Yours Truly (Part of Your World, #2)(28)

I liked coming to work now. I looked forward to it. I got a little jolt of dopamine every time I saw a letter.

I got a little jolt of dopamine every time I saw her across the ER…

I knew for her they were probably just notes. She was likable and easy. She probably had this fun little back-and-forth with everyone in one way or another. But for me it was a lifeline. An outstretched hand while I was falling, an umbrella in a downpour. Friendship in a hostile place.

I’d been doing something for her the last few days. I’d been watching Schitt’s Creek.

I didn’t usually watch new shows. I just rewatched the same ones over and over. I liked the familiarity, the predictability. If I rewatched a show, there were never any surprises. No emotional jump scares. I didn’t have to process new feelings or stress over cliffhangers. I knew where it was going and how it would end. Music too. When my anxiety is extra high, new music is too draining to process. I’d lean on old playlists. A lyrical safe space, the comfort of repetition. And my anxiety hadn’t been as high as it was right now in longer than I could remember.

But I’d been watching Schitt’s Creek because Briana had mentioned it on our phone call the other day, and I wanted to understand her references. I wanted to have things in common with her. I wanted to try the things she liked.

It was a small, invisible gesture of friendship from me. Something she’d likely never even fully appreciate because she didn’t know the effort that came with it. She’d just think I watch the same popular show she does and that would be it. This was me making space for her, even though she would never know it. My way of saying thank you for her friendship, even if it was too quiet to hear.

The singing stopped. Half the group was dabbing at tears.

Everyone started dispersing and I turned to Briana. “She’s good,” I said. “Amazing she can do that drunk.”

“You should hear the tenor.”

Then we just sort of stood there, like we weren’t sure how to proceed now that the distraction was over.

God, she really was beautiful. She had her hair up in a loose ponytail, reading glasses on.

I cleared my throat. “Thank you for getting me. I appreciate it. It means a lot to be included.”

“I told you I was going to.” Then her brows drew down. “You are covered in mosquito bites.”

I looked at my arms. “Yeah. The cabin’s buggy.” Or rather the table on the patio of the restaurant I talked to her at was buggy…

She put a thumb over her shoulder. “So I was going to go visit the sob closet around noon today—”

“Oh. Good to know,” I said. “I’ll schedule my breakdown around two to give you a chance to finish up.”

She laughed. “No. Do you want to meet me? I was just going to have my lunch in there. There’s a new box of paper towels, so we both have a seat now.”

The corner of my lip twitched. “I could eat at noon. You don’t want to eat in the doctors’ lounge, though? Or the cafeteria?”

Not that I wanted to. Frankly, I preferred the supply closet. Most days I ate lunch there or in my truck. I liked the quiet. But it was an odd choice for her.

She shook her head. “The closet’s quiet.”

“The closet is quiet,” I agreed.

She smiled. “Cool. See you at noon.”

She made a finger gun at me and joined a small group of nurses who were waiting for her. I watched her walk down the hall and turn a corner.

Then the panic set in. I obsessed over what to eat for the next four hours.

I didn’t want anything that would stink up the small space. No feta cheese or heavy garlic. We wouldn’t have a table, so nothing that required silverware. Soup was out of the question. I didn’t want anything crunchy since it would be amplified in the tiny room. No apples or chips. I finally decided on a sandwich—no onions and no spinach in case it got stuck in my teeth—with a fruit cup.

It occurred to me that this overthinking was very likely not happening on her end. But I was too self-conscious for this.

Eating was intimate. It took me a long time to truly feel comfortable doing it in front of someone.

It took me a long time to feel comfortable doing a lot of things in front of someone.

At noon I let myself into the supply closet with my food. She was in the same spot as last time, looking at her phone. When she saw me, she peered up and smiled warmly. “Hey.”

She had a Cup Noodles on the floor next to her and she picked it up as I shut the door. “I waited for you to eat,” she said.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, sitting on the paper-towel box.

She pulled out a plastic utensil and took the cover off her noodles. “So what’d you get?”

“Just a sandwich,” I said, leaving out the part where it took me all day to decide on it.

I unwrapped it on my lap and felt a twinge of dismay as I realized they’d put vinegar on it. I looked up at her to see if she had any reaction to the smell, but she was twisting noodles around her fork and pulling them to her mouth, catching the fallout in the cup—and I realized this woman didn’t care. She didn’t care what she looked like eating and she probably didn’t care what my damn sandwich smelled like either. Hell, the whole room smelled like soup.

I relaxed a little. I had to remember that not everyone overthought everything the way I did.