The Queen of Hearts(46)
Emma, sporting two bright pink patches on her cheeks, had a gift for getting right to the point. She was having none of this bullshit. “Have you gone out anywhere outside the hospital? Have you told anyone you were dating? Did you tell me you were dating? I bet he told you not to, didn’t he?”
Huffily: “Em, you know we couldn’t—”
“Zadie, he grades you.”
“Oh, he told me he’s having Allison do the evaluation,” I retorted after a weak attempt at a joke about it. Actually, this was the first time this had occurred to me, and X had in fact told me nothing of the sort. It was a good idea though; I’d better mention it to him immediately. “Don’t be all judgmental, Em. I grant you that it’s somewhat awkward at the moment, what with the whole chief/med student thing, which means we have to keep it secret. But think about it: he’s leaving next year; there is only a short time we could be together to know if it has long-term potential. You know I’ve always been a jackass magnet. I think this is different. I can hardly stop thinking about him.”
Emma softened. “You don’t look all that happy,” she said uncertainly.
“I had a brutal day. Something went wrong at work, but I don’t want to talk about it. I promise, Em, we’ll have a big talk after the exams, and I’ll fill you in on everything.”
“But do you think he’s good for you? There’s a reason why the medical school frowns on this,” Emma said, eyebrows scrunched.
“Well, obviously, things will be a little less weird once I’m off the service in a few days, and we can spend more, ah, appropriate time together.”
“But when did this happen?”
I tried to look dignified. “It was gradual . . . Sometime early in my trauma rotation. I know I should’ve told you.”
“Yes, but— Okay. Okay, I know I have to let you make your own decisions,” Emma said, smiling too brightly at me.
“They grow up so fast, dear,” bellowed Graham, riveted once more by the screen, now featuring two men attacking each other with karate moves.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, G,” she said. “How could you not mention that you knew about this?”
“Zadie would’ve told us if she wanted us to know,” he said. “Besides, it was a guess.”
“How did you think to guess him, though?” I asked, wondering how indiscreet we’d been. Maybe everyone—except Emma—knew.
Graham was quiet for a minute, apparently mulling this over. “You looked a little different whenever you mentioned him,” he said finally.
“Ugh,” Emma groused. “Not only does my own boyfriend keep extremely vital information to himself, but he’s also more perceptive than me.”
“Well,” he said, his attention returning to the movie, where the martial arts combat had been usurped by a full-blown gun battle in which everyone was blown to pieces except the hero, who was, of course, able to dodge bullets. “Right now I am keenly observing this badass shoot-out.”
I studied the TV. “What, no bulletectomy?” I asked, as the bloody sidekick lay writhing in the hero’s arms. “Isn’t there usually a pointless bullet extraction in these movies?”
“Bulletectomies are cool, Zadie,” said Graham seriously. “All you need is some whiskey and rusty toenail clippers or something and the victim will spring right up. But mainly it’s important that there be a car chase and some mano a mano combat with the maximum bad guy.”
He grinned and turned off the TV, then padded over and enveloped both Emma and me in a big bear hug. “You know, Zadie,” he said, ruffling my hair, “I love you, but you are a jackass magnet. Be careful, okay?”
—
You had to give him credit. X had clearly spent more than a few minutes trying to fathom the unfathomable emotional needs of the fairer sex and had then taken the time to systematically implement an array of romantic clichés in the bachelor pad. This began with sultry music (Cowboy Junkies, good choice), flowers (wilted daisies and carnations, which were not my preference—or any woman’s preference really—but it was the thought that counted), candles (this was definitely the weak link because one of them was a half-melted Santa shape, and the other, even more bizarrely, was emblazoned with the face of Ray Lewis of the Baltimore Ravens—but again: the thought), and a table set with actual plates and cutlery and a bottle of cabernet. There was even a smallish gift-wrapped box at one of the places. I could appreciate why X had not wanted to cancel.
“If you blew me off, I was going to have to go outside and drag some chick in off the street, caveman style, so all this would not go to waste,” he said, gesturing proudly. As a romantic statement this was something of a failure, but nonetheless, I was touched. His face, which could be uncharitably described as haughty, was now beaming with what appeared to be tenderness.
“It’s all lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Yes. Er, well. Now what? I suppose we should eat?”
“X, did you seriously get to the age of”—I paused, calculating— “thirty without knowing how to proceed on a date if you can’t immediately commence some action? Have you not ever had a proper girlfriend?”
“Of course I have,” he huffed. “It’s not me. I can’t help it if I radiate sex appeal. Normally, I’d be having to beat you off me if I wanted to eat first.”