. . .

prelude: new beginnings

. . .

    "YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKIN' KIDDIN' ME."

   Delayed. Yet again. I drank the last bit of my very watered-down tea and tossed the cup I had been carrying around since my original departure time of 4:30pm.

ALBA:    Delayed again. Departure time is now 7:30pm! I'll keep you updated :)

MAMI:    Okay, babygirl. Love you. I'll let you, Papi, know.

   I locked my phone and wandered the concourse again. After months of meticulously planning, my move to Pittsburgh was actually happening. Or it would be if I could just get on the fucking plane.

   My apartment of four years was officially empty and everything was boxed up as of yesterday morning. I got in all my goodbyes, bittersweet and emotional. This was a big change but one I think I needed. Or maybe I was just feeding into my delusions and hoping this move could fix some things. Only time will tell.

   When my curiosity finally died down and my feet grew tired, I returned to my gate. My eyes scanned the very crowded terminal for an empty seat. I made brief eye contact with a woman who appeared friendly enough. Her dark hair braided, sneakers, an oversized hoodie, and the unmistakable look of someone who had been at the airport for far too long.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked.

"Please," she responded in kind.

As I sat down, a pin clipped to her backpack caught my eye. The logo read 'PTMC'. I hesitated for a second, not wanting to intrude but also not wanting to pass up the opportunity to get personal insight.

"Hey, sorry. I don't want to be a bother to you, but... do you work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical?"

"Yeah. You know it?"

I smiled and offered my hand, "Alba Ruiz. I'm a social worker. I have a final interview lined up with them on Monday. It's between them and Westbridge."

She cracked a smile before shaking my extended hand, "No shit. I'm Parker Ellis."

"Nice to meet you. If I get the job, I'd be taking over for Kristen in the ED. Mostly night shifts, I think, but helping where I can."

"That's my department. I'm a resident in the ER."

"What are the odds?"

Just then, the gate agent's voice chirped above us again. The mousy older lady apologized before letting everyone know the flight was delayed another hour.

"Can I buy you a drink while I continue to talk your ear off?" I offered sheepishly.

"Can't say no to that." Parker stood, and I led the way to the bar I had passed four times while wondering, "So why Pittsburgh?" She asked.

"My brother was in the military. He was stationed there, met his wife, and then had my niece. But, um, he passed recently, so I'm moving to help out."

Parker's face dropped, sincerity widening her eyes, "Sorry to hear that."

I smiled awkwardly, attempting to alleviate the shift in tone, "Thank you. But yeah, family is the driving force for sure. And I don't mind the change of setting. I could use the shake-up."

"You ever work nights before?" Parker asked between us, taking a seat at the bar and ordering.

"Yes. A few years ago, when I was still under supervision." I laughed, remembering how intensely slow or extreme they could be, "Any advice?"

"I pretty much run off of coffee and spite."

"That'll do it."

"I just keep going. Night shift is a different beast. It keeps things interesting."

   "Oh, I'm sure."

   The bartender sent two glasses down, one tequila soda with extra lime and one beer. I squeezed the green wedge into my glass and bit at the pulp. The bitter tang did wonders for my tiredness. Parker raised her glass and motioned a cheers.

   "To a fresh start," she offered.

   "Precisely."

   After taking a quick sip, I fiddled with the chilled glass in my hand. With a newfound warmth, I felt more at ease, "How about you? What brings you to Houston?"

Parker frowned, saying it wasn't anything too interesting, just that she was visiting family, "My mom and stepdad moved here a few years ago. I try to come see them when I can."

   "That's nice. Were you here for a while?"

    "Nah. A few days, just a quick trip."

"Still must be nice to get away from the chaos for a bit, right?"

She shrugged, "Yes and no. I like it, it's unexpected. It's—"

"Addicting?"

"Kinda yeah," Parker nodded, "It's weird."

"I share the same feeling."

    Parker was great company. She was funny and actually carried on a conversation, though I quickly got the hint that she wasn't a fan of small talk. We bypassed the typical pleasantries and delved a little more into our personal lives without the need for fluff.

It was refreshing to be honest. In my job, I'm meant to gather as much as possible on a person and that means separating much of the filler from facts. It was nice to cut around all the bullshit and just talk.

By the time they called boarding, we had exchanged numbers.

"Text me when you land," Parker said.

"I will."

"And seriously—if you get the job, I'm claiming you as my friend first."

I laughed.

"Deal."

—

   Parker and I became fast friends. By the end of my first week in Pittsburgh, it felt like we had known each other for years. She had taken me out to a sports bar she frequented to watch the Pirates play the Marlins.

   Turned out that she went to UCLA for med school just around the same time I went for my grad program. Stories were shared and memories were recounted. Both of us had a habit of getting into trouble or rather trouble found us.

     We met up again after my final interview. I told her I'd accepted the position and my first official day would be next Monday. We celebrated with tequila shots and pizza in my half-assembled apartment afterwards. It was easy talking to her. Maybe I should thank my lucky stars cause she's made this entire process ten times easier.

   As my second week rounded to an end, she texted me on Friday night.

PARKER:    You busy tomorrow?

ALBA:    Depends. Why?

PARKER:    A co-worker is having a get-together at a bar. Super lowkey and chill. You should come

ALBA:    You sure I won't be imposing?

PARKER:    You won't cause I'm inviting you. It'll mainly be people from the ED

ALBA:    Exactly, I won't know anyone. I literally start in like two days

PARKER:    That's why you gotta come. Pre-game your coworkers

   I laughed, she did have a point. My hesitation prompted a quick follow-up.

PARKER:    Girl, I know damn well you're just unpacking or doing laundry or whatever the hell else. Come! I'll buy you a drink 👀

ALBA:    lol you really know how to lure me in

PARKER:    I can be very persuasive ;)

ALBA:    Don't get a big head

PARKER:    So is that a yes??

ALBA:    Yes, but if I don't have any clean underwear from Monday it's your fault

PARKER:    Let her breathe girl!

