The Queen of Hearts(33)

My pager vibrated. It was an unfamiliar number; not the hospital’s prefix, so it was probably one of my girlfriends trying to lure me out.

“What’s up, Zadie?” It was Dr. X, apparently summoned by the power of my musings. His voice was low and smooth; suddenly, I couldn’t remember what he looked like.

“Hi,” I said, for lack of anything witty to say.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m . . . whirling around in confusion,” I admitted. “And I’m wiped.”

“Why are you confused?” He sounded concerned.

“I don’t make a habit of hurtling into bed with strange surgeons. Or anybody at work. Or anybody, actually.”

“Yeah.” There was a short silence, then: “Just so you know, I generally don’t hurtle into bed with medical students either.”

“Good.” I smiled to myself.

“Usually they’re nurses.”

“What?”

“Kidding! This is an unusual feeling, though.” I recalled his face after he’d turned on the light in my call room: What had that look been? Interest? Calculation? Attraction?

“What feeling is that?”

“Well . . . you’re an intriguing girl—you know that? You are hard to intimidate, and you’re funny.” He lowered his voice even more. “And you’re very sexy.”

“You’re not hideous yourself.”

In a smooth growl: “Why don’t you come over?”

“What, now?” I would have sworn I’d have been unconscious within two seconds of getting home, but now I felt a perverse spike of energy.

“Yes, now.”

“I . . . Aren’t you tired?”

“I don’t get tired. And I kind of miss having a med student around; there’s nobody here to cater to my whims.”

“Wow, this conversation has really taken a turn for the worse,” I said, smiling in spite of—or maybe because of—the absolute wrongness of this. I paused. “That was revolting. I’m contacting an attorney.”

“Are you?” he asked, after the tiniest hesitation.

I smiled again. “No,” I said. “I’m coming over.”

—

I awoke late the next morning, feeling excited, although it took me a moment to remember why. The light was streaming in through my bedroom window, matching the ridiculous, sunny grin that I could feel plastered to my face.

Last night had been dreamy, otherworldly; my memory of it came back in wispy, wordless fragments. I’d knocked on his door and he’d opened it and pulled me inside without a sound. The feel of his slightly rough cheek pressed to mine, his hands in my hair. A pulsing, engulfing, crazy longing. Darkness and sweetness.

I’d seen nothing of his apartment beyond the foyer, where we’d fallen to the floor. Afterward, he had insisted on driving me home, apparently worried that I’d plow into a building as soon as I was out of sight. Despite the minimal sleep I’d gotten, I felt exuberant. I’d been telling the truth when I told him it wasn’t a habit for me to do this; I’d been celibate, and somewhat lonely, since the end of my relationship with my longtime college boyfriend more than a year ago. In Dr. X’s presence I felt that weird, supercharged zing that you get only a few times in life, when you are perfectly compatible with someone else. With him, I was a more vivid version of myself.

—

Morning trauma rounds commenced. Dr. Markham was grilling the unlucky intern on Emma’s team with some incomprehensible questions about the ventilation-perfusion curve. I was consumed with impatience: Dr. X had leaned into me at the start of prerounds, his breath warm on my ear, and whispered, “What are you doing later?”

“Depends on what my chief has planned,” I whispered back.

With an insouciant grin: “Postrounds evaluation in my call room, Z.”

My month on trauma was almost finished; tonight would be the last night of in-house call. As much as I liked the service, I was happy that it was nearly over. The thrill of sneaking around with Dr. X had waned. I wanted a real date.

We ran the list after trauma rounds concluded, Dr. X assigning us our workload for the morning. We were instructed to be finished before the day’s new carnage began rolling in.

“Last but not least: Garage Trauma. Sixty-two-year-old Abdominal Catastrophe, first day of graduation from the unit. Still some fallout from the last FUBAR, when good Dr. Clancy here nicked the bowel. Obviously, that one is for you, Ellington, since you now specialize in bowel disasters; schedule a washout for today. Speedy here can assist you.” Dr. X motioned toward Ethan.

Val, the charge nurse, cut a quick glance at Clancy, who was unabashedly ogling a nursing assistant’s butt. Val turned back to Dr. X.

“You’re going to supervise the washout, right?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dr. X said hastily, saluting. “Zadie, did you write discharge instructions for the floor patients for me to sign?”

“I did. Mostly. I have a question,” I said, scribbling away on the last set of papers for the patients going home that day.

“Proceed.”

“Why do we tell them no sex for six weeks?”

A flash of deep dimples. The rest of the team began to giggle. I blinked; I’d been industriously writing this on every patient’s discharge for the last several weeks. I looked up as they broke into full-on laughter.