Page 55 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

He walks inside before I can argue.

I watch him through the glass as he orders. He checks the prices. I see him do it. Of course I do. His hand goes to his pocket, then his card. He smiles at the cashier like none of it matters.

My throat tightens. I hate this part. Not helping him.

I will always help him.

I hate that he knows. I hate that he carries gratitude like an apology. I hate that every bill paid on time becomes something between us even when neither of us says it out loud.

He comes back with two cups. Mine is vanilla with chocolate chips. His has strawberry, cookies, and unforgivably, gummy bears.

I look at it. “What did I say?”

“You said you’d leave.”

“I still might.”

“You won’t. You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He sits, smiling, and pushes my cup toward me.

For a while, we eat without talking. It’s good. Cold, sweet, normal.

The kind of normal that makes me want to cry if I look at it too directly.

“So,” he says eventually, “how’s school?”

“Trying to kill me.”

“Still?”

“It’s committed.”

“You pass that nerve thing?”

I pause. Then nod. “Yeah. Seventy-eight.”

His face opens. “Mags. That’s great.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s great.”

“It’s not great.”

“It is if you thought you were going to fail.”

I look at him.

He smiles more softly. “You did, right?”

I take another bite of ice cream. “Maybe.”

“Then it’s great.”

Sometimes Nate is unbearable because he’s right.