Felix isn’t actually gay—he might be bi, I’m not sure—but the ploy worked to ease Barnaby’s mind that I wasn’t going to sleep with my roommate. The thought had never occurred to me, to be honest, but that was when Barn first broached the topic of maybe seeing other people while we were apart. As if I actually have time to date.
Is it bad that I like the long-distance thing? It gives me an excuse not to bother trying to date with what little free time I do have. I’ve seen enough relationships at the hospital implode under the strain of our schedules. At least with me and Barnaby, we are under no obligation to spend time together because we live in separate cities a thousand miles apart. When we’re both done with our residencies, that might change. His ends sooner, so it’ll be up to him to choose first. Mine has five more years. Either way, there’s no sense agonizing over it yet.
I shower and climb into bed, double-checking the alarm on my phone before propping it on the charger and turning out the light.
In my dreams, I’m in the operating room, performing surgery on J.J.’s spine. The fish inked across his back swims around beneath the skin, its tail flicking whenever it passes and interfering with the delicate procedure. J.J. is awake and talking to me, his gravelly voice even more distracting than his tattoo. I finally get frustrated and agree that yes, I will go on a date with him if he’ll just tell the damn fish to settle down.
In the morning, I open my eyes, feeling both guilty and triumphant. I love having surgery dreams that actually turn out well. Most of them are anxiety-induced nightmares in which a patient winds up paralyzed or dead. I can still hear J.J.’s deep, satisfied laugh when I finally gave in. But the memory just makes me groan and pull a pillow over my face. Dating a patient is a colossally dumb idea, even if I weren’t already involved with someone.
On that thought, I reach for my phone and tap my messenger app. I send Barnaby a sleepy emoji and a heart. Three dots appear, flickering underneath followed by a pair of lips. I tap the video call button and wait.
Barnaby has declined your call.
Okay, that’s odd. I text him a question mark, then see the time and get up, glancing at the phone every few minutes while I get ready.
“Sorry, busy with a patient.”
He’s only an hour ahead and it’s 6AM in LA. It’s super early for him, but it still isn’t like him to skip a Monday morning call with me. It’s one of the few moments during the week when we’re both available and he’s willing to dally long enough for a conversation.
I tap a quick message. “Call when you’re done. I have about an hour. I can chat while I walk.”
As an afterthought, I add, “Miss you. Can’t wait for the party!”
“What party?”
What does he mean, what party? He knows how much I live for Mom’s party. After busting my ass with my residency, being able to take off for Christmas and New Year’s is something I’ve been looking forward to all year.
His question annoys me so much I don’t answer. I get dressed then slip out of my room. Felix’s door is open, his room a strange mix of tidy disarray. The man makes an effort to make his bed, but is clearly terrible at it. I usually don’t even bother.
I shove a yogurt and a banana into my bag, then sling it over my shoulder. Barnaby still hasn’t responded by the time I lock the door behind me and take the elevator down to my building’s lobby. I’m a block up Wilshire when my phone finally buzzes again.
“Shit. Sorry. I’m an asshole. I can’t wait, either. Can we talk tonight?”
Can’t wait for what? I sourly wonder. The party you clearly forgot about?
“Maybe. Not sure what my schedule looks like. Got a spinal contusion in last night and got to scrub in! First time in surgery. How hot is that? Got follow-up today and I’m still on trauma service all week, so it might be crazy.”
Silence again for three more blocks, and then my phone buzzes as I’m turning onto Westwood Plaza. This time, I ignore it out of spite.
I normally enjoy the walk to work, but this morning I’m on edge. I feel like I’m fighting against the current with Barnaby every time we talk, and we haven’t had an actual non-texted conversation since Thanksgiving. Even then he was distant and cut the conversation short with excuses.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been noncommittal? But it isn’t as if I can predict how the day is going to go. If we have a late surgery I’m invited to scrub in on, I’m not going to say no. He knows this. There was a time when he’d have cheered me on, when he considered my chosen specialty totally badass, and was willing to stick it out until I finished my seven-year residency and could have my pick of positions anywhere in the country.
I reach a crosswalk and take out my phone while waiting for the light to turn, then have to grit my teeth at his response: “Fine. I guess just call me when it suits you.”
The rest of my walk I wind up dwelling on the same old series of arguments I have with him in my head every few weeks. Most of it boils down to having to justify my choices with him over and over again. By the time I reach the ICU, I’m already exhausted and it’s not even 8AM.
I get my second wind once I manage to shove thoughts of Barnaby aside and head toward J.J.’s room. I have the bottle with his bullet in my pocket, fingertips worrying the cap. Even though my dream is the only place I’ve agreed to his request, a calm
