Four Chambers: Power of the Matchmaker Read online

  He was quiet for a long moment, long enough that I would have turned and run away again if he hadn’t had a firm grip on my arm. When he spoke again, he did so quietly, but it still startled me enough to jump at the first words. “You don’t have to work, you know. You chose that. You had a plan B. You just don’t want to follow through with it.”

  “There is no plan B. No possibility of a plan B. How can you even say that? You’ve met my family! You know what they’re like. They hate the idea of me going to med school. If I take money from them, then I’ll have to follow the career paths they chose, and I can’t live like that. I thought you understood.”

  “I’m trying to understand. I’m in all the same classes you are, Andra. I do understand the stress you’re under. I just don’t see why we can’t work on this together.”

  We had to move off the path so we didn’t get run over by a group of evening joggers. His hand stayed on my arm.

  I rubbed at my eyebrow, trying to ease the headache that lately always seemed to be there, pounding just over my eye. “I’m just . . . wrung out. And I can’t do it anymore. I’m a heart doctor, not a girlfriend.”

  He tried to smile, tried at a joke to lighten the tension weighing heavy over the both of us. “One could say that a girlfriend is the very best kind of heart doctor.”

  I tugged my arm from his grasp. He let go without a struggle, as if he sensed how lost the fight really was. “I’m not that kind of heart doctor. I’m sorry.” I ran then, faster and harder than I’d ever run in my life.

  I didn’t look back.

  And felt heartless for the shattered look in his eyes as I turned away.

  A heart surgeon who broke hearts and who had no heart.

  How ironic.

  The Second Chamber

  Kissing is like drinking salted water: you drink and your thirst increases

  —Chinese proverb

  Four Years later

  Chapter Seven

  My phone vibrated, but I resisted the urge to answer it until I was done reading. If it was the hoped-for call, then it would mean that the tenant to the apartment I'd been on the waiting list for had finally vacated the premises.

  But I had to finish reading the syllabus. Because the information was so dry and horrible and boring that if I didn’t finish it now, I would never find the willpower to go back to it. And to arrive at clinical rotations without having read the syllabus would make me look incompetent, unprepared, and lazy.

  But the apartment! My apartment! The one I had drooled over and waited for, and coveted online for over a year was finally going to be mine.

  It wasn’t just that the stone building was beautiful and covered in ivy and located close enough to the hospital that I could walk, even on the coldest winter days and not feel too badly over it since I wouldn’t be outside for very long, but it was also that it was one of the cheapest apartments available in Worcester. Living there would save me several hundred dollars every month.

  And that would keep the debt from piling up more than it already was.

  The apartment.

  And the bigger beauty was that even though it carried one of the cheapest rents, it was also one of the few affordable private apartments in the neighborhood. I could ditch the roommates who ignored personal boundaries and borrowed things like my shampoo and conditioner and razor, and who ignored things like common decency and finished off the last of the milk that I paid for and then never rinsed the glass they used so the bottom was left caked with soured milk that had to be scoured out.

  A private, cheap apartment.

  And honestly, what kind of woman would even want to use another woman’s razor? The very idea made my stomach lurch.

  My eyes had made it to the bottom of the page but my brain hadn’t registered a single word read.

  Fine, it’s not like you’ll be able to focus until you know. I swept my finger over the screen and read the message waiting for me.

  Andra, Emily texted. Just got word. Brad is quitting. He can’t handle the idea of rotations and is moving home. He should be gone in two weeks. I told the landlord you were still interested. He usually only rents to guys. But I know he wants to lease it to a serious med student. I told him you didn’t even know how to spell the word fun. Keeping fingers crossed!

  I leaned back in my chair and frowned at my screen. The little dig at my personality tempered some of my elation to know the apartment was going to be vacant soon.

  I knew how to spell fun. I even knew how to have it when there was time to be spared for such things.

  Of course, Emily was just being funny. She thought little quips like that were hilarious and no one escaped her barbed humor.

  But I didn’t like it.

  I sucked in a deep breath and focused on the real message. The apartment!

  How nice would it be to not have to hide food in my closet or under my bed or to hide my really expensive spices in my underwear drawer beneath the granny panties that I’d bought specifically to hide things under. No one wanted to touch those monstrosities—not even the evil roommates.

  How fabulous would it be to take a shower without the water running cold just as my hair had been freshly shampooed and needed a rinse?

  How exquisite would it be to not have to remind roommates of test days and TV volume levels?

  Another deep breath—only this one was a sigh of happiness. A place of my own. The one thing every human needed in order to regroup and figure things out. The importance of a personal sanctuary was an often overlooked concept.

  I texted Emily back. Not just still interested, but ready to move this exact minute if he’ll let me. Being the beginning of the semester, it couldn’t come at a better time!

  Nothing smelled quite as terrible as desperation, but sometimes it was best to explain things as they really were, stench-of-desperation be hanged.

  Emily’s text chimed in. He’s got a few others waiting, but you’ve been on the list for such a long time, I'm sure he’ll give you preference.

