Page 131 of Love Sick

“I—um—what’s this about, Dr. Chen?”

“Right.” He glances at his computer screen and clicks his mouse a few times. “I was approached today by a director from another program, who had raised some concerns regarding your—um—professionalism.”

“My professionalism?” The weight in my stomach expands to encompass my diaphragm, my ribs. I can’t suck in a breath.

I’m not being sued.

I’m being slut-shamed.

Dr. Chen hands me a Baby Ruth. “Speculation has been made that perhaps you’re seeking unprofessional ways to complete your training.”

“I don’t.” My voice shakes. “I’m not. I don’t do any of these things they say about me.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. You’re a great doctor, and you work hard. I think it’s important that you hear this from me. Steps are being taken to squash these rumors, but as I’m sure you know, they’re—”

“Impossible to stop.”

He sighs and rubs his eyes under his glasses. “You’re an ideal resident, Grace. I can’t remember the last time I had a resident so engaged in didactics. And your surgical skills are improving tremendously. I can see you making a great chief one day. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“And yet I’m not known as a good resident. When people say my name, they don’t thinkgood resident. They thinkslut.”

“I—” His eyes meet mine, true remorse shining in their depths. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

The dream I once had, the one of myself finally reaching some pinnacle of self-actualization, of shedding my anxiety and becoming someone to be respected, falls to the floor and shatters.

I’ll never be that woman, will I?

I will always just be this.

Sapphire Rose. Anxious. Distrustful. Cold.

Unable to speak, I dip my chin in a jerky nod. Eventually, I swallow the tears that want to break free. “We could’ve had this conversation over the phone. Why’d you want me to come in?”

“Steve Langston has gotten involved. He’s planning to meet with each program director individually.”

My heart no longer beats a normal rhythm. I’ve developed a pathologic tachycardia. “Why? Isn’t that only going to make things worse?”

“He said it’s gone on long enough. He wants to discuss the role of gossip and the damage it can do, and what we can do to end it. I just wanted you to know that we’re doing what we can to stop this.”

It won’t work. It will only draw more attention to me, but it’s pointless to mention that. Nothing will stop a man with a bad idea and good intentions.

“Th-thanks.”

A tear slips past its barrier.

His voice softens. “You can go now, Grace. Take the day if you need it.”

* * *

The bottle of IPA I pull from my fridge is zipped into its coozie and halfway gone before I remove my shoes. My white coat is heaped in a pile beside my coat rack. I fling my dress clothes across my unmade bed and don leggings with a med school T-shirt of Julian’s he left on my dresser.

Ravenclaw fuzzy socks perfect my outfit.

I pace my apartment.

A single rumor has spiraled into insanity. How have I become the poster child for sexual promiscuity?

Why do you care?

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