You try to calculate how long you spent at each place while nursing a hot dog and an overpriced matcha lemonade. Jack sits beneath you, one hand gripping your waist while the other holds onto the bags littering your occupied bench.  

“I’m sorry we spent so long here,” you tell him as you take one last bite of the hot dog. “It’s hot, and you have a shift later today.” 

He shrugs. “I enjoy spending time with you.” 

“You also love spending your money on me while you’re with me,” you laugh. 

“That too.” 

“I don’t need your money. I’m well off with my books,” you murmur, then push your hot dog and matcha lemonade closer to his mouth. “Here, open. I don’t want it anymore.” 

Jack takes a bite and sips on the drink that’s actively being watered down by melting ice cubes. He scrunches his nose in slight disgust but doesn’t voice his disapproval of the matcha. “I don’t mind spending my money on you, but I can stop if it annoys you in any way. I’ll stick to paying for dates, the occasional gifts, and fridge re-stocks.” 

You press a kiss to the side of his sweaty head with a smile. “That sounds good. Maybe one day I can spoil you if you let me.” 

“That’ll be a long time from now. I feel quite spoiled with you making me tea with a side of deep tissue massages after long shifts.” 

You give Jack another hard kiss on his temple and dig your fingers into his constantly stiff shoulder. “Maybe I can give you another massage before your shift.” 

Jack squeezes your hip and releases a breathy chuckle – one that screams mischievous. “Oh, please and thank you. But I have one question.” 

“Shoot.” 

“What kind of massage, exactly? Is it PG or do I have to shut the blinds?” 

The massage you gave Jack included closing the windows and blinds and looking into how to soundproof your entire house. After a few searches, you realized it would be too much work for your dad or Jack, so you decided to bake goodies for your neighbors to make up for the loud moaning.

The massage you gave him also threatened to make him late for his shift. 

While you wrapped up his lunch as quickly as possible, you began talking about the decorations you bought a few hours ago that had yet to be taken out of their bags. 

“I might clean them up and start putting them where they go while you’re away.” 

“No way,” Jack protested with a headshake so fast and intense that you questioned if his neck was alright. “You almost hurt yourself while you were taking down the spring decorations the other day. Your chairs of choice are terrible, and I’m not letting you put things up on them while I’m not here.” 

“I will be okay. I’ve stood on them multiple times.” 

“I don’t care, they’re unsafe, and I need to fix them up if you plan on doing anything but sit on them,” he grumbled. 

“Don’t be annoyed,” you told him with an authoritative glance. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said while handing you a juice and water bottle from the fridge, his face painted with an expression that typically belongs to puppies after being yelled at. 

You shoved everything into his lunch box and zipped it up. You nudged it into his chest and let go once Jack clung onto the black strap. “I won’t get hurt … because I won’t be putting anything up.” 

He nodded and gave you a quick kiss on your recently red and swollen lips. “See you tomorrow morning.” 

You walked him to the door and waved goodbye as he slid into his car and backed out of your driveway. He was looking at you through his windshield like he knew you’d be up to something: face shriveling up from the nasty frown on his face.

He was probably right. Well, he is right, because now you’re holding onto the wall while standing on the old chair Jack told you not to use. 

You have a pushpin pressed between your lips and a beaded curtain with dozens of seashells on it in your hand. You’re trying to pin the rest to the top of your back door – so that whenever you walk out, they make a beautiful clashing noise, almost like a windchime – but you can’t reach the edge of the door. You don’t want to get down, move the chair, then get back up, all while steadily holding the curtain, so you stand on your tiptoes and stretch yourself as much as you can.  

You grunt as you take the pin from your mouth and hold it up to the edge. You press it against the wall, and just as you feel it sink into the drywall, the chair beneath you creaks and shakes. 

You grip onto the door frame and the curtain, but they’re both unreliable. 

The chair somehow falls apart, and you slip. You reach out your hands to break your fall so you don’t hit your head. You don’t hit your head… but you do immediately feel a sharp pain shoot up your left arm. 

You sit up against the back door and gasp as the pain intensifies. You look down at your wrist and suck in another gasp that tries to form into a scream. It’s red, swollen, and dented. At least that’s what it looks like. 

You don’t really know what to do besides cry and hold your wrist against your chest, which is what you do for the next minute before you realize you need to call for help. 

When you get enough courage to stand, you wobble over to the kitchen counter and pick up your phone. You dial Jack’s number and stare into an empty spot on the floor. You think about sitting down, but you’ve now formed trust issues with any and every chair in your house. 

Jack answers after a few rings, and you immediately start crying.  

“Whoa. Whoa, baby, what’s going on?” Jack asks, panic filling every syllable. 

“I fucked up. I put up the decorations even though you told me to wait, and now I think my wrist is broken! It looks so weird, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to call the ambulance, but I also can’t drive to the hospital with one hand.” 

Jack sighs, but he isn’t annoyed; he’s painfully worried. “Why do you think it’s broken?” 

“It looks weird, I don’t know!” you exclaim, which you quickly feel bad for. You don’t mean to yell at Jack, but you’ve never experienced this level of pain before, and you don’t know how to hide it. “Sorry. I’m not mad, it just hurts. It’s already swelling and bruising, and there’s a big bump on my wrist. And it hurts, I don’t know if that’s been mentioned yet.” 

“It’s okay, I understand. It sounds like it might be fractured,” he sighs, and you can hear the movement of his thumbs digging into his eyes. You hear him shuffling around the department, followed by ‘hmmms’ and a few ‘okay’s.’ Then he adds, “Stay where you are. I’m coming to pick you up. I’ll be there in ten.” 

“Please be safe,” you cry. 

“I will, baby, just hang tight.” 

You head to the front of your house and lean on the wall. “I’m sorry,” you whisper as your eyes land on the photobooth strip of you and Jack next to your key rack. “I should have listened to you, but I thought I would be okay. You have every right to be upset and angry with me.” 

“I’m not mad at all. I’m a bit upset that I couldn’t watch and help you decorate your house, but I’m not angry at you. Accidents happen all the time.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m one-thousand percent sure,” he replies, voice soft and tender. “Get an ice pack and hold it against your wrist. Stabilize it as best as you can, okay?” 

