremmel crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at the ceiling, nodding to himself. Eventually, he said, "This Harry guy. You need me to get some sodium thiopental and some potassium chloride? Make it look like an accident? Army Ranger style?"
My shoulders fell as I blew out a sigh. "While I appreciate your willingness to be an accomplice, I'd rather not kill the guy." I brought my hand to the back of my neck, rubbed the ceaseless tension there. "I don't even want to see him. Or any of the others."
He stared at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed and his brows knit. Then he said, "Is it good wine? I can't drink shitty wine. Gives me migraines."
I bobbed my head. "I've only been there once but it was decent. Better than decent, actually."
"All right," he conceded. "I guess we're getting wine and ravioli because I don't want to have your aneurysm on my watch."
We made our way to the North End, walking in companionable silence while the city around us held a collective breath through the final game of the hockey championship. We circled the block twice before finding the tiny shop with Fresh Ravioli painted on the window. After arguing about our order for longer than was logical, we found ourselves seated at a low bar with old wicker chairs.
Stremmel held up his makeshift wineglass. "We have nothing to toast. We won't be doing that," he announced. "If you need to talk about something, you can tell me about battlefield surgeries."
I split a ravioli open. It felt good to stab something. "No," I said simply. "I don't want to talk about the war right now."
"That's disappointing," he said around a mouthful of pasta and cheese.
"You know what's really disappointing? Falling in love with a woman only to find out she doesn't believe she's meant for relationships or monogamy or marriage. How is that even fucking possible? Yeah, sure, everyone's had a few bad ones. That doesn't mean you can't pick yourself up and move on. Doesn't mean you can't have a good one. But to avoid them altogether? Foreclose the possibility because your ex got married ten minutes after ending it with you? No. No, I don't buy it. I can't."
"I am literally the last person you should be asking for relationship advice, man." Stremmel glanced around the shop. "Let's grab the ravioli lady or someone off the street to talk to you because they'll be more qualified for this conversation than I am."
"Yeah? Who fucked you over?"
He glanced away, bringing his attention to the wine, the food, the odd surroundings. He was silent for a long beat, and then, "No one. No one fucked me over. I did it all by myself." He pointed to the front of the shop. "But I'm serious about pulling someone off the street because the only advice I can give you is on the topic of treating crush injuries."
"I don't need advice," I said.
"Neither do I but you keep giving it," he replied with a laugh.
"Then we won't talk," I said.
"Perfect," Stremmel said.
It was late when I got back to my apartment. After midnight but before dawn. I had no sense as to which was nearer. I didn't return home with much sense at all. To make matters worse, the wine was playing tricks on my mind. It had to be the wine. Why else would I spend ten minutes standing in the middle of my kitchen, reaching for a woman who was only there in my mind? But I was convinced she was there. I believed it. I could see her at the stove and smell the spices and hear her talking. I wanted more than anything for it to be real rather than a memory.
That desire sent me to the bedroom. I wanted to find her there, to feel her under me. I flopped facedown onto the bed, desperate to find the scent of her lingering in the sheets and pillows. I found none. But I should've expected that. I should've known she'd leave and take everything with her. I should've known I wasn't playing for keeps.
Dragged down by that bitter realization, I surrendered to sleep with my shoes still on and the bed linens rucked up around me. It was just like being in Stella's bed. But a thousand times worse.
32
Cal
I stormed out of the operating room, ripping my surgical gown off as I pushed through the double doors. The surgery was successful, my resident performed competently, the patient was likely to recover without incident. Regardless, I was holding on to this foul mood. I was doing my damnedest to keep it localized rather than dumping it on the people around me. But this door, this gown—they were free game.
Stremmel fell in step with me. "I know I'm the last person to suggest this," he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his white coat. "But you might want to fix your face. People are worried."
"About what?" I snapped, forcing another pair of doors open.
"Nothing much," he replied. "Nearly ripping doors off their hinges is fine. Everything is fine."
"I don't care about the door. I've been in surgery for nine hours and I need something to eat," I said. Even through the fog of this mood, those words sounded needlessly sharp. "Fuck it. I'm going across the street. To the park."
I'd managed a full week without discussing my crash and burn with anyone, save for Stremmel. Not that he allowed me to say much. I'd also avoided the pond. I'd driven near there three mornings ago but quickly turned around and headed for the gym. I hated the gym.
Stremmel made a sound of disapproval as he stepped in front of the next set of doors. "I
can't recommend that," he said. "Emmerling and Acevedo are talking weddings and honeymoons. Just speaking for myself here but I can't stomach that shit."
"Oh, hell," I grumbled. With Stremmel blocking the door, I was forced to pace. "I'm not hungry anymore."
"Unlikely story," Stremmel replied. "I'm blowing off the happily coupled table. I found a place around the corner with decent pizza by the slice."
"Would we be friends or whatever this is"—I gestured toward him—"if we didn't get food together?"
He jerked a shoulder up. "Is that a problem? I can't see how it is. It's not like I can eat three meals a day in the cafeteria while also putting up with your moods."
I swung a glance toward him, tapped my chest. "My moods?"
"It's just a slice of pizza, Hartshorn. One I'm expecting you to buy," he continued. "It's not like we're taking yoga classes together. Does it matter that we only hang out when there's food involved? No. Would I hang out with you if you weren't picking up the tab? Also no." He snapped his fingers. "If you don't mind, I spent the morning putting a pair of fools back together after they fell off a bridge trying to take a selfie. I need some carbs and caffeine to make me happy."
I stopped wearing the linoleum thin, tossed a frown in his direction. "The carbs and caffeine are going to make you happy? That's the magical combination?"
He rolled his eyes. "As happy as I get, Hartshorn." He beckoned toward me with both hands. "I'll go without you if you don't get your shit together right now."
"Are you inviting me to join you?"
He dropped his head back against the door, shrugging. "Only if you promise to keep your problems to yourself."
"I can do that."
Stremmel kicked the doors open and gestured for me to follow him. "Starting now," he warned, "you can be miserable but don't involve me in your misery."
Before Girl Page 24