I don’t like weekends. I try not to crawl back to Mom and Dad’s like I’m five, huddling in the Reading Room with my headphones blaring on high. It’s better to meet up with high-school friends, and there’s a colleague from oncology who subtly invites me out for drinks. Just, I’m not up for that.
This morning, relief seeps in as I park the car in the hospital garage. Five days of work ahead. I’ll make my hours longer this week, and I’ll eat at the cafeteria and only pass by my apartment to change clothes. If I work out hard every night, a run with Jesse Everett in my head, then weights at the gym, I’ll get home late, chug a glass of wine, and go to bed.
This week is it. I’m on a mission to choke Luka Verenich out of my thoughts. It’s been four weeks since the letter, and—where did my anger go?
I’m not above forgiveness. It’s been done before, and it works for people. Hell, it’s worked for me before. I’m giving it another week, and if I still feel this way, I’ll send a short letter to Joy and ask her to take it to Luka. I lug my purse out of the car and walk toward the main entrance of the hospital.
In my head, the letter writes itself.
Luka,
Things happened so fast between us. We didn’t know what we were doing. It was grief that pushed us together, and I’d be better off if that was all we had.
So many lies. So much omission of reality. Luka, if you ever want to try for a serious relationship again, be honest to a fault, even when it hurts the other person. That’s what love is. It might sound funny coming from someone who was kept in the dark for years, but I grew up in an honest family, and that’s what I want in my future.
I was furious at you for having hogged the burden of Julian. I was pissed that you didn’t tell me why you worked in the adult industry. All these years, you let me believe in my own ideas about you filming for pleasure. You knew how much I hated you for it.
But I’ll be frank. I’m not upset with you anymore, because no one is perfect. Just look at me! Whoever ends up with me will have to deal with my mix of stubborn/rational/emotional.
Anyway, this is to say that I forgive you. It’s also to ask your forgiveness for all the times I looked at you with contempt. I love you too, you know, and you’re right. We did have some good times, you and I.
xx,
Geneva.
The truths from my imaginary letter shout at me all day. They do it while I space out during meetings, during client appointments and assessments of potential health disparities. I love this job. I can make a difference. But by lunch I have to write the words down to give room in my head for what I’m here to do. It doesn’t mean I’ll send it off. Just writing it down will make me feel better.
Luka.
I find a seat in a secluded corner of the cafeteria. I see my oncology colleague stroll in, but I swing my back to him so I’m left in my own world. The notepad and pen from my last meeting wait for me on the tabletop. I fold the first pages away. Then I begin to write exactly what my brain has been churning on.
Everything happened so fast between us.
The week following the letter is tough. I should leave the damn thing on the mantel at home, but I need it against my body. It’s in my pocket on the way to work. It’s in my lab coat, next to pens and keys and Post-it pads. I’ve got it folded in an envelope, and I rub it between my fingers as I walk between rooms and meetings.
I don’t want to do anything rash. I’ve given myself a week, and that’s what it’ll be. In a week, if my intestines still war against my heart and my brain, I’ll ship this piece of crap off and call it a night.
It’s Friday afternoon when I get the call from Immunology. They offer me the opportunity to interview refugees from Sierra Leone. Of course, I jump at the chance.
It’s been raining all day, which is fine. I’m not looking forward to the weekend, and if it stays this way, a little drizzle during my run will only solidify my bleak view of spare time, so super.
My hair is wet. I rake my fingers through it in an effort to look presentable as I get into the elevator. It slows at the second floor, the doors slide open, and I walk off. A low-ceilinged glass wall with white letters announces my destination as Center for Immunology and Inflammatory Diseases.
Immunology. I don’t need any more reminders. In my pocket, Luka’s letter squirms from my fidgeting.
The door squeaks open at my push, and I step onto dark carpet with grey stripes. A young nurse lifts her head from behind a counter.
“Hi there.” Her gaze floats to my nametag. Then she stands and stretches out a hand. “Geneva Diakos-Miller? I’ve heard good things about you. I’m Sandra Green.” She points at her own nametag. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Hold on, let me buzz Dr. Johar.”
The doctor’s voice sounds tinny and business-like over the small intercom she’s got tucked against the inner wall of her counter. “Great. Be right there.”
Sandra looks up again, a smile extending. “You can take a seat while he... Oh never mind.”
A door opens, a tall man emerging from it. White coat over broad shoulders. A confident stride taking him toward me. Long, flaxen-white hair? So, so white. Confused, I squint until I absorb that his appearance doesn’t match the Indian accent from the intercom.
“That’s our new resident. Dr. Verenich? This is Dr. Diakos-Miller,” Sandra introduces.
Luka’s eyes are lighter than I’ve ever seen them. They’re just-polished gold made of optimism and bright futures, shimmering and not backing off even when I suffocate a gasp.
My heart is racing. I want to say I know him, break the news to this girl who has nothing to do with our past.
“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Diakos-Miller,” he murmurs like liquid velvet, and that too is different. It’s been so long. God, my heart is skipping, dancing, dying, ready to eat so much dust for him.
I accept his hand. It’s warm and dry, safe and still around mine. I remember this feeling.
“Ditto,” I manage, and as we pass through the door he came out of, my hand wrinkles his letter in my coat.
“We’re changing conference rooms,” Dr. Johar says. “They need two-oh-four, so we’re getting two fifteen since we’re only five people. Dr. Diakos-Miller.” He lifts dark eyebrows and greets me with a firm clasp as we walk together. “Our interviewees are already there. The daughter is five, and the wife, who transmitted the disease to her daughter in the womb, is surprisingly well for...”
Dr. Johar introduces me to his patients, a small, skinny family with eyes that have seen too much. I take notes though everything about this moment will forever be seared into memory. Luka’s presence is warm, like in the jungle when death struck and my mind wanted to leave. He helps me, triggers with questions he’s heard me ask before.
An hour and a half later, my hands don’t tremble when we say goodbye to our interviewees, but my heart can’t stop swelling, and it doesn’t know if it’s from happiness or pain.
I say goodbye to Dr. Johar. Wave to Sandra at the front desk. I’m in the doorway, glass door against the side of my body and elbow on the handle when I flick a glance at Luka.
He’s there, tall, thick-shouldered, gaze molten with tenderness as he watches me and juts his chin toward the elevator.
“Night, Sandra,” he says.
“You leaving for the day?” she asks.
“Yeah. See you Monday.”
In the elevator, I lean against the back wall and look up. His eyes fall free and unguarded on me. I drink up high cheekbones, a straight nose with nostrils that flare when he’s moved. I’ve pulled that plump lower lip into my mouth before.
I shut my eyes. Whimper when his hands steady my face. “I can’t take this any longer,” he whispers.
He kisses me against the mirrored wall of the elevator, pushing me against it, and I can’t believe—can’t, can’t—he’s with me, he’s real, right here! Warm and demanding, he’s a wave of passion that craves and squeezes my body against the panel, and suddenly it’s the only thing that has ever felt right.
Behind him, the door glides open on the first floor. I’m immobile in his arms, stare cemented to his dear, dear face. He guides me out, onto the curb. “You got the Mustang here?”
I point.
“We’re going to your place.”
I should object.
I wonder how I ever stayed away from him for so long.