“Okay,” you groan. 

“Eight minutes away. I’ll be right there.” 

The hospital is cold and feels disgusting, yet extremely clean. It’s also cool, but not cool enough, which slightly bothers you because the Pittsburgh summer heat is beginning to dig its claw into everyone and everything. It also makes you realize why people would much rather go to Presbyterian instead, but you wouldn’t dare say that to Jack, even if he might agree. 

Your wrist hurts way less, all thanks to whatever pain medicine Jack hooked you up to when you first entered the hospital. You’re thankful for it, even if it feels like too much, because now you can hold a steady conversation with Jack and his kind associate without performing breathing exercises. 

“Why won’t you write a queer romance next?” asks Doctor Santos, who noticed you when Jack dramatically brought you in. She immediately assigned herself to your case, asked about your books, and then questioned you about your deformed wrist. 

“I want to,” you say with a yawn. You’re exhausted from crying and the medicine in your bloodstream, and desperately want to go home. That might not happen for a while, though, considering you didn’t bring a car here and Jack works until the early morning. “I’ll have to think about the storyline, the plot, scenery, all of that before I decide on doing it. You are always more than welcome to pitch a few ideas. It might not get written for a year or two, though.” 

She shrugs. “I am totally okay with that. I have countless lesbian horror stories that could be turned into novels.” 

“They have to have a happy ending, though. I can’t write a queer book with a sad ending. I’d get thrown into jail,” you say with a laugh. 

“True. You’d be added to the queer ban list on TikTok,” she replies flatly, then laughs from what you think is also exhaustion. She told you a few minutes ago that she was covering for someone on the night shift and hasn’t been able to properly take a break since she left her house that morning. 

You laugh some more, too, and it nearly turns into a manic fit of community laughter, but Jack interrupts by knocking on the door. He walks in and smiles, shining his crow’s feet, and logs into the computer next to your hospital bed. 

“You doing okay? How’s the pain?” he asks you. You nod, but don’t say anything to answer his question. “Good. If you need anything else, let me know, alright?” 

You nod again, and he starts showing you your X-rays. You aren’t really paying attention because all you can think about is how professional he’s being. It sends a shock through your chest, and you mindlessly grab your chest. 

Jack stops the confusing explanation about your fractured wrist to raise an eyebrow and ask, “Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, it’s nothing. Heartburn, probably,” you lie. 

He continues talking about a Colles’ fracture, and how you won’t need surgery because it’s in a good position, and how Doctor Santos will be injecting something in you and something else. You still aren’t paying complete attention because you keep trying to find a crack in his facade. 

As he completes the explanation and asks you something – if you need water, which you shake your head at – you start asking yourself questions you know shouldn’t be ricocheting off the grooves of your brain. You start by wondering if he treats every person he cares about this way: professionally and lukewarm. This then has you wondering if he even cares about you. Is it too early for him to care about you? That feels wrong to think, though, because an hour ago, he rushed to your house and lifted you into his car bridal style, even though you could walk on your own. 

You’ve been speaking for roughly three months, yet haven’t witnessed this side of him before. Was there something wrong, or were you simply overthinking? 

“You’re doing that thing again.” 

You violently blink and shake yourself out of the haze you were in. You look up at Jack, who’s stolen Santos’ seat. She’s no longer here, but you can still smell her perfume. 

“What?” you ask. 

“When you think so hard that everyone nearby can feel the brain strain.” 

“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking again.” 

Jack scoots the chair further up the bed until you can see every individual gray hair lining his jaw. He places his hand on your face and smooths over the stressed frown on your lips. His other hand rests on the bed railing, where he lowers his chin. The face he presents to you is the Jack you’re familiar with: soft, gentle, and quiet, revealing every wrinkle on his face and what story each one has behind it. It’s unlike the stern and pulled-back face he put on once you’d been drugged into mild relaxation. 

You prefer this version, even though the other one illustrates who Jack is when you’re not around, a sight you’ve been wanting to witness since you began talking to him. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking about. I want to know what’s stressing you out.” 

“You were so professional,” you tell him. “I’ve never seen you like this, so it sort of freaked me out.” 

Jack glosses over your face with a look of concern that you’re trying to understand. You follow his eyes and start wondering what he thinks of the peeling sunburn coating your nose, and the few pimples dotting your chin – both of which you’re ashamed of, because you’re battling hormonal acne in your twenties, and you forgot to apply sunscreen to the center of your face. 

You’re about to cover your face with your hand, but the dull ache that had previously gone dormant shoots through your arm. You hiss and shut your eyes so tight that you begin to see stars. 

Jack kneads the skin surrounding your left eye and shushes you, the kind you whisper out when a baby has started fussing. “Don’t raise your hand. It’s broken, remember?” he says, a breath following that is trying to morph into a laugh. 

You roll your eyes. “I know. I actually would like to know when it’s getting fixed so I can go home.” 

“Soon,” is all he says, and then he shifts his body so that he can lean over the railing and kiss your forehead. He settles back into his seat once the throbbing in your wrist isn’t being followed by a throbbing in your head, and continues what he was saying a few seconds ago. “I’ve never introduced a girl to my coworkers. I haven’t even spoken to a woman romantically since my wife passed away… So, this is all new to me, and I am trying to figure out how to go about it.” 

You crack a sympathetic smile and lift your good hand to his cheek. You squeeze his chin and pull him closer to you with a whimpering noise leaking out of your throat. “I’m sorry, Jack. This must be stressful for you, especially since people keep passing by and breaking their necks to look at us – or me, really,” you tell him. “I could have gone to Presby, though, and you could have introduced me to your coworkers in your own chosen way.” 

“I didn’t want you to go to Presby,” he murmurs against your lips. 

“Okay,” you whisper back. 

