Page 22 of Love Sick

Our training is divided between two hospitals. Lower acuity cases are here at Texas University Medical Center. High-risk cases go to St. Vincent, a regional trauma center on the other side of town, where Alesha’s currently stationed.

I zip my backpack with fervor, giving an aggressive jiggle as it catches on papers inside.

Lexie sits up. “Something wrong?”

The desk’s rolling chair swivels when I collapse into it. With the heels of my palms pressed into my eyes, sparks burst into my vision. “I feel like they aren’t letting me do anything, and Julian had all these stories of all the amazing things he did last month. I’m just—I’m worried I’ve done something that makes them think they need to watch me. Like I’m unsafe.”

“Well, youareunsafe.” Lexie smiles. “Think about it. If they told you to run it all on your own, would you be able to do it? They’re good doctors, and they’re trying to make you one, too. Soak up everything and if they take the time to teach you something, savor it.”

At her friendly gaze, a sliver of doubt breaks away and dissolves. “Thanks. That helps.”

In the parking lot of the restaurant, I scrutinize my appearance and groan at the dried blood on my scrub pants from my deliveries earlier. If blood was a statement piece, I’d be so on brand this week. I haven’t made it home with clean scrubs once.

At the hostess stand, the universe plays its usual tricks and I run into Julian, his navy ICU scrubs without a speck of bodily fluid anywhere.

Like he’s handing out favors, he gives me the fake smile. I really hate that smile. His real smile is subtle. Refined. This fraudulent counterpart makes me roll my eyes. His dark hair is flawlessly messy, and I want to part it down the middle and stick a pair of Dwight Schrute glasses on him.

“Hello, Sapphire.”

I take a cleansing breath. “Youknowit’s Grace.”

His brow creases, deceptive and false. “But Sapphire’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Not the name I go by.” I glare at him.

“Hmm. I guess I forgot.”

“Do you have dementia, Julian? Anterograde amnesia? Or is it just a lack of intelligence?”

His dark eyes meet mine, capturing me the way they always do, and a pulse wakes in my temples. He doesn’t blink, and the various shades of brown in his irises wink in and out of existence. “It’s that last one. Didn’t you hear I was the DO pity hire?”

My attention drops to the badge at his chest, the one he’s forgotten to remove.

Julian Santini, DO.

Few DOs make it into the residencies at TUMC. Vague speculations about him and the two DOs in other programs emerged in the beginning, but his universal likability—to everyone but me—outweighed any hearsay early on.

Lucky him.

It isn’t that DOs are inherently worse. They’re just… I don’t want to say “less smart,” but—

Maybe my biases are showing. I refused to even apply to osteopathic schools. Their reputation as inferior was enough to steer me away.

But in the end, Julian had the same training as me. The letters after his name don’t really matter.

As I stare at those letters, he rips the badge off his chest, and his lightly stubbled jaw clenches. Hmm.What happened to you today?

Wait. Is thatempathyblossoming in my chest? For Lucifer himself? No, no, no.

My fingers itch to shove him just to right the balance.

The hostess jerks me from that thought. “Er—two of you tonight?”

“No!” I step away from Julian. “There’s five of us.”

“Oh.” The hostess points toward the patio. “I think the others might be out there.”

We head that way, and I hold out my backpack. “You don’t want to carry my books for me?”

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