NO LONGER ABLE TO IGNORE the growling of her stomach, Darby logged out of her laptop and looked at her watch. It was 2PM in Chicago, which meant it was 3PM in Boston. The last time she had eaten had been on her 5AM flight—a small omelet and an even smaller croissant.
But catching up on work all morning had been absolutely necessary. Huck was still burying her in paperwork and she was still being extra careful to give him no excuse to say she wasn’t pulling her weight. It wasn’t easy. Since she had also ramped up her job search, she had spent nearly all of her days off flying around the country, quietly taking meetings with hospitals interested in her before flying back.
Huck had known that she would be in Boston to speak at an American Psychiatric Association conference. What he hadn’t known was that she’d also met with the Psych Chief at Mass General. Michael knew, and had demanded a recap. That was why at the same moment she grabbed her coat, she picked up her phone to dial him.
“How’d it go?” he asked in a weak voice, not picking up until the third ring. She immediately knew something was wrong.
“It went great,” she said with a bit of surprise. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Not sure…” he said, his voice much deeper than usual, “Could be a virus…maybe I ate something wrong, I don’t know. Stomach problems are one of the many hidden perks of constant travel.”
Michael had also been out of town a lot lately. Between two trips she’d taken to the east coast over the past ten days, and his brief jaunt in Sao Paulo, their dates had conflicted completely. They hadn’t seen each other since the day after The Christmas Party, but they still texted or talked almost daily. Darby had been craving his body and had been looking forward to seeing him that night, but it was clear those plans were shot.
“I’m coming over.”
“To watch me throw up? I don’t think so.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t be stupid. I work in a hospital. I see more puke in a week than you’ve produced in your whole life. I’m impervious.”
“I’ll be fine. I just have to let it run its course.”
“Which pharmacy do you use?” she asked, ignoring him completely. She pressed him until he relented.
Twenty minutes later, she was letting herself into his apartment, a small CVS bag dangling from her fingers. Her purse was full of things she’d pinched from the hospital supply room. She found him on his bed asleep. A mini bottle of Canada Dry sat on his bedside table. He looked worse than she had ever seen him—shivering and clutching the covers around him, sweat gleaming on his skin. She touched his forehead, and wasn’t surprised to find him burning up.
Her hand must have felt cool to him, because her touch roused him. “When was the last time you threw up?” she asked caringly when she saw him open his eyes.
“Dunno,” he murmured. “An hour. Maybe two.”
“Do you think there’s anything left in your stomach?”
He shook his head.
“I hope not,” he said. Then, “I don’t think so.”
“Good,” she replied. “Then it’s probably okay to start you an IV.”
She told him to sit up, an act she half-expected him to protest. The fact that he didn’t showed her how sick he was. He was completely devoid of energy. Whatever had gotten him, it was nasty.
He took the needle like a champ (Darby knew how many men didn’t), and watched her with heavy eyelids as she hung two IV bags, one large, one small, from the corner of his elegant headboard. She eased him back down and had him lie on his left side, then placed a trash can next to the bed, just in case.
She smoothed her hand over his head in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.
“I’ll check on you in a few hours,” she said quietly.
Before she could rise to head back to work, the hand that didn’t have the IV in it reached out to her from under the covers.
“Thank you,” he said just as quietly. She squeezed his hand.
Five hours later she slipped quietly back in. The sun had long since set and his apartment was dark. She set her own dinner down in the kitchen and shrugged off her coat. She was still starving—lunch had been a King Size Snickers bar from CVS—but she wanted to check on Michael again before she tucked into her dinner.
She was pleased to find him sitting up in bed, the dim light of the television illuminating his face. He looked much better. She noticed that a Gatorade that hadn’t been there before sat on his bedside table, which meant he’d gotten up at some point and taken out his IV. When she picked it up, she saw that about half the Gatorade was gone, as was the ginger ale from before. In the trash can were four or five Jolly Rancher wrappers and there were another few on the bedside table. She felt his forehead and was encouraged to find that he no longer felt feverish.
“What the fuck was in that IV?” he asked with a small smile, though his voice remained a bit hoarse.
“Unicorn blood,” she smiled back. He was watching Harry Potter.
“You’re feeling better,” she remarked, sitting on the edge of the bed, picking up his wrist to she could feel his pulse.
“I don’t know, Dr. Christensen. I think I need an examination,” he said cheekily.