You continue pecking his lips – even though it might be cheesy and nearly nauseating for anyone who passes by – while you think about bringing up the topic of his deceased wife. You haven’t gone into great detail about her passing, just mentions of her over dinner and movie nights when no one is paying attention to the screen. You’ve seen pictures of her, which stunned you beyond belief. You also know that she passed away from cancer. But you don’t know about their relationship dynamics or what life was like before she passed away. You also have no idea about what Jack’s healing journey looked like, only that he actively goes to therapy and is a big believer in hobbies, even if they are questionable. 

Midway into your kissing session that is dipping its feet into makeout territory, you settle on asking Jack about his marriage another day. A day when he doesn’t have to perform a closed reduction on the fractured wrist of a girl he’s been seeing for three months. 

“You’re brave,” you whisper into his mouth. 

Jack pulls back and looks down at you with a puzzled expression for a fraction of a second. It slowly settles into ease as he remembers exactly why he should be called such a word. “Thank you, baby girl,” he replies in your tone and volume, and goes to kiss you again. 

Then the door opens, and Doctor Santos waltzes in with a tray of supplies and disgust seeping out of her pores. “Wow, hetero content during Pride Month. Save it for October, will you?” 

“October?” Jack mumbles. 

“Yeah, when all the scary stuff happens.” 

You cackle and pat Jack’s shoulder, pushing him away while trying to soothe the annoyance in his tone. “You’re funny. I like you, you should come over sometime.” 

“Can I pitch all of my queer novel ideas and raid your library?” 

“Sure!” you squeal. 

“Deal,” she replies. 

Santos rolls both the tray and stool over to your bedside, and Jack pushes himself up to perform his attending duties. “Abbot has told you this already, but I’ll remind you. Your wrist is fractured, but it’s actually in a good position where we can fix it without surgery. What we’ll do is called a closed reduction, which means I’ll carefully guide the bone back into place without any incisions.” 

You scrunch your nose and start shaking your head – nonverbally telling everyone ‘fuck no,’ even though you probably have no other option. “That’s gonna hurt,” you say, and look up at Jack, who has started dropping the serious doctor mask inch by inch. “I don’t want it to hurt more than it already does. Just knock me out.” 

Santos laughs and lifts a small vial and a syringe. “It would hurt like a bitch if you weren’t medicated, but I’m not that evil. We’ll numb your wrist so you’ll only feel some pressure, and I’ll – or your freak buddy Abbot here – will make sure you’re as comfortable as possible while we fix you up. Once everything is aligned, we’ll put you in a splint to give the swelling time to calm down, and then in a few days, we’ll switch you to a cast, which you’ll wear for about four to six weeks.” 

“Do I get to pick the color?” 

“Sure, why the hell not?” Santos answers. 

You smile like a little kid, even if the anxiety is starting to build up in your chest and you try to block your airways. “Okay, cool. Do you guys have a wide variety, or is it all neon?” 

She looks over at Jack, and they both let out some kind of evil chuckle. “This is the Pitt, may I remind you. You have black, white, and the ugliest colors to grace the planet.” 

“I’ll take those couple of days to think, then.” 

Santos presses her lips into a thin line and nods. “You do that. So! Are we ready to start?” 

You shut your eyes and throw your head back into the hard hospital pillow. “Let’s just get it over with.” 

Leaving the Pitt feels like you’ve gone ultra-famous overnight and are grasping the reason why as people bombard you with questions. 

“You wrote that sexy book a couple of years ago,” a nurse, Princess, tells you while Jack is finishing up his handoffs. 

“I did,” you tell her. “Did you read it?” 

“No, but I hear it’s really good. I keep telling myself to read it, but I always wait for books like that to turn into movies.” 

Heat crawls up your neck, and you soothe it with your right hand. “I am flattered that you think it would be turned into a movie.” 

She shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

You want to tell her it’s because your sex scenes have been mediocre until Jack Abbot took your virginity a few months ago. You’d been writing based on fantasies and incredibly dirty novels you didn’t dare take out of your house. However, now that Jack has twisted your body into every position imaginable, you’re nearly done writing your novel, and could write sex scenes until you retire. Telling Princess this would probably kill her, because, although Jack is not exactly her boss, he’s close enough. No one would want to learn this backstory about someone at work who occasionally tells them what to do. 

You rummage for an answer in your brain. “My other books are way better,” you tell her, opting for a self-promotional response. Your editor would be proud of you. “I’d want them to turn any other book into a movie before that one.” 

“Are you talking down on your writing skills?” Jack asks, his hand snaking around your back and settling over your hip. 

“Not really,” you reply as Princess says ‘Yes.’ 

Jack looks at Princess, who shrugs and leaves to tend to whatever task she’s been assigned to do this early in the morning. “What were you guys talking about?” he asks, now looking at you with intrigue. 

“She basically said my first porn novel should be turned into a movie. I told her no, but I didn’t exactly tell her why.” 

“Is it because you were a virgin when you wrote it or something?” Santos – who you were sure had already gone home – speaks up. She slides in beside you with her backpack thrown over her shoulder and her scrub top itching to push the zippers apart. 

You and Jack break your necks looking at her. You don’t change any emotion littering your face, but your insides are surely on fire. 

“Don’t ask that,” he scolds, and then looks at you with a similar stern look. “And don’t answer that.” 

“Is it noticeable?” you ask her, ignoring Jack. 

She hums for a long thirty seconds. “Not exactly. They’re good, trust me. I can tell your editor wasn’t a virgin when you sent it in. But I knew something deep down in my heart.” 

“Okay, well I’m not one anymore, so trust me when I say my upcoming novel will be fucking amazing.” 

She laughs and pats your shoulder. “I am putting all of my trust in you. If you fail me, you won’t be seeing any of my lesbian novel ideas.” 

Jack scoffs from your right and starts digging his fingertips into your hip. “Alright, Doctor Santos, I think it’s time for you to go home. You were getting a bit delirious those last few hours.” 

“Aye aye, captain,” she says. She turns to you before she scurries out of the hub, and shines a sympathetic smile that she hasn’t shown you at all these past ten hours. “Ask Abbot for my number. My brain is too fried to pull out my phone. We can plan something when your wrist is better.” 

You nod. “Bye, Santos,” you say, and wave goodbye with your good hand. 