  The good news remained good news all day, so that when Evil-Roommate-Anne finished off the cheesecake my brother had brought me, I didn’t really get that mad. Her mutant behavior only served as a reminder of all the many things I would have to be grateful for when I finally moved.

  The apartment existing, with its supreme location, could have been very profitable to the owner. But he’d been a med student at UMASS and done his rotations at UMASS Memorial and had bought that apartment when his grandfather died and left him a modest inheritance. As a way for his grandfather’s legacy to live on, the man rented the apartment to med students only, charging them a rent that barely covered property taxes for the year. He only considered need-based students, which, in spite of my parents’ affluence, was totally me.

  The thoughts of the apartment overpowered the base from evil-roommate-Becky’s screamo music that night. I went to sleep chanting the words, “Not that much longer, not that much longer . . .”

  I woke before the sun and hurried to get ready for the first day of rotations. After two years of text books and classroom lectures, my third year in med school stood as a reward for my hard work and patience. I would finally get to see real patients; not cadavers, school books, or video tutorials. Real, talking, walking, breathing people. First days were the most important. They were the ones that allowed everyone to assess each other and get a grasp of what the rest of rotations held in store. Fueled by nine grain toast and a berry yogurt, I left my apartment. My white lab coat pressed and so white, it glowed as if I was radioactive.

  When I’d emailed my preceptor regarding what to expect the first day of rotations, her response had been to make sure I arrived tidy and timely. She said to consider showing up early as my new definition of “on time.” Showing up early meant that though I’d likely be kept waiting, no one would be forced to wait for me.

  I arrived twenty-eight minutes early, and found I wasn’t the only one who’d made that choice. A couple of people from the pre
vious year’s study groups came in, laughing about their weekend activities. The group had all bonded during the intense year we spent together, and these two stayed close after the final class grades were posted. I didn’t remain best friends with anyone from that group. Splitting my focus for relationships felt like a great way to sidetrack my goals.

  I smiled and waved at them. Not wanting to be best friends didn’t mean I didn’t want to be friends at all. They waved back and seemed genuinely pleased to see me again. But they didn’t come to stand with me outside the office where we were supposed to meet for our first day. They herded themselves to the other side of the door and kept their conversations contained inside their tight little circle of two.

  All the other students were complete strangers to me, which seemed impossible. Two years of medical school and these people owned barely recognizable faces. Was I incapable of human connections?

  Regret bubbled in my stomach. This sort of moment made me truly miss Janette. She lived in Arizona and worked as a nutritionist at a hospital in Phoenix. We emailed and texted and commented on each other’s social media, but those things did not replace a living, breathing best friend. As I stared hard at my syllabus and tried to remind myself that there would be time for friendships later, a hand slid across my vision. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Andrea without an E.” My entire body froze at words I hadn’t heard in a very long time and the voice I hadn’t realized I also missed, until that very moment.

  “Everest without an S,” I whispered, slowly turning to face the direction the hand came from. He looked good. He hadn’t gone flabby like several of the guys in med school who kept touch via social media. I took his hand and shook it as if we were introducing ourselves to each other for the first time.

  His warm hand in mine brought such a rush of memories, they almost knocked me over. What was he doing here? Why would he choose to stand with me after what I’d done to him? How did he end up in the same hospital as me for even a moment?

  He must have sensed at least part of my confusion because he said, “Transfer student.” He put up a hand to stop the protest on my lips. “I know. Transfer students are incredibly rare, but they aren’t impossible. It happens sometimes.” He pointed to himself as if presenting Exhibit A.

  “But you'd always planned on going to Tufts. What would ever make you want to come here?” The question sounded accusatory. I fully realized that these were not the best first words to say to the guy I’d abandoned on the Boston Common years ago.

  An apology would have been better, maybe an explanation of how the pressure had finally got to me and I just sort of blew up. I recognized the immaturity of my actions, but could only excuse them because of my legitimate youth at the time—too young to be taking on so much on my own. I stared at him now, wondering if he had limped back to his apartment all those years ago and commiserated with Greg—the other ex in my life—about what a perfect troll of a female I’d turned out to be. Maybe they fantasized about spray painting troll on my car like I’d painted tool on Greg’s truck. Did Everett hate me now? Did he look at me and see all the ways I was undependable and completely fickle?

  Thinking of Everett hating me shot pangs of guilt and even more regret through me, enough that I felt sick and dizzy and confused.

  “Happy to see me, huh?” he said.

  I blinked and sucked in a breath that didn’t seem to contain any oxygen. “Of course I’m happy to see you. I’m just surprised.” I leaned in to give him a quick hug, partly because I really needed to hang on to something solid or I would pass out from lack of oxygen and partly to cover the fluster in my face.

  Someone from behind bumped me with a shoulder, which bounced my head forward a bit and jolted me out of . . . whatever that feeling between flustered and relieved I felt at being in such close proximity to Everett.

  “Watch it, Adam,” Everett said, giving the guy behind me a good-natured reprimand over the fact that the bump made me pull away from our embrace.

  The guy, Adam, gave a light tug on my ponytail. “What? Am I ruining your chances with the ladies?”

