Chapter 3: The File

My sister Sophie called it "Operation Chill The Hell Down."

Operation Chill The Hell Down was her idea. Her brilliant, totally realistic plan to walk into Cedars-Sinai, see a very attractive surgeon, and act like a normal human being who had never once in her life imagined what his name would look like embroidered on a wedding napkin.

"Emma." She had said it twice in the phone call that morning, both times with a tone that suggested she was talking to a golden retriever who had just chewed her favorite shoes. "You are going to be cool."

"I am the coolest."

"You cried at a dog food commercial on Tuesday."

"That was a very good commercial."

"Breathe. Smile. Say thank you. Leave. You're capable of that, right?"

"I'm capable of that."

"You've been staring at a notebook for twenty minutes trying to figure out what to wear that says 'I am a serious patient' but also 'please notice me'."

"Hypothetically"

"Emma."

"FINE. I'm wearing the cream sweater."

"Good. Leave now. Bye."

Cedars-Sinai on a Wednesday morning was starting to feel like a second home, which was an insane sentence to think. Three weeks ago, the highlight of my week was arguing with my landlord about a leak. Now I was developing a Pavlovian response to the smell of hand sanitizer.

I checked in. Waited. Read three pages of Cedars Quarterly before I gave up pretending.

The door opened.

Aiden Black.

Tall. White coat. Soft-looking navy scrubs underneath. Tired eyes, but this time there was something tighter in them. Like he'd been up all night. Like his face was running on low battery mode.

"Ms. Park," he said. "Come on back."

Ms. Park.

Right. Ms. Park. That's what last week's Emma was apparently an anomaly. A moment of weakness. A crack in the armor. Back to Ms. Park this week, like nothing happened, like he didn't walk into an exam room last time carrying a coffee that matched my exact order down to the foam heart, and then leave and have a couple of nurses asking why.

I followed him into the exam room.

"Have a seat."

I sat. The crinkly paper made its little sound. He washed his hands, dried them, picked up a little metal tray of tools that clinked softly. Then he rolled the stool over and stopped in front of me. Closer than strictly professional. Close enough that I could smell his soap, something clean and cedar and unremarkable in the way that made me want to lean in.

"How's the pain?"

"Three today."

"Three out of ten?"

"Three out of 'sobbing into a pillow.' So improvement."

The twitch again. The not-smile at the corner of his mouth. Still not a smile. Still doing something to my nervous system that I refused to name.

He leaned in. Started working on the stitches above my eyebrow.

His hands were steady. Calm. Warm. Every couple of seconds his eyes flicked up to mine to check I was okay, then back down. He was careful. Almost painfully careful.

"One more," he murmured. "Hold still."

"Biting my tongue."

"Don't move your eyebrows, Emma."

It just slipped out.

Emma.

He froze. Like his own mouth had surprised him. He cleared his throat, kept his eyes fixed on the stitch, didn't look up.

"The stitches look good. Healing well. You'll barely see the scar."

I wanted to say you called me Emma. I wanted to say last week I was Ms. Park and this week I'm Emma again and what does that mean. I wanted to say about twelve things, all of which were too much.

Instead I said, "Cool. Cool. Okay."

He moved on to the bandage on my ribs. Asked if I was sleeping. If I'd been icing. If I'd taken the stairs or the elevator. Patient questions. Professional questions. Nothing about the coffee. Nothing about the foam heart. He was being so careful about the line between doctor and... and whatever he wasn't.

Then he pulled back the bandage to check the incision. His fingers grazed my side. Just for a second. He was completely professional, completely clinical, but I felt the touch all the way down to the floor.

I looked down.

My brain had been doing that annoying thing all morning where it catalogued him like a nature documentary. Observe the tall surgeon in his natural habitat. It had already noted the salt-and-pepper at his temples, the slight indent on his nose from glasses he didn't wear anymore, the way he tapped his pen twice before writing anything.

What I hadn't noticed until right now was his left hand.

He was wearing nitrile gloves, but the glove wasn't pulled all the way up. There was a thin strip of bare skin, just above where the glove started. And there, just barely visible, was a small tan line.

A ring tan line.

But no ring.

I have to talk about it. I had to ask. It's compulsive. Once a thought enters my brain it doesn't leave.

"Dr. Black"

"Almost done."

"Quick question."

"Ms. Park"

"Emma. Are you married?"

His hands stopped.

Not a pause. A stop. Like someone had pressed a pause button on his entire body. He didn't look up. He peeled the glove off. Slowly.

"Where did that come from?"

"You have a tan line. On your finger. A ring tan line. It's faded, but it's there. Aiden Black, age thirty-two, surgeon, tan line, no ring. Math."

He set the gloves in the trash and pulled off the second one. Did not answer.

"I'm sorry" I started. "I overthink. I do this. It's a problem. My therapist says I should put a rubber band on my wrist, but then I just think about rubber bands. Forget I said anything."

"You're fine."

"Was it recent?"

"Ms. Park"

"Emma. Sorry. I keep doing that. Was it recent, the divorce?"

He didn't move.

"No," he said. Then, after a long breath, "Yes." And then, even quieter, "Both."

"Oh."

He snapped the gloves off. Walked to the sink. Washed his hands again. Didn't say anything else. The line of his shoulders was tight. I'd crossed something. I knew I had, immediately, the way you know when you've stepped on someone's foot in a dark hallway.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's not" He turned off the faucet. Grabbed the paper towel. Looked at me finally. "It's not a question I get a lot."

"Because you wear nitrile gloves like six hours a day?"

The twinge was back. That almost-smile that wasn't a smile. It flickered and vanished like a pilot light.

"Take it easy today," he said. "Shower normally. Apply sunscreen to the scar. Come back next week for one final check."

"See you next week, Emma?"

"Ms. Park," he corrected, and left.

There it is again.

I sat there for an extra second, watching the empty doorway, before I reached for my bag on the floor.

My hand slipped. The bag toppled. My file folder slid out and dropped.

I ducked to grab it and ran straight into his white coat because he'd come back in to write something in the chart. We both crouched. Our heads bumped. Gently.

"Sorry" I started.

"Sorry," he said.

He reached for the file. His hand landed on the cover. He picked it up.

Something slipped out from between the pages.

A small yellow sticky note. His handwriting. Blocky. Tilted slightly to the right. I'd seen his handwriting before on a prescription once, when I hadn't been allowed to read it.

The note said:

Check on her birthday.

He looked at the note.

I looked at the note.

He looked at me looking at the note.

The room got very, very quiet.

Neither of us moved.

Both of us breathing.

To be continued...