: Chapter 11

Liz Petropoulos, what a trip.

She’s medium height, curvy, and has the most amazing skin. Also, no fewer than four times have I told her how much I covet her cheekbones. She’s a smiler, saying hello to everyone who walks in the doors to the Mission Bay building and stopping anyone without a badge, beckoning them to sign in.

I raise my badge as I do every morning. Thankfully she was on break yesterday when I burst in, frazzled after my non-breakfast with Elliot, but today she smiles with a little glimmer in her eyes, like she knows more now than she did the last time I saw her.

“Well, hello, Liz Petropoulos,” I say, approaching her, dropping any pretense.

She hesitates only a beat before saying, “Hi, Macy Sorensen,” without having to check my badge. As I get closer, she smiles again. “Boy, have I heard a lot about this Macy person over the past seven years. And to think she’s been the nice, new Dr. Sorensen complimenting my cheekbones.”

“Guess Elliot and George should give up and let us get married,” I say, and she laughs. It’s a round, delighted sound.

Her expression straightens pretty quickly. “I’m sorry I told him when you’d be in.” She holds up a hand when I start to speak, and adds in a quieter voice, “He told me about running into you, and we put two and two together. You can’t know what it means to him that he’s seen you. I know it’s not my business, but—”

“About that.” I lean my elbows on the broad marble reception desk and smile down at her so she knows I’m not about to get her fired. “What do you say you do me one favor, and then we halt all nonapproved information sharing?”

“No question,” Liz says, eyes wide. “What can I do for you?”

“His cell number would be fantastic.”

Friends call friends, I tell myself. The first step to fixing things is to talk, to clear the air once and for all, and then we can move on with life.

Liz pulls out her phone, opens her Favorites list, and bends, scribbling his phone number.

Elliot’s on her speed-dial.

But I get it: Attentive, considerate, emotionally mature Elliot would be the dream brother-in-law. Of course she’s in regular contact with him.

“But don’t tell him I have it,” I tell her as she tears it off and hands it to me. “I’m not sure how long it will be before I figure out what to say.”

Who am I kidding; this is such a bad idea. Elliot has a story to tell. I have a story to tell, too. We both have so many secrets, I’m not even sure we can backtrack that far.

The entire walk down the hall to the residents’ break room, I keep checking the pocket in my scrubs pants to make sure that I haven’t lost the small Post-it folded inside. Not that I really needed it in the first place. I stared at the numbers the whole ride up to the fourth floor. I guess it never occurred to me that he would have the same phone number all this time. His number used to be a rhythm that would get stuck in my head like a song.

I drop my bag in a locker in the break room and stare down at my phone. My rounds start in five minutes, and where I’m going, I need to be levelheaded. If I don’t do this now, it will be a stone in my shoe the entire shift. My heart is a thunder-drum in my ear.

Without overthinking it, I text, I work 9-6 today. Do you want to meet for dinner? To talk.

Only a few seconds later, a reply bubble appears. He’s typing. Inexplicably, my palms begin to sweat. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that he could say, No, you’re too big a dick, forget it.

Is this Macy?

Or that he wouldn’t have this number. I am an idiot.

Yeah, sorry. I should have said.

Not at all.

Tell me where, and I’ll be there.