Again, But Better(60)

“What is he talking about?” I ask quietly. “What’s going on with you?”

“What did you do?” he asks again.

I slump forward and step around him toward the carousel.



* * *



Pilot responds to my message the next day, asking what was up. I tell him I needed Babe’s British number because I accidentally packed one of her shirts.





Part 2



2017





27. What Page Are You On?



“If you were a shape, what shape would you be?” The chair creaks as the man leans back and folds his hands over his knee.

If I were a shape? If I were a shape. A diamond? Would they want to hear diamond? Am I a diamond? I’m under enough pressure. What about parallelogram? I like how the word parallelogram rolls off the tongue.

What. Shape. Am I? What shape am I?

His fingers drum on the table. Shit.

“Uh, I would be a circle, or actually a sphere because I’m three-dimensional, you know, and, because I can always roll with the punches.”

He blinks. “Hmmm.”

I swallow.

“If you were a flower, what flower would you be?” he drawls.

Flowers? I don’t really know flowers. Rose because Red is my favorite Taylor Swift album? Sunflower because I’m upbeat? What are those things at Christmas? Poinsettias! Also red. And poisonous. Is there something orange? Orange feels unique.

The fingers drum again. Make a decision.

“Okay, I’d say, I’d be a rose—”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Okay, rose is bad.

I choke. “I mean, no, that’s too romantic. I’d actually be a sunflower because they’re really bright and positive, and well, tall … and I’m just, like, average height. I retract that?”

He sighs loudly.

“I’m an orange tree!” I blurt. “I like to make … things that people can enjoy, and oranges are unique, but not too unique because … they’re universally good for your health.” I nod absently to myself.

“So, not a flower,” he states gravely.

My shoulders droop. How does any of this trace back to my medical experience?

His frown deepens. “What was my last published work?”

His? Oh god, I found out I’d be interviewing with him half an hour ago. I’m bombing this. I can’t believe I’m bombing this. I did so much research on their program.

“I, I … I’m sorry, um … I don’t know.”

Silence stretches.

“Okay, thank you for coming in.” I’m dismissed.

“I, um … would you like to hear about any of my medical experience? I—”

“I’ve read about it in your file, Ms. Primaveri.”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable gaping on my end.

“Um, uh, okay, well, I just want you to know, I’m graduating top of my med class, and I think the world of the university and I really appreciate, um, your consideration for the residency position here at NYU.”

He says nothing. I pick up my purse and stumble from the office.

Outside, students bustle around me, entering and exiting the building. I drop down, taking a seat on the stone steps. Well, that went poorly.

I check my cell. Still no return call from Babe. I have a few hours before my other interview—that one will be better. Now I know to expect random, obscure personality questions.

My gaze drifts over to my left hand. I’m still having a hard time processing what happened yesterday. Straight up out of the blue, Boyfriend asked me to marry him. The second the proposal left his mouth a different guy barged back into my thoughts. Both the proposal and the reemergence of Other Guy have been very inconvenient surprises to deal with while doing last-minute residency interview prep.

I couldn’t sleep on the plane ride over because my brain was like: Um, you know what would be more fun than sleeping? Staying up forever and rehashing every waking memory that Other Guy’s ever been a part of. Now I’m tangled up in a mile-long string of what-ifs.

It just so happens that Other Guy works here in the city at a company that makes golf equipment or something. I’ve seen the name of the place on Facebook. I’ve also looked up where it’s located on Google Maps because apparently I’m slowly making the transition from Facebook stalker to actual real-life physical one.

I can’t go see him.

What I’m going to do now … is get some work done in a coffee shop for a few hours, and then head over to Columbia for my other interview, and then I’m going back to San Diego, and over to see Boyfriend. There will be no pit stops. I will not complete the transition. Rage, rage against becoming the stalker!

I huff a breath, a wave of hair fluttering away from my face as I watch taxis weave through traffic.

It would be ridiculous. We haven’t exchanged communication, other than a happy birthday on each other’s Facebook walls, in six years. If I’m being honest, he missed my birthday last year.

I check my phone again. Still nothing. Call me back, Babe.

Stalker Shane thinks perhaps this inner turmoil means she needs closure; then she can go back to her pre-boyfriend-proposing mindset. Everyone talks about closure on TV. Closure is magic. Closure is the knife that’ll sever the what-if strings and leave her free to dwell on other less irrelevant things. Like Boyfriend. And … marriage. Taxes. Gastroenterology. Important shit.