I shrugged him away. “Let’s just leave it, okay? That was good and I don’t want to… complicate things.”
He let out a frustrated breath. “I know you don’t.”
“Then let’s leave it.”
He nodded. “All right, I’ll let it go, but I don’t want to leave.”
“Maybe you should.”
“No, I shouldn’t. I’ll cook you dinner. Go take a shower, clean off the hospital, and when you get out, I’ll pour you some wine, and we’ll eat.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him to get out, that he’d crossed a line and there was no going back, but stopped myself.
That was the old Fiona, the version of myself that drifted, and I wanted to be better.
“All right,” I said. “But it better be good.”
“I’ll do what I can with your meager options.”
I smiled a little and he touched my cheek. I turned into it and kissed his fingers, then pulled away and walked back to my bathroom. I glanced back and caught him staring at me with a strange look on his face, half smile, half concern. I shut the door, locked it, and turned on the water.
Then I sat on the edge of the shower and mourned the girl I used to be before becoming broken, the girl that could’ve simply been happy in this moment with a man like him, but instead ended up alone and unable to keep anyone around, constantly pushing people away.
But I’d be better. I’d shower, and go out there, eat and drink, and maybe he’d sleep over, and maybe we’d fuck again—and maybe things would be okay in the morning.18DeanShe kicked me out after dinner.
I knew it was coming. As soon as I touched that scar, I knew she’d close up and push me away. Something happened to her, and I was willing to bet that whatever it was, that was the reason she constantly pushed back against anyone that tried to get too close.
It was a shame, because in those good moments between entering her apartment, kissing her, taking her, I felt like she finally opened up and was herself, up until I fucked things up.
She’d figure it out eventually. I knew I couldn’t rush it. Sooner or later, she’d open up, and we’d move past whatever held her back.
In the meantime, I still had a mafia to fight.
The next morning, I limped to work aching and fairly certain I had a broken rib after all. I’d have to get that imaged sooner or later to make sure nothing internal was fucked up, but first I wanted to get back to the real work.
Dr. Chen answered his phone on the second try. I had my feet up on my desk, reclining back in my chair, when he picked up.
“Yes, hello? Who is this?” He sounded annoyed, with a neutral accent that I couldn’t quite place.
“My name is Dr. Dean Coarse, I work in the neuro department at Mercy General,” I said. “Is this Dr. Chen?”
A short pause. “Yes, that’s me. How did you get this number, Dr. Coarse?”
“A friend of a friend.” I hesitated, trying to figure out how to put this into words. “I was hoping you might be able to help me with a problem involving a certain family.”
He let out what sounded like a long-suffering sigh. “I’m free for lunch. You’re buying.”
“Of course.”
“There’s a deli on Fifth and Washington. Meet me there at noon.”
“I’ll be there.”
He hung up the phone. I blinked for a second, then let out a little laugh. I was going to a South Philly deli with a mafia doctor, one I’d never met before, and somehow that was the least insane thing happening in my life at the moment.
I spent the rest of the morning doing rounds, and as noon approached, I ducked out and drove down south. Parking was easy, and I walked slowly down the block, noting a large empty lot covered in chicory and fireweed, the long mangy stalks sprouting like alien tree vessels. A bull thistle bush sprouted between the links and I brushed my fingers across it. The fence line led to a long block of commercial shops, with old men in tank tops sitting out front on folding chairs in the shade, young kids roaming in packs, laughing loudly, and I felt like I was swimming in the slow, languid river of the city.
The deli wasn’t hard to find. An old sign sat out front above the door proclaiming itself The Deli, not the most creative name, but fine. I stepped inside and was assaulted by the smell of meats, cheese, pickles, and fryer oil. The floor was sticky with it, and the place was packed with tables and chairs, almost all of them empty, except for one in the back corner. A large barrel sat next to the cash register, and the glass cases looked like they were fogged over from age, which was totally possible—in Philly, there were delis that had been in operations for over a hundred years.