Page 34 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

That sounds worse.

I grab my coat before I can change.

On the way out, I text Simone.

Me: I’m wearing the green top. This is your fault.

She replies before I reach the stairs.

SIMONE: Good. Send proof of life every 30 minutes.

Me: I am a grown woman.

SIMONE: In the green top?

Me: Unfortunately.

SIMONE: Then definitely proof of life.

I shove the phone into my pocket and step outside. The cold hits me immediately. It slides under my coat and makes me regret every inch of exposed skin. My boots sound too loud on the sidewalk. My stomach still feels tender from the injection, and my whole body has that strange, floaty feeling.

A hormonal crashout. That’s what this is.

Not attraction. Not curiosity. Not whatever happened last night when his voice came through my phone and my brain briefly forgot about professionalism, exams, and the fact that I have made several legally significant reproductive choices.

This is hormones. This is exhaustion. This is a post-exam chemical event in boots.

I’m not going on a date. I’m just hungry.

My phone buzzes as I turn the corner.

D: On your way?

I stare at the text and feel my pulse answer before I do.

Ridiculous.

Me: Yes.

Then, because I can’t help myself: If this is how I die, Simone has your restaurant location and will avenge me.

D: Good.

I almost trip.

Good. Of course.

Me: You are weirdly supportive of my murder precautions.

D: They’re reasonable.

The restaurant is tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, warm light spilling over the sidewalk. It’s nicer than I expected. Not fancy in a stiff way. Low lamps, dark wood, plants in the window, the smell of basil and chili and something rich enough to make my stomach remember it has been neglected.

I stop outside and look at my reflection in the glass.

Green top. Hair down. Lip gloss.

God. I look like I tried.