Page 14 of Holidate Scramble
The drive to my apartment was short, and soon I was sliding into the passenger seat of his BMW, trying not to notice how the car still smelled faintly of his cologne—a woody scent that made me want to lean closer.
"Where to?" he asked. "You're the local expert."
"How do you feel about quirky?" I bit my lip, considering.
"Define quirky."
"There's this place called Starlight Pi. Yes, that's Pi like the mathematical constant. The whole restaurant has equations on the walls, placemats with riddles, and all the menu items have terrible math puns."
His eyes lit up. "That sounds fantastic."
"Really? You're not just being polite?"
"Piper, I was in Phi Beta Kappa at Dartmouth. Did problem sets for fun. This is basically my dream restaurant."
I laughed and gave him directions. "Head toward downtown, then take a left on Cedar Street."
As he navigated through town following my instructions, I turned the conversation to something I'd been curious about.
"So, tell me about this sabbatical you’re supposedly on—even though you’re still performing surgeries part-time here in Cape Cod. You mentioned it the other day but didn't elaborate."
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "It's complicated."
"We've got time."
He was quiet for a moment, turning onto Cedar. "Officially, I'm on a six-month sabbatical from Boston Memorial. They think I'm using the time to mostly write research papers and care for my mother."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially, I'm trying to figure out what the hell I want from the rest of my life." The admission seemed to surprise him. "I've been a doctor for over twenty years. It's all I've done, all I've been. But after Dad died and Mom started deteriorating... I began questioning everything."
"That must be scary," I said softly.
"Terrifying," he agreed. "I took the part-time position at Cape Cod Regional to stay busy and be closer to Mom, but it's temporary. Everything feels temporary right now. Boston Memorial wants an answer by New Year's—am I coming back full-time or not?"
"What's keeping you from deciding?"
He pulled into Starlight Pi's parking lot but didn't immediately turn off the engine. "I don't know if I want that life anymore. The hundred-hour weeks, the politics, the pressure.But I also don't know what else I'd do. Performing heart surgery is who I am."
"Maybe," I suggested carefully, "It’s what you do, not who you are."
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and a moment of understanding passed between us.
"We should go in," he said finally. "I need to see these math puns you've been threatening me with."
The restaurant was everything I'd promised and more. The moment we walked in, Rhett's face transformed with childlike delight. He stood in the entrance, taking in the Fibonacci spirals painted on the ceiling, the pi digits running along the crown molding—3.14159265358979323846...—and the famous equations framed on the walls.
"This is amazing," he breathed, like a kid at Christmas.
"You really like it?" I couldn't hide my pleasure at his enthusiasm. Was I hoping if he fell in love with Starlight Bay's quirky places, he might stay? The thought came unbidden and I pushed it aside.
We settled into a booth under a framed diagram of Pascal's Triangle. The waitress—a college-aged girl with green streaks in her hair and glasses that screamed math major—brought us menus and water.
"Welcome to Starlight Pi, where the food is irrational but the prices make sense," she recited with energy that suggested she actually enjoyed the joke. "Can I start you with some Fibonacci Fries or perhaps our Pythagorean Potato Skins?"
"Fibonacci Fries definitely," Rhett said immediately, then looked at me. "And whatever else you recommend."
We ordered the "Exponential Expansion Pizza" and "Newton's Law of Gravy-tation Fries," and while we waited, we both immediately attacked the placemat puzzles. It turned intoan impromptu competition—who could solve the logic problems faster, who could crack the number sequences first.
