“You really love it, don’t you?”
He’s next to me now, his arm just a breath away from mine.
“Surgery?” I smile without even thinking. “Oh yes. The human body is a miraculous thing. Infinitely fascinating.”
His gaze drags slowly down over me.
“Some bodies are more fascinating than others.”
I allow myself to do some looking of my own. Letting my eyes graze along the swell of his biceps prominent beneath his dark gray suit jacket, the broad expanse of his chest, the tapering of his waist and hips that lead down to sturdy, powerful legs—and everything in between.
I know anatomy well—and from what I can tell, Tommy Sullivan’s is first-rate.
“That’s true,” I agree softly.
Movement on the windowsill catches my eye—it’s a small gray spider, scurrying frantically across the wood. He sees it too and lifts his hand to swat it.
“Wait, don’t kill him.”
I scoop the spider up with one hand and open the window with the other. Then I reach out towards the tree branch beside the building, pursing my lips and blowing at him to get him moving.
I feel the warmth of Tommy Sullivan’s body beside me, his head dipped toward me, his eyes caressing my face. Once the arachnid has safely creeped out onto the branch, we straighten up and I close the window.
“You don’t make any sense,” he tells me.
“I make it a point to make perfect sense all the time,” I reply.
“You can slice someone’s jugular open and jam a tube down their neck—”
“Artery,” I correct.
“I’ve seen you do it. But you can’t bring yourself to kill a spider?”
I shrug and explain, “I don’t slice into people to harm them. It may hurt for a time—but the pain will be worth it because they’ll be better off in the end. And as for the spider—he was just doing what spiders do; it wasn’t his fault he ended up in here. I don’t like it when things die—not when I can prevent it—especially small, helpless things.”
“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” His eyes glint now—teasing again. “Did little Abby dream of scalpels and scrubs, sutures and chicken’s feet?”
I laugh, pushing my hair back behind my ear, thinking it over.
“It’s funny, but I can’t recall now ever wanting to be anything else. But—I don’t just want to be a surgeon, it’s important that I become an extraordinary surgeon. The best in the world.”
“Why is that important?”
“My family,” I explain. “They’re very, very talented. They have high expectations.”
He nods in the dim light. And it’s so easy talking with him like this. Effortless and right somehow. Natural.
“Their sort usually does.”
“And you? Does your family have expectations of you, Mr. Sullivan?”
He rubs his bottom lip in a way that makes my knees go floppy—because it’s impossible to forget the hot, hard press of that lip.
“I suppose they did with Bridget and Arthur, but by the time they got down to me it was simpler. Stay out of jail, go to school if you’re good at it, get a job if you’re not.”
“By the time they got down to you? How many of you are there?”
“Eight at last count.”
“Eight! My goodness, your parents must really like each other.”
He laughs again. “They do. They’re good together. Partners, you know? They . . . even each other out. Fill in each other’s gaps.”
I like that . . . partners. The word rings through me with a familiar yearning reverberation. Lots of little girls dream of growing up to be princesses—especially in this country. Of becoming polished wives and pretty mothers.
And it’s not that I don’t want a family for myself, I do. But in my dreams, that part—a handsome husband and drooly tots—always comes after.
After my name has been engraved on a diploma and doctor’s license, and perhaps a plaque or a hospital wing. After I’ve done the work, proven I can stand on my own two feet. After I’ve built something all by myself.
I never before considered doing the building bit with someone, but I do now. A partner. That having someone to lean on and support in return would make the striving for success not just easier and smoother, but better in every way.
And I don’t know why I ask him—it doesn’t matter—in another week, Tommy Sullivan will be nothing to me but a memory. But I want to know and here in this quiet, shadowed space I can ask.
“Do you love it?”
That wicked grin slides across his mouth. “I love lots of things. Drinking, fucking, joking, dancing . . . conversing with stunning redheads. You’ll have to be more specific.”
I realize how true those words ring—the things he loves—how well they fit him. Tommy Sullivan is all about fluid, shifting sensation. About satisfaction and spontaneity. Not breaking the rules—but making his own.
I find that as fascinating as medicine. It’s almost mysterious—so different than anything I’ve ever known. So . . . lively.