She quickly escapes, and Jack pulls you out of the Pitt before anyone else strikes up a conversation with you. Before Princess, there was Javadi, who was also a big fan of your books, if not the biggest fan you’ve come across. And before Javadi, there was Doctor Robby, who was asking who you were and what your intentions with Jack were, as if he were his father. Thankfully, Jack told him to back off, and settled on discussing your relationship over dinner sometime soon. 

When you get to his car, Jack opens the door for you and hovers while you settle into your seat. You go to buckle yourself in, but Jack grabs the seatbelt and does it for you. Then he caresses your face with his soft doctor hands. 

“You did good today, you know?” 

“You’re just saying that because you feel bad for me. I was a baby when you guys did that reduction thing.” 

“This is your first broken bone, and you didn’t scream at all while you were there. That’s a big deal, and I’m proud of you for remaining as calm as possible.” 

“Even if I did cry a little?” you ask, crinkling your nose at the reminder of the fat, hot tears rolling down your face when they pulled and twisted your broken wrist. 

Jack brushes under your eyes as if the waterworks have come back. “Even if you did cry,” he whispers, and kisses your peeling nose. “Now c’mon. Let’s get you home and settled in bed.” 

You kiss him before he steps back and shifts you around in your seat for optimum comfort. Then he walks over to his side, opens his door, plops into his seat, and turns the car on. You try to look away, at the sun that is already spraying its heat onto the city, or at the shops that are flipping their ‘closed’ signs over to start business for the day. But you see this more than once a week when you meet Jack for breakfast at an old restaurant that smells of peppermint and old mop water. Instead, you look at Jack and his lonely hand resting on the center console. 

You were told to limit movement with your left hand, but you desperately want to hold his hand. You lift it just a little bit while Jack turns right, but you grunt in mild discomfort. 

“Why are you moving around?” 

“I want to hold your hand,” you mutter. 

“Don’t,” he replies as he makes another turn. “As much as it kills me to not be able to while driving, you’re not supposed to move it around so much.” 

“How am I supposed to do it then? Am I supposed to reach over with my right hand? Or what about washing my hands – oh wait! Hand, because I can’t even use the other one. How am I supposed to put up my decorations for the summer? Or swim? It’s hot, and you have a pool I was planning on using!” 

Jack is chuckling beside you, and you want to cry. You could barely sleep in the hospital because of how bright it was, even when they dimmed the lights in your room. Even though it was nighttime and the night shift was usually less noisy, you could hear every cry, every curious student doctor asking questions in a high-pitched tone, every mother yelping for their child who shoved Legos into their ear before bed because they wanted to play a little longer. You only got thirty minutes of sleep, and all you want to do is hold Jack’s hand to soothe your anxious heart. But he’s laughing at you and all of the problems you’ll be facing for the next couple of weeks. 

“Don’t laugh!” you whine. “How am I supposed to write? This is awful. I’ll go broke if I can’t finish this novel.”

Jack’s answer to your complaining is to set his hand on your thigh and press into your skin as if imaginary keys are dotting them. “Baby, you will not go broke. Trust me. Your bank account is doing more than okay and your editor will understand if your first draft is a little late.” 

“What if my wrist gets worse and I’m never able to write ever again?” 

“So that won’t happen, I’ll make sure of it,” he tells you, then pats your leg. “You’re dating a doctor, may I remind you.” 

You smile. I am, you think, and then settle into the thought of Jack putting your cast on, being the first person to litter it with words and stickers that’ll only have a one-day lifespan. You think about him taking care of you when you get home, and how you’ll ban him from sleeping in his own home for as long as your wrist is wrapped in fiberglass and padding. 

A few minutes later, Jack pulls into your driveway and tells you to wait for him to open your door. Once he does, he unbuckles your seatbelt. “You need me to pick you up or are you fine walking?” 

You roll your eyes and grab his extended hand. You jump out and he murmurs a ‘Jesus’ like you nearly jumped off a cliff. “You’re acting like I broke my foot.” 

“I don’t want you to break anything else,” he says. “Which is why I am helping you as much as possible to avoid that from happening.” 

“I will be okay. Plus, you’ll be gone multiple times out of the week for very long shifts and I will be left to take care of myself. Start thinking about that.” 

“I don’t want to,” he says as he holds you against his side and helps you climb the porch steps. “I might have Santos come and take care of you on her days off.” 

“I am twenty-five, I do not need someone taking care of me over a broken wrist. Will you calm down before you give yourself a heart attack?” 

Jack just grunts in disapproval and pulls the gingham-style key you gifted him from his bare keyring. He shoves it into the doorknob and twists it around, pushing the door open once it clicks. 

“I’m hungry,” you tell him as soon as your foot meets your slippery doormat. You and Jack both look at it, and you’re sure he plans on hiding it while you’re not watching. “Jello is only enjoyable when you want it, not when you’re forced to eat it.” 

“Baby, no one was forcing you to eat Jell-O,” Jack tells you. He’s in the kitchen, grabbing the big tub of yogurt from the fridge. It’s half empty now even though you bought it a few days ago. You and Jack are knee-deep in your yogurt-craze. 

“It was that or a really cold sandwich with white bread.” 

“I could have gotten you something.” 

You almost sit down on the island stool, but keep yourself standing at the edge, watching Jack pour yogurt into a bowl. “I didn’t want you to do that.” 

“It’s my job to make you as comfortable as possible in any setting. If you wanted me to get you anything in the world – absolutely anything – I would drop everything and get it for you. Do you understand? I don’t even care if I’m in the middle of an emergency surgery.” 

You try to fight the smile creeping onto your lips, but you fail. It pries your lips open and you shine your teeth as you nudge your way into his chest. “Aweee. You really like me.” 

He kisses the top of your head and murmurs, “I do. I really do.”

Jack lets you hug him while he washes and cuts fruit to garnish your yogurt bowl. He also lets you cling to him while he throws granola onto it and fishes for a spoon in your nearly empty drawer. You let go when he struggles to balance two bowls while somehow maneuvering your body around. You do chase him like a duck all the way to your living room, though. 

