Doctor Dearest

I settle on a Red Sox T-shirt Noah bought me a few years back and some yoga pants. There. This is what I would wear if I didn’t care that Connor was going to be at dinner. It feels good to wrest back control of my sanity.

In the garden, I spot Connor through the kitchen window, manning the stove with a towel draped over his shoulder. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans. He laps up a spoonful of sauce, tastes it, and then grinds more pepper into the pan.

Unable to refocus my attention, I accidentally trip over a cobblestone and reinjure the same pinky toe I stubbed last night. Curses ring out as I jump up and down, knowing without a doubt that there is nothing in this world more painful than a stubbed toe. NOTHING.

Noah cracks open the back door. “You good, sis?”

I aim a clenched-teeth smile his way, adding in a thumbs-up for good measure. “Oh yeah. Great. What’s for dinner?”

“Dunno. Connor wanted to cook.”

I hobble in as he holds the door for me and then the smell of the food hits me. The overwhelming aroma of garlic sautéing in butter has me preemptively wiping my mouth before any drool escapes.

“It’s just a lemon parmesan chicken dish my mom used to make us,” Connor calls over. “It’s the sauce that really does it. Don’t ask me what’s in it though. You don’t want to know. Just enjoy it.”

I laugh, knowing he won’t have any trouble convincing me. I’m starving.

Then I spot Noah’s suitcases by the door and gulp. My stomach churns. My hunger is replaced by dread.

“When do you leave?” I ask him, unable to look back toward the stove.

“After dinner,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and jostling me playfully.That meal goes by in a blink. One second, I’m setting the table and trying to get my hands to stop shaking. The next, Noah’s glancing at his phone and telling us he has to run. His Uber is here.

“Sure you can’t stay for dessert?”

Not that I’ve made any. I rush to the freezer and pull out a single Drumstick, holding it up like a fish on a line. “I could cut it in three? Let you have the bottom part with all the chocolate?”

He laughs. “Nah. I really gotta go. Come on, walk me out.”

Lone Drumstick forgotten, I mope behind him out to the curb. He drops his suitcases into the trunk of the waiting car and then comes over to give me a hug. He dwarfs me. Solid and dependable, he smells like home.

“Please don’t leave,” I choke out pitifully.

Suddenly, I’m scared. Nervous, actually. Like how I felt the first time I did a solo surgery, or when I walked in to take my first board exam.

“Wish I could,” he says, kissing the top of my head and stepping back to throw a wave at Connor.

I didn’t realize he’d followed us out.

Now suddenly, I feel silly knowing I’m being watched. I compartmentalize my emotions and flash a big happy smile as Noah slides into the back seat of the car.

“Bye! Have a great time.”

“Thanks.” He tries to close the door, but I have a death grip on it. He laughs and tries to pry it away from me. “You can let go now. I won’t be gone forever, y’know. Just a few months.”

I laugh like Ha ha ha, of course, but that door is still in my hands right up until he plucks each of my fingers off of it.

He slams it closed and winks at me through the window before the car pulls out into traffic, effectively yanking my safety net out from underneath me. Now, I’m in free fall.

I glance over my shoulder to see Connor leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb. His arms are crossed. His attention is on me. His mouth is curved into a delicious little smile.

I take the steps up to him one at a time, agonizingly slowly, like I’m marching toward death.

“It’s not forever,” he says, misreading my mood.

What? Who? Oh right, Noah is gone. BFD.

I love him, sure—he’s flesh and blood—but more important than that, he has left me, a helpless little piggy, alone in his house with the big bad wolf. I pause beside Connor and glance up at him, wondering if he bites or if it just looks like he might.

He nods for us to walk inside, and when I close the door behind us, I turn the deadbolt out of habit. Then, realizing what it looks like—me locking us in the house together—I frantically unlock it with a choked laugh.

“Ha, sorry. Wasn’t trying to lock you in. You are free to go, y’know, whenever, wherever.” Why has my tone morphed into one used solely by jokey game show hosts? “You don’t have to stick around with me.” I tilt back on my heels and narrow my gaze out the back window, scrambling for something to say. “What time do you think it is? Ten? Eleven?”