Page 21 of Paging Dr. Hart
“Refilling the oil. My car has a leak,” I answer brusquely.
Ethan has parked his SUV right next to mine. It’s a sleek black BMW, a limited edition from the looks of it. A swell of jealousy rises and settles in my throat. As if I needed more reasons to dislike him.
Leaning against the front of my car, he watches as I finish up. “Who knew you’re so talented? A woman who can name all 206 bones in the bodyandput oil in her car. Not bad.” The lopsided smile is back.
Looks like Ethan got over not wanting to be here with me.
He’s acting like his usual self now, brash and annoying. It’s a relief. Hehad been unusually quiet that last day at the hospital when we found out we were coming here. I had almost been worried about him.
Done with the oil, I use my full body weight to slam the heavy car hood closed. Ethan jumps back dramatically, pretending like I was going to crush his fingers. I narrow my eyes at him and earn a wide smirk.
“I got the keys to our apartment from the manager. Ready to see it?” Ethan dangles two sets of silver keys from his finger. They glint in the moonlight.
“Wait.” I tense. “Did you just sayourapartment? Like we’re sharing one?” An uncomfortable feeling buzzes in my brain. It hadn’t occurred to me to think much about the living situation. Dr. Washburn had told us that the hospital was providing complimentary housing, but he hadn’t elaborated further.
Ethan’s looking at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. One apartment. You didn’t really believe the hospital would pay for two separate ones, did you? You know how cheap they are.”
He’s right. Hospitals often provide free food and lodging, but at the least possible cost. It’s usually run-down buildings and mass-produced food. This will be no exception. It’s going to be a long four weeks if I have to live with Ethan.
After gathering my luggage from the trunk, I squint through the bright glare of the parking lot lights to inspect my new residence. It’s a two-story concrete building with outside stairwells leading to the upper floors. A couple of bikes are chained to rusted iron railings. For a minute, I have a sense of disorientation, of déjà vu, thinking that I’m looking at my old apartment in Las Vegas. Old instincts kick in, and I glance around, trying to assess if we’re in a bad part of town.
“Did you live here when you worked at this hospital?” My eyes rove over my surroundings as I move my suitcase closer, scooting it over with my foot.
“Nah. My place was way nicer than this.” Ethan’s answer doesn’t assuage my fear, and I hesitate.
Ethan grabs both his bag and my small suitcase. “Come on, Tiffy. Last one in is a rotten egg.” He takes the metal steps two at a time.
“Stop calling me that.” I swear he’s trying to irritate me on purpose.
Ethan puts the key in the lock and turns the deadbolt. The door sticks fora second, then pops open with a squeal of protest from its hinges. I hurry as he enters, not wanting to be left outside alone.
Ethan turns on the light switch, revealing the interior of the apartment. It’s an open floor plan. A small round dining table is in front of us. Further in the room sits a dated loveseat, coffee table, and bulky television. A low countertop with bar stools separates the living room from the small kitchen, which runs along the right wall. Black appliances reflect the harsh rectangular lights overhead. We walk down the short hallway to explore the rest of the apartment. There’s a small bathroom with a shower-tub combo. It has ugly mustard-yellow tile and carpeted floor.
“Yuck. Who puts carpet in a bathroom?” I cringe. Every germ I learned about in microbiology class comes rushing back, and I’m convinced they all live in that carpet.
Ethan shakes his head. “I don’t know. That’s disgusting.”
At the end of the hall are two small bedrooms. They each hold matching furniture—a scarred wooden dresser, a nightstand with a lamp on it, and a twin bed.
“Which one do you want?” He hands over my suitcase.
I choose the one on the right, and Ethan goes left. After I drop the suitcase on the floor, I lay down on the bed without bothering to pull back the bedding. The thin comforter is scratchy beneath me. It’s the firmest bed I’ve ever felt, like lying on top of a boulder.
I groan.
Even though we’re separated by a wall, Ethan must hear me, because he yells, “What’s wrong?” His voice is so loud it’s like he’s right there, in the room with me.
“This is the hardest mattress I’ve ever laid on. It might as well have nails sticking out of it,” I answer without raising my voice. I want to see if he can hear if I talk normally. His answering chuckle tells me that he understands just fine.
“Wow. These walls are really thin,” I say. I shift, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.
“I know. I can hear you, too.”
Rolling onto my side, I face the wall that separates our bedrooms and tease, “Now you’ll keep me up all night with your snoring.”
“Hey, who said I snored?” he protests from the other room.
“I’m sure you snore with that gigantic head of yours. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have sleep apnea.” My mouth curves into a smile, which I’m glad he can’t see. I’m enjoying this banter a little too much. I need to remember that Ethan is my competition, not my friend.