“You’re definitely feeling better,” she smiled, checking on his IV entry point. He’d done a good job taking it out. “Hitting on the doctor is always a sign of improving health.”
“Tell me about Mass Gen,” he said then, patting her side of the bed in a gesture that said he wanted her to sit next to him.
She kicked off her clogs and climbed over him, sitting Indian-style as she faced him, forgetting about her food for the moment.
“It was amazing,” she said. “The facility is state of the art. Their lab technology is the best I’ve ever seen. They have a much larger cohort of researchers, and the average research grant is three times as high as what I’m getting now. They have a larger focus on clinical care, so I wouldn’t have to scale back on working with patients. And most of the current work at their addiction center focuses on smoking, but they realize the growing urgency of opioid related problems, and they sounded eager to expand their focus there.”
She could see that Michael was still weak, but he was listening intently. It was clear that he was excited for her.
“What was the chief like?” he asked.
“Really down to earth,” Darby reflected. “I’d seen her speak before, and I’ve read quite a few of her papers. She has high standards, but so do I and it’s clear she really cares about the work. I could see myself working with her.”
He smiled weakly.
“That’s great, cupcake. You’re doing the right thing. Maybe all this Huck bullshit is a blessing in disguise.”
She’d been thinking the same thing herself. “Everything happens for a reason, right?”
His eyes took on a wistful look, and he squeezed her hand.
“It does,” he said in that quiet way of his. “So, what next?”
“She invited me to a research symposium they’re having in February. It’s the first one they’ve had on opioids in more than five years. She talked about it kind of casually—said she thought it was something I might enjoy being a part of, but it’s really—”
“An interview,” he finished for her.
She nodded. “If I were just a clinician, the hiring process would be a lot quicker—I could have someone else’s position as soon as they decided to leave. But, with research, it’s different. The vetting process is long and decisions take time. But if all goes well with some of the prospects I’m queuing up now,” she took a deep breath, “I should have an offer by spring. Which is perfect timing for my current research. My grant runs out in April.”
He squeezed her knee, and she smiled, covering his hand with hers.
“How are things at the firm?” she asked then, also curious about Michael’s status. “They’ve had you in Sydney a lot lately, right?”
He nodded, then sighed.
“They’re testing me,” he admitted. “It’s a bit of a problem territory. The guy they brought in to run it is messing things up, so they’ve been farming out some of the accounts to me and a handful of the other junior partners to see who can turn them around.”
“So how’s it going?” she asked. He threaded his fingers with hers.
“I’m tired,” he admitted. “The time difference is punishing. But the client really likes me and Dale is pleased with my work. I’m building strong relationships there and getting great experience. Stomach problems aside, it’s been a good thing.”
“So what’s their endgame?” she asked, “Does the winner get the Sydney office or are they grooming you for something else?”
She asked it casually, though she was eager for details. A transfer meant the end of their arrangement, but he rarely opened up about work. If something like that was coming, she didn’t want to blindsided.
“Hard to tell,” he admitted, looking back up at her. “If I make managing partner sooner than later, it’ll be a combination of my performance and the details of the individual position. Like, right now, the partner in the Tokyo office is about to retire. But I’d be surprised if I got it—there are other junior partners in line who have a lot more APAC experience than me.”
“APAC?”
“Asia Pacific,” he smiled in a way that showed he thought it was cute that she didn’t understand all the jargon.
“So you’ll get transferred to somewhere when you make managing partner?”
“I could be transferred to anywhere at any time, promotion or not. But Sydney’s a real possibility. Like I said, I’m doing well. There’s no natural frontrunner and I’ve got a shot at the whole thing.”
It was stupid of Darby to resent this, especially since she was orchestrating a transfer of her own. She hated that happiness she should have felt for Michael was overshadowed by an attachment to him she never should have grown.
“Would you want to move there?” she pried.
“I could do a lot worse,” he admitted. “The only office I care about one way or the other is Paris—I’d love to go there, but I doubt it’ll happen.”
“Why wait? You could just go work for a Parisian firm, couldn’t you?”
He nodded. “I guess. But I wouldn’t consider it until I get promoted. I’ll have better leverage if I do it this way.”
She yawned at the same moment her stomach growled.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asked, and she could see the beginnings of a frustrated look on his face.
“I picked up dinner on the way here,” she defended herself, avoiding his question.
“Eat, please,” he said.
She squeezed his hand. “Okay.”