This time, Ricky looked like he might actually be sick. I studied his face with the same intensity with which he always seemed to be studying mine, looking from his wide eyes to the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple to his reddening ears, nearly concealed by the darkness of the room.
“It’s . . . it’s really okay,” he managed. His gaze dropped to his hands. Where had all that supernatural confidence gone? I thought. Was this the same boy who had chased me down the hospital hallway during rounds? Suddenly, Ricky seemed small, like a chastised child flinching against the threat of a slap.
“I don’t like asking people to move so I can go to the bathroom at shows,” I said. Ricky looked up at me, recognizing my peace offering as I presented it. “You know that awkward shuffle you have to do to get past people? I hate that. And I’m . . . not tiny. I know when I’ve put my entire ass on someone’s head and they have to pretend I haven’t. Their whole neck stiffens up. Hence,” I gestured widely to our seats, “the end of the row.”
Ricky’s smile emerged slowly across his face, unfurling like a fern in the sun.
“You don’t mind inconveniencing me, though?” he said.
I hardly had time to ponder the curious way my heart thudded in my chest before the lights went out and a roving spotlight appeared. An epic theme that the sound team had definitely stolen from a Marvel movie blasted over the speakers.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and ruffians!” an unseen voice said. The spotlight settled at the center of the stage, and the curtains slowly shifted open to reveal a tall, reedy man wearing a blindingly green T-shirt that read lot lizards. The audience thundered with applause and assorted whoops; the Lot Lizards were evidently quite popular. “Welcome to Clash of the Classes! I’m your host, Ian McLaughlin. And yes, that’s my real name. How many of you have been to an improv show before?” The applause was robust. “Any first-timers?”
I joined the smattering of claps, and next to me, Ricky chuckled.
“You might be the only person in our generation who hasn’t seen improv,” he said, and I made a face at him, glad for his quick thaw.
“Well, about time you got with the program,” Ian said from the stage. He flashed a smile that transformed his face from boyish to rakish. “Now, here are the rules—”
The next two hours were a raunchy, raucous affair, full of jokes about genitals and the current political climate. When Nia bounded across the stage, mouth wide in excitement that was simultaneously exaggerated and authentic, I wooed so loudly that Ricky winced. Nia and Shae’s team was clearly unseasoned—there were times when a team member lost track of the scenario and the rest of the team had to scramble to save their misstep—but they were far from deserving of any boos. The Lot Lizards and Maniacal Magikarp, the veteran teams, were consistent and lauded for it, and I found myself laughing so hard that I could almost forget how awkward this whole situation was. And that was the thing. It really wasn’t that awkward. Ricky was an unselfconscious participant, loudly repeating my suggestions for themes when Ian ignored them, leaning out of his chair with pride when Shae landed a good joke. With Frederick, I’d always had to wonder if my unbridled laughter was too loud, too unladylike, if it was unbecoming of a future doctor. But Ricky took my joy and reveled in it, egged it on. He added commentary to the jokes onstage just to watch me break out in tears, beaming with satisfaction every time I doubled over.
If Fate was what kept bringing us together, She and I needed to have some words. It seemed cruel for Her to force this man, who pressed every single one of my buttons and seemed determined to have me in his orbit, into my life. I thought of Camila, of her sweet, gap-toothed smile, and how she had trusted me immediately upon our meeting. How would she feel if she knew of the unholy thoughts I was having about her man?
Later that night, after Nia and I returned to our apartment and said our good nights, I would lie on my back and stare at my ceiling and think that I had been far too forgiving of myself. Because, yeah, sure, Ricky might not be nice, but apparently, neither was I.
Ten
The page came late, around 7:00 p.m. Shruti and I were an hour away from sign-out. Neither of us had eaten dinner. Shruti leaned back in her chair and groaned before flicking her pager off its holster and holding it up to her face. Then she jumped to her feet.
“Trauma, ten minutes,” she said. She looped her stethoscope over her neck. “Let’s go, Angie.”
I tamped down my annoyance. At the beginning of the block, I’d been morbidly excited for pediatric traumas. But kids hurt themselves all the time, always doing the dumbest things and always right before Shruti and I could sign out to the night team and go home. Running to traumas usually meant watching orthopedics set some kid’s arm after they fell off the monkey bars or jumped off a dresser or failed at parkour. They quickly lost their novelty.