Page 112 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

“It was true.”

“You’re very irritating when you agree.”

“I’ll try to be worse.”

A small laugh escapes her.

The light turns red. I stop. For the first time since we got in, I let myself look at her properly. She feels it and turns her head.

The quiet changes. Her smile fades, but not because she’s upset.

Because we both remember. The last time we were alone in a car, her hand was on my thigh and I was trying not to take her apart in the back seat.

Her breathing changes first. Mine follows.

“Maggie,” I say.

The light turns green. I look back at the road and drive.

She doesn’t answer for a while.

Then, softly, “Do you think about it?”

I know what she means.

“Yes.”

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. “When?”

“Too often.”

She gives a small, shaky laugh. “That is not helpful.”

“No.”

“What part?”

I shouldn’t answer.

The street is narrow here. Trees on both sides. Parked cars. Wet pavement catching the headlights.

I answer anyway.

“The way you looked at me when I lifted you,” I say. “Like you were scared of how much you wanted it.”

Her lips part.

I keep my eyes on the road. “What do you think about?” I ask.

She takes a breath. “The voice note.”

That surprises me enough that I glance at her. Her face is turned toward the window now, but I can see the color rising in her cheeks.

“The anatomy one?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t sexual.”