An hour and a half later, we finally leave the lab. The patient, now stable, is transferred to intensive care for monitoring. Complications happen, and this case was high-risk; the patient has known Brandon for many years and is understanding.
But I am pissed.
“Thanks for jumping in,” Brandon says, giving me a wolfish grin and a pat on the shoulder. “Just like old times—”
I shrug his hand off.
“It wasnotlike old times, because you definitely know better now,” I hiss. “Why didn’t you have backup access? Where were your meds? Where was yourfellow?”
There’s a beat of silence between us, a moment when I know that I have hooked into a nerve and strummed. But then Brandon’s gaze turns glacial.
“I asked for your help, Sean,” he says. “Not your judgment.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened in there,” I say. “Iknowyou, Brandon. We all make mistakes, sure, but—”
“Exactly. We all make mistakes. So maybe instead of putting on your typical, self-righteous, ‘I’m the only one who actually cares about people’ act, you can cut me some slack,” Brandon interrupts. There’sa warning in his tone, a promise that if I push, he will take us to a place from which we can’t return. He holds my gaze for a second that feels like it stretches into eternity, then wipes the sweat from his brow and looks behind him at Leila. “Come on, babe. Let’s go.”
They walk out. Only Leila looks back at me, eyebrows turned up in a helpless apology.
The instant the door clicks shut, a hand lands on my shoulder. It’s Pamela.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, in a softer tone than I’m accustomed to, “I’m on your side.”
I squeeze her hand with one of mine, pull out my phone with the other. I am buzzing with an ugly, roiling sort of adrenaline, and I need a distraction—a mindless cat video, a quick scroll through a social media feed.
I get something better: a text from Julian.
You’ve left me hanging, Sean. Am I taking you out, or are you turning me down?
I am about to complain when I see the time: eight p.m., a full eight hours after he asked. I bite my lip.You know what, why the hell not.Then I respond:All right. I’ve been convinced. It’s a date.
Five
The week beforePERPETUITY, I dream of Julian Conrad three more times.
In the first dream, we are back in that room in Edison Mansion, except this time Sophie does not interrupt. The last note of our rendition of “Is It a Crime?” rings in my ears as Julian’s hands shift from skimming along keys to clutching the sides of my jaw, and when he kisses me it feels like violence. In the next, we are at Brews and Beans, crashing into displays and knocking over kitschy multicolored thermoses and satchels of dark roast in our haste to get at each other’s skin. I tug his shirt open, and his buttons scatter.
The final dream is different. Julian sits at my kitchen island, his head propped on the heel of his hand. His stare penetrates, pierces past skin and flesh to probe at whatever lies within, and I find myself frozen, unable to look away.I need him, I think.I need him I love him please don’t stop please don’t look away from me—
Something warm and wet slides against my face, and I’m jolted out of my sleep to find Onix hovering over me. Discovering me awake, he rears back in delight, bathing me in dog breath and frantic kisses.
“Onix! Oh my god!” I grab both of his paws, holding him justout of reach. He is not allowed on the bed without permission and is most definitely not allowed to kiss me on the mouth, but, by the relieved wag of his tail, he clearly doesn’t regret it.
And if I’m honest, neither do I. Now that I’m awake, I can recognize that what Onix just pulled me out of was a nightmare. My body roils with residual anxiety—my teeth chattering, hands clenching, breaths coming quick and hard. It’s not longing I’m feeling, though in my dream my desire for Julian was desperate. It’s fear.
Which makes no sense. Because why in the world would I be afraid of Julian Conrad?
Luckily, there are no more random run-ins with Julian in the hospital, and he is yet to materialize inside my house. And while I find him significantly more engaging than, say, Questionably Literate Bakery Guy, my interest in him is measured. I do not spend the days leading up to our gallery date hurriedly searching for an outfit or retightening my locs. When I call Winny, it’s to make plans for dinner, not to recount my messages with my newest suitor. Not that there’s much to report. The messages with Julian themselves are tame enough in volume, frequency, and content; every other day or so we share songs we think the other will like (to my irritation, he pins down my tastes almost immediately), we discuss our favorite restaurants, and he sends me more details for our upcoming date. He does not text me good morning with an assortment of indecipherable emojis. He does not ask for nudes or hit me up at midnight for a booty call or get annoyed when I take six hours to respond to him because I’ve been caught up in the lab. He behaves, in general, with more decorum than most men ten years his senior.
On my way, he texts simply, the night of the exhibition.Be there in twenty.
I use those twenty minutes to get ready. The turquoise pantsuit Ipull from my closet is low-cut and loose fitting, a look Sophie would describe as “Rich Auntie” and Winona “Tracee Ellis Ross.” Next are my earrings, half faces of a woman crafted out of thick gold wire that Sophie bought me from an artisan’s fair a few years back. My heels are sensible, the kind worn by a woman for whom maintaining ergonomics is a matter of job security, and my makeup is minimal.
I look good, but I will also be able to eat all the hors d’oeuvres at this gallery without worrying about my bloat.
Julian is waiting outside his car for me when I descend. He’s wearing a charcoal peacoat and a gray wool scarf, and his nose is a little pink with cold. When he spots me, his face brightens. And…wow. It’s a subtle transformation, a shift that takes him from sculpture to real boy, and it rocks me.
“Sean,” he says.