Page 61 of Love Sick

I chuckle and put my phone away, then settle down to chart. Beside me, the nurse is complaining that she had to work all three of her twelve-hour shifts in a row this week, and I quell the resentment that I’m on my nineteenth twelve-hour shift in a row.

If I complained, I’d be told I did it to myself.

You chose this.

Sometimes I can’t remember why.

The image of my poised, respected future self has never felt further away.

Even my confidence in my repair is short-lived when Dr. Narayan calls a C-section on another patient and chastises me the entire operation for my poor surgical technique. The more she complains, the shakier my hands grow, until I’m unable to tie down a single suture without multiple attempts.

Afterward, she eyes me meaningfully. “You need work, Dr. Rose.”

“Yes, Dr. Narayan.”

“There’s expired suture for practice in the resident lounge. I suggest you start there.”

At shift change that evening, Arista barely listens as I sign out to the second-year covering nights, Ellyn Peterson.

I don’t know Ellyn all that well, but she gives me an encouraging smile when Arista leaves without saying goodbye.

She folds the list I printed for her and sticks it in her pocket. “Vincent’s tough. Just think of it as a strength-building exercise. Everyone treats residents like trash, especially female residents.”

I manage a half-hearted laugh. “I’d like to give them a taste of their own medicine.”

She lets out a resentful chuckle. “Wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll learn fairly quickly that when you treat people the way they treat you—” she eyes me closely “—they get real fucking offended.”

Julian

JULY, YEAR 2

July in Texas is death.

I grew up by the Gulf and have a fair understanding of heat. I’m convinced Texas is in a competition with the sun to see who can melt its population fastest, and they’re both winning.

The shitty AC in my apartment isn’t cutting it, so my only respite is the apartment pool. I throw on my trunks and head downstairs. Approximately one million people have the same idea as me. The pool is packed, but it’s large. I pad toward the lounge chairs to throw down my towel and shirt when someone calls my name. My head turns, and I’m inundated by a heat beyond anything a Texas summer can do.

I trip over a lounge chair. “Whaa—”

Grace springs up from it. She wears a bright turquoise bikini with little white daisies all over it. It’s more straps than material and tosses me no Hail Mary in the form of unsightly rashes or unexplained lumps.

Her body ismadefor sex. Now, I’m a gynecologist. Logic tells me that all bodies are made for sex—prolongation of the species and all that—but Grace’s body is like someone poured an Ariana Grande song into an hourglass. She’s rivaling the fantasy of Gal Gadot in my head.

And now I’m picturing Grace in full Wonder Woman regalia, and that’s just—

“What?” She looks down at herself like she’s done something wrong.

“You’re—flowers.”

“What?”

I wave vaguely at her suit without looking at it again. “You’re swimming?”

She grins. “This is my only day off for the next three weeks, and I plan to spend it with a White Claw, melting under the sun until my skin blisters.”

I swallow against the flames in my throat and stare at her hairline. “That’s—good plan.”

“Are you hurt?”

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