“I have to clean up the mess I left before you picked me up,” you tell him as you shove your spoon into the yogurt. 

“You won’t be doing anything,” Jack emphasizes. “You’ll be in bed until I tell you otherwise, and I’ll do all the housework.” 

“Bossy…” you whisper. 

“You like it when I’m bossy.” 

“You’re right, I do. But only when we’re having sex. I don’t want you to be bossy right now. Let me be happy and put up the rest of my decorations. Also, this is my house and you’re my guest.”

“I stay here more than I stay at my apartment. I’m no longer a guest.” 

“Whatever,” you tell him. “Let’s eat breakfast, go to bed, and then we can make real decisions once we’re energized. Deal?” 

“Sure,” Jack says, even if his face says ‘hell no.’ 

You tried to persuade Jack into letting you decorate your house. You promised you’d be careful and you’d stand on whatever surface he chose to put everything up. 

He looked at you this morning when you said that, and acted like he hadn’t heard anything. 

“Seriously, Jack, I won’t get hurt.” 

“You said that the last time, and then you ended up with a broken wrist. Why would I let you put up decorations on an elevated surface with your history?” 

“Because you really like me and want me to be your girlfriend?” 

He scoffed and shook his head. “I do really like you and obviously want you to be my girlfriend, but I am not going to let you do that. Just sit down and let me do it.” 

“Please.” 

“No.” 

“I’ll give you head.” 

He stopped unraveling the tangled sun lights like he might think about that offer, then shook his head. “Tempting, but no.” 

“C’mon! I’m trying to get better at giving blowjobs. You said I could practice on you whenever I wanted.” 

“I said that right after I came all over your face and boobs. Things you say in that moment are either super truthful or should be taken with a grain of salt. Also, why do you want to become a pro at giving blowjobs? I think they’re great as is. Are you planning on leaving me?” 

“Maybe. If you don’t let me do this.” 

Jack sighed and dropped the newly untangled lights into the cardboard box. “Okay. You are being extremely stubborn but I like you, and I hate that frown on your face. So I’ll make a deal. You can help me put up the decorations, but you are not standing on any elevated surface, got it?” 

“Sir, yes sir,” you answered. 

That conversation led to you bossing him around from the ground while he stands on the table and hangs lights along your living room. He said, very early into your decorating, that it didn’t matter how crooked they were. 

“Not to be rude, baby girl, but no one comes over except for your parents and I. Occasionally your friend and editor. Why does it matter?” 

Then you shot him a disapproving stare and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m inviting Santos over soon. I also figured you’d invite Doctor Robby over for dinner, since you spend more time here than your own place. Your words, not mine!” 

“You’re right. Let me do what I’m told before you kick me out.” 

Jack spends the afternoon and evening filling your house with summer decorations: colorful placemats with suns adorning the center, bright magnets in the shapes of suns and plants sticking to the already full fridge door, and paintings of women and animals galloping along prairies replacing spring-like canvases on your wall. 

When he’s done shifting things around and changing your bedsheets to something orange, yellow and pink instead of forest green, you sit on your bed with the windows open and your head lying on his bare, sweaty chest.  

“I’m happy to have you in my life,” you whisper. “No one has ever treated me like this. Like I’m the center of their universe.” 

“The second I saw you in that coffee shop, I knew you would become the center of my life.” 

“Without even getting to know me?” 

He hums, a soft murmuring of words and thoughts he can’t fit into one sentence. “Yeah.” 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

“I won’t. Not until my next shift, at least,” he tells you, his fingers deep in your scalp, massaging the pain that has begun pumping through your body. 

“Not what I mean,” you say. “I don’t want you to leave, ever. I know we’re not official yet, but I’m already making this decision.” 

“I approve of the decision,” he replies with enthusiasm. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

In this moment, with tangled legs and bare bodies pressed against each other, nothing else matters. Not the idea of being asked to be his girlfriend, not the worry of Jack approving of your passion-fueled decision, or even the worry of getting your novel complete before its extended deadline. 

Andrew sighs and picks everything up off the floor. He riffles through them, searching to see if you have anything he can sneak into his pocket and pay for when you’re not paying attention. “The grocery store?” he mumbles at the cat while placing the Chinese takeout menu next to Michael, letting him sniff it as if he might smell the orange chicken through the sticky paper. 

He lets out an incomplete meow, then flicks it off the table again. 

“Rude cat,” Andrew replies, looking at Michael, who has jumped off the table and made room for Scott, your tuxedo kitty, who doesn’t really think of anything besides wet food and making biscuits on your stomach. “Hi Scottie, have you checked your mom's mail yet?” 

“Meh,” she answers, which is good enough for Andrew. 

He doesn’t know how you’ve accumulated such mail while he was away. He always tells you to check when you get home – he’ll say, “What if you have an important bill to pay and you miss it because you don’t check your mailbox?” 

Then, you’ll reply with, “We live in modern America. They can call or text me. Plus, I have you.” 

He laughs at the thought as he reaches the end of the pile. He’s about to drop the envelope, but stops just before it leaves his fingertips.

“What is this?” he asks himself, and receives an unsolicited response from Scott. “I thought you didn’t check her mail. Why are you answering like you know?”

Scottie jumps off the table – grazing Andrew’s arm as though she disagrees with his smart remark. 

He brings the envelope closer to his eyes and reads the company name. 

Miranda Schofield's San Diego Eating Disorder Recovery Center. 

He stares at it for a few minutes. He puts it down, then lifts it back up to make sure he read that right. 

Eating. Disorder. Recovery. Center. Bill due 5/15. 

Andrew looks over at the bright neon calendar you have hung up beneath the dry-erase board, and checks the date. 

May 14. 

Without asking himself anything, he slips the envelope into his back pocket and walks away from the bubble of questions he found himself in. To busy his mind, he grabs your dirty clothes from your bedroom and starts a load of laundry. 

While they silently whir in the new washing machine he bought to replace your old whiny one, he cleans your room. He started doing this two months into your relationship despite your incessant begging for him to do anything else.

