On Rotation(103)

When they called out my name—pronounced Ap-pie-ah instead of Ap-pee-ah even though I’d given them a pronunciation guide—I walked up to the stage. My professor gave me a reassuring smile as she handed me the envelope. No piece of paper had ever felt so volatile. We were instructed not to open our envelopes until all had been handed out, and I searched the crowd for Ricky and Nia, knowing that the moment the clock hit eleven they would be allowed into our section to celebrate. I caught Ricky’s eyes in the crowd. He held up his phone, recording the moment (“I’ve got to make sure I catch the moment you open it, or I’ll have two sets of parents on my ass,” he said). He threw me a thumbs-up; I returned a thin smile. I was envious of him, of his assurance that no matter what happened, we would be okay.

“You may now open your envelopes.”

With shaking hands, I ripped my envelope open. Heart pounding away in my throat, I scanned the piece of paper until my eyes settled on a line—

I’d matched at my second choice.

My first reaction was elation. I had thought this program was a reach! I had gotten along well with the program director during the interview, and we had talked extensively about my project, Physician Communication Practices with Black Inpatient Populations, and my recent oral presentation at the Society of General Internal Medicine on the subject. They’d seemed genuinely appreciative of my passion for disparities over traditional clinical research. But then I remembered that this program was in Seattle, and my heart sank. Chicago had always been home for Ricky. He had a new job that he genuinely enjoyed. Great friends. Family. A budding reputation as a muralist that had taken off after he’d finished the project at Rogers Children’s Hospital. Seattle was practically another country for him. Why had I let him convince me to rank it so highly?

Next to me, Michelle was draped across the back of her chair in relief; she’d matched at her number one. We hugged, both exhausted, just as our visitors swarmed in. I laughed as a throng of excited Korean women surrounded Michelle, all clamoring to be the first to see her sheet.

“CONGRATULATIONS, LADIES!”

A set of warm arms wrapped around me and lifted me off my feet. I squeaked in surprise, but laughed as Nia placed me down gently. She smelled like caramel, as she always did these days.

“Thanks!” I said, dampened. With Michelle going to New York, me going to Seattle, and Nia staying behind in Chicago, our Sanity Circle would officially be fragmented. Nia and I had only recently gotten used to living in different apartments, let alone time zones.

An arm slid around my waist, and Ricky laid a kiss on my forehead.

“So?” he asked. “What’s the verdict, babe?”

I handed him the paper. He scanned the page closely . . . then let out a whoop of celebration.

“This was your number two, wasn’t it?” he said, his excitement palpable and so painfully genuine. “See, I told you it wasn’t a reach. You just have to believe in yourself!” Then his face fell. “Wait. Why aren’t you more excited? I know you liked your number one a lot too, but I thought these two were pretty much neck and neck?”

I looked up at Nia, who gave me a knowing look. The bestie always understood.

“No, no they were, and I am. I promise!” I said. “But Seattle is so far.”

Ricky and Nia exchanged a glance that I found . . . interesting. Before I could ask questions, Nia shoved a frilly pink bag into my hands.

“Treats, courtesy of Madame Annette herself,” she said. “You look awesome, and I’m so happy for you. I’ve got to drive back to work, or my boss is going to kick my ass.”

“Oh?” I said, aghast. “You can’t stick around for a bit?”

“Nope,” Nia said, her lips popping on the p. “Don’t look too sad, we’re celebrating tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Girl, you got a man! Hang out with him!” With a dramatic whip of her head, Nia marched toward the exit. I watched her go with wide eyes, my goody bag still clutched in my hands. Next to me, Ricky looked amused.

“You’re so funny,” he said. “Come on. Let’s head outside.”

In the courtyard, clusters of families and friends gathered, taking pictures, exchanging news about their respective matches. I spotted a few of my classmates sitting on stairwells, sobbing into their laps; Match Day was not a happy day for everyone. We walked across the lawn, occasionally being intercepted by my med school friends asking to exchange Match results or take pictures. Ricky played dutiful boyfriend, snapping pictures on their phones, and then requesting every one of them to take a picture of us too. By the time we finally reached the sidewalk, we had far too many different renditions of the same photos of us, courtesy of seven different photographers.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked.

“Away from all that,” Ricky provided.

“Ugh, you know me too well,” I said. Just being out of earshot of the Match Day shenanigans was helping calm my nerves.

We took the scenic route home, winding through a nearby park until we found a bench. I opened Nia’s box of treats to find chocolate eclairs—my favorite after Nia’s Bergamot Chocolate Sunset, the thrice remixed version of her classic double chocolate fudge surprise. I took a bite, then fed Ricky the next.

“You’re worried about me,” Ricky finally said. “I told you not to be.” He pulled my legs across his lap.