Page 9

CHAPTER 9

Ben

I n the glowing light of a full moon sky, a palpable tension hung in the air, the kind that precedes a storm. The living room, usually a sanctuary of quiet comfort, now seemed an arena of judgment, each misplaced item a potential strike against me. With a deep, steadying breath, I scanned the chaos of my own making—papers scattered like leaves in autumn, books piled in haphazard stacks, and the debris of daily living marking the passage of too many solitary evenings.

My place was far from filthy and I’m sure to anyone who simply glances inside, they’d see nothing out of place. But knowing that Max is coming over, my heart starts beating even faster at all the little things I never put back into their place after use. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked off the minutes with oppressive regularity, a relentless reminder that Max would soon cross the threshold into this snapshot of my life.

Am I being dramatic?

I set to work, the urgency of the task lending speed to my movements. A stack of medical journals, a testament to my late-night pursuits of knowledge, found their way back to the shelves. The coffee table, littered with the remnants of last night's solo dinner and a half-assembled model airplane, was cleared with swift, decisive motions. To me an intricate model airplane is honing my fine motor skills, keeping them sharp, but to anyone else it might seem childish or weird.

Each partially read gossip rag of a magazine was slipped into a drawer, hidden away like a guilty pleasure. "Imagine if Max saw these first thing," I muttered under my breath, picturing his raised eyebrow, the possible twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips—or worse, disappointment. It isn’t worth the risk. Sure, I’ll reveal all these aspects of my life in time, but no one ever advised telling your date straightaway embarrassing things like I cry watching sentimental holiday commercials.

My next battlefield was the kitchen. The sink held the evidence of my latest meal, solitary and uncomplicated. I attacked the dishes with a vigor that was more about calming my frayed nerves than cleanliness. The clink and clatter of ceramic and glass filled the room as I methodically erased the traces of the past few days. The refrigerator, plastered with magnets from various medical conferences and a handwritten recipe for banana bread in my mother’s looping script, caught my eye. A slice of the personal life I seldom shared. I left it untouched, a part of me that I’m not ready to hide and actually hope to share.

Ascending the stairs to the sanctum of my personal quarters, my pace slowed, each step heavier than the last. The bedroom door creaks softly as I push it open, revealing the disarray of my private world. The bed is unmade, a tangled testament to the restless nights since that major car pileup on the freeway. My exhaustion from that night of surgeries had not gone away, not yet. Clothes lay draped over a chair, a silent rebuke for my usual meticulousness turned to neglect in the whirlwind of my recent schedule .

Didn’t everyone have a chair in their bedroom where clothes too dirty to put away, but too clean to wash rested, waiting for their next wear?

With methodical care, I set about transforming the space. Sheets are pulled tight, corners tucked with precision, pillows plumped and arranged into a semblance of order. The stray garments are gathered—some destined for the laundry, others returned to their rightful places in the closet, meticulously hung and aligned. The air in the room shifted, from chaotic to composed, mirroring the effort to steady my own swirling thoughts.

Finally, I sit on the edge of the neatly made bed, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. A deep, cleansing breath escapes me as I close my eyes, envisioning Max’s arrival. His face, so vivid in my mind’s eye, is both a salve and a torment. The sharp cut of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze—all of it so alluring, yet his presence is so intriguing it makes me nervous. Memories of my last relationship, marred by deceit and painful revelations, creep unbidden into my consciousness. The scars from that betrayal still fresh, still tender. I shake my head, dispelling the ghosts. "Not tonight," I whisper into the quiet room. "Tonight is different."

I’ve learned and grown from my past.

The chime of my front door security camera slices through the stillness, a clarion call that sets my heart racing. Someone, presumably Max, has just pulled into my driveway. I rise, smoothing the front of my shirt, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. My nearly black hair, normally unruly, is tame and styled; my attire, casual yet carefully chosen. I’ve been told my green eyes are striking against my olive complexion, but today I just want to appear calm, collected, the epitome of relaxed confidence.

After all, how else would a surgeon at the largest trauma center in the state of California present themselves ?

I descend the stairs, each step measured, a mantra of calm cycling through my mind. As I reach the front door, I pause, drawing in a deep, grounding breath. Tequila, I think. Peering out the front window, Max is still sitting in his front seat. There’s still time for a quick shot. Turning on my heel, I rush into the kitchen to pour myself an ounce of liquid courage.