 “Powerwash the driveway, or clean the kitchen. Or the baseboards behind the washer and dryer! Just don’t bother with my bedroom. It’s a mess, and you’ll never manage to get it clean,” you’d beg him, following him around with your hand fisted into the back of his shirt like a crying child. 

He obviously wouldn’t listen, because in his strange and beautiful mind, it was a form of therapy. Once you saw this firsthand, you stopped crying and let him clean every nook and cranny of your maximalist bedroom. You audibly cringed when he first cleaned beneath your bed – he fished out old socks and an old vibrator box you were too anxious to throw away – but simmered down when he just shrugged and kept on cleaning. 

Andrew typically just cleans. He doesn’t look through your drawers in search for something you might be hiding. He knows you keep your ‘lady things’ in your bedside drawer, stuffed beneath satin bonnets, sleeping masks, and unread books, and that you keep a stash of joints in a pill bottle in your bathroom. He knows where everything is and doesn’t usually find himself curious to search.

But today is different. Along with knowing every hiding spot, is his knowledge about the memory box you keep tucked beside the left foot of your bed. Once he’s done cleaning your bathroom and sweeping and mopping your bedroom floor, he sinks to his knees and grabs the neon pink box splattered with dollar store gems and tiger print duct tape. 

He’s not doing it with bad intentions; he just wants to know if anything hints at the bill still crumpled in his back pocket. He takes off the lid and sets it on the bedside table. He pushes past the countless ticket stubs and letters he’d leave behind before jobs, and grabs the stack of photos at the bottom. 

The first few are of you and him on hikes, at the bar, or at the beach. Some of you and your best friends at a Halloween festival. Nothing really shares any insight until he finds an old picture of you. This must date back a few years – your face is far more youthful than it is now, and much rounder, too. Your cheeks are red and round like gala apples, and your smile is wide and bright. 

You look beautiful, Andrew thinks to himself. He stares at this picture for what feels like eternity, though technically it’s just until the washing starts singing thirty minutes later. He could stare at it for thirty more, because of how gorgeous you look in your bright yellow swimsuit dotted with flowers. He can’t stop obsessing over the way it sits on your hips – hips that are wider than they are now. He can’t stop looking at the way your skin slips over and under the strings of your bathing suit top. He thinks you’re gorgeous, and finally lets himself enter the bubble of questions he left less than an hour ago.

He snaps out of his gaze when two purring kitties rub their heads against him. Michael sniffs the memory box, and Scottie jumps into Andrew’s lap, her eyes fixed on the picture he’s holding. 

“Is your mother okay?” he asks Scottie, but she doesn’t answer. “Why did this happen?” 

He wishes cats could talk in this moment. He’s sure Michael and Scottie would tell him all about the clinic bill and what led their mother to look drastically different than the photo. It can’t be that old, considering you’re in California with your group of friends – a state you moved to two years ago – and holding the surfboard you only acquired a year ago. 

Andrew stands up when the sing-song of the washing machine starts sounding like a fire alarm. He neatly tucks everything back into the memory box and holds the photo he’d been staring at between his thumb and forefinger. He places the lid back onto the box, then carries it down to the kitchen, where he sets it down beside the photo and the unpaid bill. 

He continues cleaning your apartment: he moves your clothes into the dryer, dusts your living room fan, moves every piece of furniture around to compile all the dirt into one corner, which he then sweeps up. He mops every corner of your house with the strongest solution, and once your clothes are dry and smell of salt and lavender, he folds and puts them away. 

Andrew sits down at your kitchen table when he’s done, dripping with sweat and smelling of faint aftershave. He lays his phone out in front of him and opens the Find My Friends app, clicking on your name. Your dot is moving around Oceanside, getting closer and closer to your house as the seconds pass by. 

He turns his phone off when your keys jingle in the door. Michael and Scott run over and purr until you open the door. They stop, but only for a second. Then they start crying. 

“Hi my babies!” you sing, bending down with a bag full of wet swimsuits. 

“Leave the bag outside,” Andrew says, cringing at the droplets your bag leaves on the shiny floor. 

You re-open the door and throw it next to the lounge chair. You come back in and pick up your kitties. “Have you been fed? Are you hungry?” 

“Their automatic feeder went off a while ago while I was cleaning.” 

“Have you given them wet food?” you ask, stepping into the kitchen and admiring the cleanliness. You scrunch your nose at the strong smell of lemon and vinegar cleaning solution. 

Andrew shrugs. “They didn’t complain about the dry stuff.” 

You chuckle and continue your venture through the room. “You’re supposed to give them wet food for lunch. Michael in my room and Scottie in the laundry room because one likes salmon and one likes chicken. But they somehow always try to eat one another’s food if you keep them in the same room.” 

“Cats in the wild don’t get that option, you know. They should be thankful they have a roof over their head and an automatic feeder.” 

You roll your eyes and mutter, ‘Well, they’re not wild cats.’ You look around, smelling the lavender that remains in the air from the recent load of laundry, and smile. Even if Andrew doesn’t understand what it’s like being a cat mom, he understands how to keep a place clean. And for that, you can’t completely be mad. 

“Thank you for cleaning. Did you get new laundry detergent? It smells like lavender and –” you go to say, but pause before you get to say ‘salt.’ Your memory box is sitting on the kitchen table, right beside your recovery bill and a photo of you before starvation and bulimia took over your first year living in California. You point at it, then look at Andrew. “You went through my stuff.” 

“You have an unpaid bill from Miranda Schofield's Eating Disorder Recovery Center.” 

“Okay. So that prompted you to go through my stuff?” 

“I wanted to know why.” 

“So ask.” 

“Can you sit down? You’re stressing me out,” he says, gesturing towards the seat across from him. 

You keep standing, arms crossed over your chest. You’re holding onto your armor that is falling apart as you look into Andrew’s eyes. You haven’t told anyone but your therapist, a couple of people at the center, and one friend about your eating disorder since you moved to Oceanside. You haven’t told Andrew, because to you, it’s in the past. Your final visit to the center was a month before you met him, and you’ve been clean since then. No throwing up, no laxatives, no starving. Just an immense amount of hobbies and therapy sessions you have been concealing under the words ‘Swim Time.’ Why tell him about it if you don’t plan on going back anytime soon? 

