“I heard about the missed STEMI,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry about that.”
Julian’s expression crosses my mind, more sheepish than I’d ever seen him look:We should be taking things slow.
“Yeah, well,” I grumble, last week’s bitterness returning. “Things happen.”
Leila’s expression darkens.
“But they shouldn’t, and it wasn’t okay,” she says. “Don’t worry. I’ve talked to him about it.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard Leila sound so…irritated. Trouble in paradise already?
“Thank you?” I say.
“No, thankyoufor covering him,” Leila says. “Oh! And for asking Winona about the recital. I know Sophie was nervous about inviting me, and she told me you helped convince her.”
At this, I stiffen. I can’t help but feel like Leila is bragging, though I can’t conceive why. Maybe it’s the insinuation that Winona had putup any sort of resistance to having her there, or the overdone, puppy-dog pout she’s giving me now. She’s always felt genuine to me, but right now, I can’t help but feel taunted.
“It didn’t take any convincing,” I insist. “We share an interest in making the kid happy, after all.”
“Of course,” Leila says sagely. Then her grip tightens. “Have you heard from Julian lately?”
I tense.
“No, I haven’t, and I’d rather not discuss it.” I sound snippy, but as a woman scorned I think I’m allowed it.
“Oh, well, I was going to tell you that I’m worried about him,” Leila says. “He ghosted me for dinner last week, and he wasn’t answering, like, any of my texts and calls, so I got worried and reached out to Ritika. Apparently, he’s not well. She had to cancel all his meetings this week—which, like, never happens by the way, that man would work through a hurricane—but he’s refusing to go to the hospital.”
Oh.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this embarrassed; maybe when I said someone’s residency potluck dish looked like compost and turned to find the cook standing behind me.
“He’s sick?” I repeat.
Leila nods, chewing on a thumbnail, and I wonder whether the haughtiness I’d felt from her was actually nerves.
“He does this. Pushes himself past his limits. Putting himself in danger like this is so unnecessary—” Her voice cracks, and she gives me an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. I just…He’s like a big brother to me, and I just wish he would treat himself with a bit more care.”
I remember, abruptly, that Leila’s actual big brother is no longer with us—that there’s perhaps a reason why she’s visiting me now that goes beyond socializing.
“I’ve been wanting to stop by his place to check on him, but I have to drive to Evanston a bunch this week to prepare a demonstration I’ll be doing with one of the interventionists there for SCAI,” Leila says, confirming my suspicions in the next breath. “And honestly, Brandon doesn’t like the idea of me going over to another man’s house alone, and I’m trying to respect his wishes. So…I was hoping to ask a favor. Since, you know, Jules is important to both of us.”
The concern that I have for Brandon being maybe a bit more controlling than I like is only trumped by my horror at the image of Julian sprawled out, half dead, on his couch.
“You want me to go check on him,” I say.
“Please,” Leila says.
It’s a no-brainer, even if it ties my stomach into twists. Despite everything, my traitorous heart beats faster.
“Of course,” I say.
Twelve
Leila gives me the code to Julian’s apartment and calls his concierge to request I be placed on a guest list. It feels a bit wrong, getting permission from a second party, but when I try to call Julian again and it goes to voicemail, I reason with myself that I’m only breaking and entering in his best interests. I go home, take Onix out, then putter around my house grabbing supplies. I find my stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, Tylenol, and ibuprofen, and throw them all into a tote bag. I bring a bottle of water too, pop a couple ibuprofen for good measure, and wash them down. Then, because I can’t be bothered to hunt down parking around Julian’s downtown apartment, I call for a ride, jittery with nerves.
The last time I visited Julian’s place, we entered through the parking garage, which, while neat, had been concrete and unremarkable. The lobby itself is opulent, gilded, with a doorman dressed in a crisp navy uniform under a smart black coat who steps out into the cold to open my passenger-side door.
“Are you here for Mr. Conrad?” he asks. When I confirm, he directs me to the elevator. “Hope he’s doing okay.”