  I turned around to see who interrupted my reunion with Everett and almost felt like my knees might buckle at the sight of the newcomer. He looked like he’d been designed instead of born, like the rest of us mere mortals. Not one flaw marked the bronzed skin that set off and magnified his blue eyes. His blond hair had that moussed, messy style that seemed to invite female fingers to play in it.

  He looked more like a California surfer than he did a New England med student, but he wore the white lab coat that marked him as a student.

  I don’t know how I reacted when he flashed his confident grin at me. Did I smile back? Did I just stare at him? Oh please tell me I didn’t whimper. I opened my mouth to try to articulate something beyond a squeak when the physician we would be spending the next five weeks with called our attention to the hallway in front of his office.

  With gratitude, I faced forward again. I did not want to face Everett next to me or the Photoshopped man on my other side.

  Everett slouched so he could lean over and whisper in my ear. “You’re not looking at him anymore. You can close your mouth now, Andra.”

  My cheeks burned with the knowledge that my mouth had gaped open when I first saw Adam. I snapped it closed with a click of my teeth.

  Everett chuckled softly next to me, and I was suddenly not glad that Everett knew me well enough for this kind of familiarity.

  “Don’t worry.” His whisper tickled my ear again. “Adam has that effect on all the girls. He’s a player, and since you have a history with players . . . I thought it fair to warn you.”

  What? One bad boyfriend decision suddenly counts as a track record? If he intended on making me feel better about momentarily acting like a vapid sorority type, he failed. He might as well have rubber-stamped the word average on my forehead. I was not one of those girls.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I kept my tone cool. The physician must have said something funny because everyone else laughed. I cast a frantic glance around the group to see if I’d missed anything important, but couldn’t really tell. Whatever had been said was clearly amusing, but was it necessary to know?

  The physician failed to add follow-up information that would allow those not paying attention to catch up. I had to swallow my pride. “What did he say?” I whispered to the girl to my right. She ignored me like she hadn’t heard.

  “He said to be nice to your classmates and hospital staff because the people you see around you might be the very people in charge of hiring and firing at hospitals you want to work at in the future,” Everett whispered. Was that a reprimand in his words? Was he really trying to make me feel dumb for not paying attention when he’d been the one distracting me?

  I mumbled a thanks, determined to pay attention to the attending physician. I already knew how important professional relationships were during the rotations, and no man, not the beautiful one or the teasing one, was going to mess with that.

  “I’m sure you all already read the syllabus so you know that I’m Dr. Jonathon Niles. You’ve already all communicated with your preceptor, Crystal, so I feel certain you're all already familiar with her and require no introductions. We have a busy day ahead of us, so let’s get moving.”

  And move we did.

  The first rotation was in geriatrics. I chose this one first at the advice of my father who, albeit grudgingly, resigned himself to the fact that I was going to medical school and nothing he did or said would sway me. He figured if I was joining the profession, then he had better make sure I didn’t do anything to smudge the reputation of the four generations of doctors that came before me through the Stone family tree. Since I felt pretty certain I wanted to be a heart surgeon—like my father—he advised me to begin rotations in something that I was definitely not going into. That way, I learned how the hospital, and my role in the hospital, worked in an area that mattered a little less.

  Th
at first day, I tried hard to stay visible, to take good notes, to ask intelligent questions, to volunteer when Dr. Niles offered the chance for hands-on work. As I helped, I had my hand patted by several old women, and my backside patted by one old man who winked and waggled his eyebrows at me. Both Adam and Everett laughed at that. Pretty much the entire group got a laugh at my expense. I think even Dr. Niles might have twitched his mouth. The fact that the old man said, “Ni-ce”, long and drawled out with appreciation only made the situation that much more horrible.

  By the end of the day, I felt like someone had plunged me into ice cold water and then wrung me out with a vicious twist. I went back to gather my belongings when I was joined by Everett and Adam.

  Adam was a transfer student, as well. He and Everett were joined at the hip in a way that I didn’t really understand and didn’t really want to understand.

  “Hey,” Everett said, “Andrea without an E?”

  “Yes, Everest without an S?” I answered without looking at him.

  “Some of the class is having a get-together—kind of a get-to-know-each-other kick-off. Want to—”

  I couldn’t.

  Whatever it was, I couldn’t.

  I could not fall into the trap of Everett and the danger he represented of making me forget myself. I was already thinking of excuses when Adam-the-beautiful said, “You can’t invite her.”

  I startled and shot my head up to meet his gaze. “And why can’t he?”

  “How old are you? Sixteen? We need to put you on the arrest alert. Are you even legally old enough to be in this hospital without a chaperone?”

  “I’m twenty-four.” My ear tips went hot.

  Everett raised an eyebrow. He knew the lie. My birthday wasn’t for another four months. I was only twenty-three.

  Adam-the-beautiful with his golden waves and bright blues eyes looked genuinely shocked. “No way! Twenty-four? Really? You’re what? Five feet tall?”

  “Five three.” I felt the petulance in my tone, like a seven year old demanding to be acknowledged as seven-and-a-half.