“I don’t want to. I can tell you standing up.” 

“Sit the fuck down,” he orders. 

You grunt and pull the chair back. You plop yourself down and grab the unopened bill. “You look through my stuff, but don’t open the bill? If you’re already invading my privacy, might as well commit a federal crime.” 

“How long have you been avoiding this bill?” he asks. 

“I haven’t been avoiding it. I just forgot.” 

“You forgot, or you just didn’t feel like paying it?” 

You shrug and slide the paper over to him. “I stack them in my vibrator drawer and tell myself I’ll pay it when I wake up. And then I get busy and forget about it.” 

Andrew reads the services you’re being charged for and the amount you have to pay at the bottom of the page. 

Bulimia. Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID). 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reply with a smart remark or say what his mind has been screaming since you first started speaking – “You’ve never cared about me going through your things. I thought it was okay.” He keeps reading the page until his brain meshes the words together. He starts thinking about the picture of you in the yellow bathing suit, and the girl in front of him with a figure plenty of times smaller. 

“I’ll pay it tonight,” you tell him. 

He throws the bill down and stands. He runs off into your bedroom while you say something nearly intelligible: “It was hard living here!” 

He grabs his wallet that sits on your dresser and rushes back into the kitchen. He sets it down on top of the bill and pushes it over to you. “Pay it right now while you talk to me about this.” 

“Why are you mad?” you ask, or beg, really. 

“I’m not mad. I’m concerned.” 

You laugh. Then you pull out your phone, scan the QR code at the bottom of the page, which takes you directly to the payment website, and start talking while you type in his debit card information. “I wasn’t as insecure before I moved here. I sometimes didn’t like how I looked, but it was a normal amount then. Like when you’re about to get your period, and you start overanalyzing yourself. But most of the time, I didn’t think my body was that big of a problem.” 

You finish paying the bill – an amount you don’t even want to think about – and return his card. “I don’t know much about periods making you hate yourself. I don’t have one.” 

You shake your head at the dumb remark and bite down on your lip to stop yourself from saying something dumb right back. “I’ll tell you later,” you say instead, pausing right after before picking up where you left off. “I started hating how I looked right before I moved. I was visiting while I solidified my living arrangements, and by the end of my week-long stay, I realized I didn’t belong there. Which sounds dumb, because my job created a position just for me. But I mean it like…” 

It’s hard for you to confess what made you pick up this frustrating addiction. It’s stupid when you think about it, but also extremely real and painful. Andrew isn’t making it any better, either. He isn’t making facial expressions. He’s only looking at you with a straight face, eyebrows drawn together if you look hard enough. 

“Don’t judge me.” 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because tons of people here tend to do that.” 

“Fuck them,” he says, voice stern. 

You nod. You reach over for his hand and grip it with enough strength to make his fingers lose color. “I felt like I didn’t fit in because no one looked like me. Everyone was thin with small faces, big lips, and perfect boobs. The guys had incredible abs, and no one had beer bellies, even though everyone drank and smoked. No one wanted to look like me. It was noticeable, even if they didn’t say it.” 

“So you started …” Andrew chooses his words ultra carefully now. He’s never a stuttering mess, but he is now. “Starving yourself? Throwing up or… restricting food?” 

“All of the above,” you answer, your voice and body shrinking. 

“Jesus, baby,” he murmurs. 

“You don’t get it.” 

“I want to.” 

“I wanted to look like everyone else. That’s it. I didn’t want to walk into shops and get stared at because nothing in there was meant for me. I didn’t want to walk into a smoothie shop and immediately get told what I should get, which was always some nasty green drink with every sour green in the universe,” you admit. “I also wanted to look perfect for when I’d meet someone. Someone perfect like you.” 

Andrew pushes himself off the chair and sinks onto his knees in front of you. He grabs your other hand and sandwiches all ten of your fingers between his. “You are perfect.” 

“Now I might be,” you scoff. 

“No, you always were. I wouldn’t have cared about your weight ‘cause it’d still be you.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“What would I gain from lying to you?” 

You shrug. “Fair point.” 

Andrew unwraps your fingers and kisses your knuckles. “I love you,” he murmurs. 

“What’d you say?” you ask. Your heart starts beating faster, nearly leaping into your throat. “Did you just say what I think you said?” 

“I love you,” he says, louder this time. 

“Get up.” 

He doesn’t make you repeat yourself. He stands up and cages you in, one arm planted onto the table, the other fisting your chair. “I love you,” he keeps telling you. “Say it back, please.” 

You stand up and kiss him with immense infatuation. “I love you,” you say, your teeth clacking against his. You wrap your arms around his neck and push against his body. You keep repeating the words while you deepen your kiss and make it to your bedroom door. Michael and Scott follow behind you two, meowing like they might be judging you. 

You step into your bedroom, and Andrew pushes you up against your dresser. He chases your mouth and says, “Don’t let them in, they’re literal children.” 

You laugh and move around him to shut the door. Right before you do, you look at them peering up at you and nearly cry. “I’m sorry, babies. Mommy is about to fuck your dad’s brains out.” 

“I’m their dad now?” he asks with a playful groan. 

“You said I love you! You have to be now.” 

Even though he’s stressed at the thought of buying all of their expensive food, along with paying for their unnecessary clothing and flower-shaped scratching posts, he agrees because it makes you questionably happy. 

Andrew would do anything to make you happy. He voices that as he devours your body from head to toe. 

“Don’t go through this alone,” he whispers once you’re lying in bed after long and intimate sex. His hands are holding your head as if it were glass: with care. “I need you to tell me when you feel insecure. Or if someone looks at you weirdly. Or tells you to eat their green shit smoothie.” 

“Okay, baby. I will,” you laugh. 

“Seriously. I need you to tell me. I need to make sure you’re okay. Always.” 

You promise in the form of a pinky promise and a kiss.