Page 37 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

“That’s very sad.”

“It saves time.”

“Time for what? Going home and scaring your furniture?”

“My furniture is fine.”

“That’s what frightened furniture would want you to think.”

This time he does smile. A real one.

Small, but real.

It changes his face enough that I have to look down at my plate.

Terrible. Absolutely terrible. I have made a mistake. A handsome, older, low-voiced mistake who knows where the radial nerve goes and has a Thai place.

The food helps. That annoys me a little. I want to stay nervous because nervous gives me something to do. Nervous lets me hold my water glass too tightly, check my phone, make jokes, pretend I’m still in control of whatever this is.

But then the food comes, and the first bite is hot and sweet and spicy, and my body remembers I have been running on coffee, panic, and a passed exam.

I close my eyes for half a second.

When I open them, D is watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“You were hungry.”

“That’s not exactly a revelation.”

“You hadn’t eaten.”

“I had coffee.”

“That isn’t food.”

“I know. You’ve been very brave about this.”

His mouth moves slightly. Not quite a smile. Close enough to make my stomach do something embarrassing.

The restaurant is warm and low-lit, tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner. It’s not fancy in a stiff way, but it is nicer than I expected. Small tables. Dark wood. Plants near the window. Rain sliding down the glass in thin silver lines.

“Isn’t this a little bit weird?” I confess. “Until yesterday, I didn’t even know you existed.”

“Boston is a big city,” he says.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You came anyway.”

“I had a passing grade and low blood sugar. My judgment was compromised.”

“You’re eating now.”

“So, my judgment should improve any second.”

“It hasn’t yet.”