Wicked Restless

“Well…what did you think?” Dr. Wheaton says as she steps through the doors last. Her eyes flit from me to Graham and back again. I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, Graham responds.

“It was better than your last speech. You still do the side-to-side thing, you know,” he says, his hands comfortably hung from his thumbs in his pants pockets, his head tilted at her in a friendly way. Something in his eyes is off, though, like while they may be familiar with each other—he’s also challenging her, maybe even baiting her a little.

“Graham, when you’ve been doing it one way as long as I have, you don’t change,” she answers, her mouth twisted, almost as if she’s scolding him.

“Yet you can learn the latest surgical techniques and master them,” he chuckles, nodding before turning his head away. “Funny what old dogs can learn.”

There’s a flash of displeasure that crosses her face, but the consummate professional, she quickly masks it, her deep red lips smiling.

“For now. Until I teach someone else,” she says, directing the focus to me. I feel her eyes on me, and my head starts swimming with a little bit of fear and pride all at once.

“Better her than me,” he says, tossing a laugh out, still looking away from her.

“So how do you two know each other?” Miranda asks. I feel my stomach drop, suddenly nervous as my brain slowly starts to put their relationship together. Standing next to one another, it’s painfully clear—but apart, I guess my nerves blinded me.

“I just met her tonight, but…” Graham says, leaning toward me again, his elbow jutting out just enough to touch my arm. I catch Miranda’s eyes as they see it, and I can’t tell if the expression on her face is one that approves or not. “I was gonna see if I could convince her to meet me for coffee tomorrow.”

My eyes grow wide, and I feel like I’ve been thrown into some sort of sick and twisted test. I look to Dr. Wheaton, thinking I probably need her approval, or that maybe she’ll give me an out, telling him it’s not appropriate.

“Just make sure my son picks up the tab,” she says, bending toward my ear.

“Oh, yeah…right,” I giggle. It’s not a cool giggle, but a messy, nervous one, that turns into a choking kind of cough that leads me to have to excuse myself as she says goodbye to her son—her hot son…the one that just asked me out…in front of her…after having an awkward pissing match with her in front of me on top of it all. I’m really not sure if coffee with Graham is a good idea or not, but I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter now.

I spend longer than I need at the drinking fountain, until she’s walking out the main door with the dean and a few of her colleagues, leaving me with Graham, who’s somehow still calm and confident-looking. I don’t think his hands left his pockets once.

“So…coffee?”

The way he sucks in his top lip and raises his eyebrows is, well—it’s adorable, even if his clear need for dominance is a little off-putting. And it also seems to have rendered my tongue useless, because more than a few seconds have passed without an answer from me, and he’s starting to bunch his brow. And now he’s looking at me like maybe I’m a little off.

Maybe…maybe I am a little off?

“Oh, yeah. I mean, yes. Sure. I’d love to,” I stammer. Graham slips his hand from his pocket with his phone, holding it up and ready to type.

“What’s your number? I’ll text you early in the afternoon, and we’ll find a good time.”

I pause awkwardly-long again due to the inner-dialogue I have with myself, trying to decide if this is a good idea or a bad one. Eventually, I rattle off my number, my pulse speeding up as he types into his phone.

“Well…Emma,” he says, reaching for my hand again. I give it to him, and this time his touch is a little more familiar, and a little…more. His fingers wrap around my wrist, and when I look up at him, I notice the twitch in his lips as he watches his hold on me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sounds gerd…I mean, good. Gerd…is just on my mind I guess…medical awards dinner and all. Oh god.” I shut my eyes as he laughs. I open them as I start to take a step toward the door. “I swear, tomorrow I’ll be back at the top of my game. Public speaking does a number on me.”

“I look forward to seeing the top of your game,” he chuckles.

I raise a hand and spin to face the double glass doors, actively thinking about pushing them open, not running into them, not tripping, and walking quickly, but not too quickly away. This is why I don’t date. Thinking of all of this, trying not to look like a jackass for a solid minute—it’s too hard. Give me advanced chem and bio, instead.