“Did you just take a picture of me?” I ask coolly.
The women titter among themselves.
“Why would we take a picture ofyou?” the ringleader says. “Have you never taken a selfie with your friends before?” To demonstrate, she gets into position with her girls and throws up a peace sign.
“The flash was toward me,” I say. “Please delete it.”
She lowers her camera, and though the smile doesn’t leave her face, her eyes are now cutting.
“I said we didn’t take a picture of you,” she says. Then to her girls, “I’m telling you, these Gen Xers areso delusionalthese days—”
Even understanding what’s happening—that this girl is reacting out of envy and nothing else, that she’s dealing with rejection the only way she knows how, by taking it out on the other woman like the villainous cheerleader in a teen rom-com—the words cut. It’s like she heard all the insecurities I recited to myself in the mirror minutes earlierand is repeating them to me out loud, and instead of a sharp retort, all I find is helplessness.
I’m about to walk away, find some place to lick my wounds, when suddenly the woman freezes, catching sight of someone over my shoulder.
It’s Julian. He approaches us in a brisk, confident stride, his hands tucked into his pockets, and the world seems to slow and darken with his approach. I swivel to watch as he sweeps past me in a swirl of long legs and stops in front of the woman. He leans in close, brushes a thumb ever so lightly over the apple of her cheek. My face spasms with a strange, alien rage just as hers blooms with color.
“That wasn’t very nice, was it, Melody,” he says, in a voice that sounds like it should be crooning sweet nothings instead. I feel arrested by it; I can’t move. His palm settles fully on her neck, and she releases a breath that sounds like a whine. I hold mine. It occurs to me that Julian is speaking softly, that I shouldn’t be able to hear much of what he says at all over the band. But the words sound like they’re being whispered into my ear, like I could close my eyes and he would be standing right behind me.
“People like you always overestimate your value. I’ll have you know that there’s a beauty queen with bad highlights waving from the float of a county fair in every town in Middle America who looks just like you and is of about equal import, and that in about twenty short years, the wickedness inside her heart will become visible outside it. When her beauty and youth have faded, she’ll realize how completely she relied on it, how she made no effort to be resourceful or kind or interesting as well. Her town, her people, they abandon her. Her husband’s eyes skate past her. Her kids don’t call. She becomes invisible at best, a burden at worst. And you can almost pity her, except she once wielded her beauty like a weapon, and so her misery seems more like justicethan tragedy. That’s your future, and it’s one I want no part of. The only one delusional here,” Julian pats her neck lovingly, like he would a family pet, “is you.”
Melody—I’m not sure when Julian learned her name—exhales in a rattle, her eyes wide and unblinking. Behind her, her friends look on in horror. I can see in their expressions that the shift in power dynamics will be seismic after this; their leader has been deposed.
Julian steps back, holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
Melody hands it over obediently, and he scrolls through it, finds the photographs, and deletes them one by one. Then he hands it back.
“Good,” he says. “Now apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” Melody says tonelessly.
“Be specific,” Julian continues. “Who are you apologizing to, and for what?”
Melody’s eyes meet mine from across Julian’s shoulder. I expect them to look panicked, terrified even, but instead they are stricken with guilt, like a child caught breaking their parent’s favorite vase.
“I-I don’t know her name,” she blubbers.
“Dr. Sullivan,” Julian supplies, and behind her, Melody’s friends’ eyes widen as they realize their critical error: they’d failed to consider that one of the few Black women in their midst might be one of the interventional cardiologists they were meant to spend this conference wooing.
“I-I’m sorry f-for taking pictures of you without your c-consent, Dr. Sullivan.” Melody stumbles through the words like they’re a script she’s barely read.
Julian looks back at me. His eyes glint and glimmer, reflecting more light than exists in this dimly lit room.
“That work for you?” he asks.
Numbly, I nod. Julian smiles beatifically at Melody and suddenlythe air shifts like a cold front and the grayed-out dance floor returns to its electric pink hue. He gestures in front of us just as Melody begins to blink.
“Let’s go,” he tells me, reaching for my arm like we’re fleeing the scene of a crime.
But I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the sticky tile floor, because what I just witnessed, what Julian justdid, is something I can’t quite wrap my head around. Sure, Julian is handsome, and sure, he could probably charm the spines off a porcupine, but what just happened couldn’t just be explained by charisma. This was a ventriloquist working his dummy, tugging on invisible strings to force her mouth open and the words out. Even now, Melody stares after Julian like an automaton awaiting her next command, the contempt that had distorted her beautiful face replaced by an inhuman placidity that makes my skin crawl.
Suddenly my stomach clenches, threatening to empty its meager contents, and my vision blots and blurs at the edges. I know this sensation, have experienced it a few times after standing too long on a hot day or once when, during fellowship, I accidentally stuck myself with a needle.
I’m going to pass out.Shit.
“Julian,” I gasp, a warning. “I—”
I don’t quite remember falling, just the impact of my knee against tile, the ache of my wrist as it buckles under my body’s weight, a bystander’s horrified gasp.