The timer went off.
I hopped off his lap, snickering as Ricky tilted his head back against my sofa in frustration.
“Come on, Angie,” he said, his voice taking on a husky tone that nearly sent me tumbling right back into his arms. “Fuck the timer.”
“Ha,” I said, heading back to my dining room table and waking up my laptop. Ricky trailed sluggishly behind me. “No can do. I have less than two weeks to finish up my research proposal presentation, I have to study for my shelf, and my attending wants me to present a topic during rounds tomorrow.” I smirked, taking pride in the still-dazed expression on his face. “Making out with you isn’t going to get me into residency.”
“It might get you something else,” Ricky said suggestively, then, accepting defeat, gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
Dating Ricky hadn’t turned out to be all that different from being friends with him, minus the heavy petting. Mostly we hung out and worked together, him helping me with themes for my upcoming presentation, me offering opinions on color scheme and structure for his projects. Since the day we built our blanket fort, we hadn’t gone a day without seeing each other in person. Ricky had moved to occupy the space Nia had left behind, and though he wasn’t a perfect fit, the ways in which he was different were . . . exhilarating.
“Oh yeah, Ange,” Ricky said, flopping into the chair across from me. “It’s Juan’s son’s fourth birthday next Friday, and Abuela’s throwing him a party. You want to come?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.
“Next Friday?” I said, perhaps too quickly. “No can do. I’m post-call.”*
Disappointment flickered across Ricky’s face, but he covered it by bending forward to pull out his laptop.
“Oh, okay,” he said. I watched him plug in his graphic tablet, spinning his pen between his fingers. Guilt sat heavy in my stomach.
“Is that okay?” I asked, suddenly nervous. Ricky’s gaze flickered up to mine.
“Of course,” he said, giving me a warm smile. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I know you’re busy. It’s all good.”
Oh, Ricky. Ever understanding, endlessly considerate. Next time he asks, I thought, I’ll say yes.
“Well,” I said, “on the bright side, I stopped by Jewel and picked us some snacks for today. Grabbed a few of your favorites.”
Ricky leaned back in his chair.
“Yeah? What’d you get?”
“Goldfish,” I said, then added with a smirk, “the Annie’s kind. Got some pineapple in the fridge, too.”
“Ooh, big spender,” Ricky said. “You want to bring those out?”
“I got you,” I said. I threw open my cabinets, swearing quietly to myself when I found them bereft of goodies. “Oh shoot. I must have left a bag in the car. Hang on a second; I’ll go look.”
Ricky waved me along, not looking up from his work. I snatched my keys off the wall and dashed down the stairs, a small part of me hoping in vain that my small offering of goods could make up for my flightiness. Frederick’s parents lived just outside of Milwaukee, only a two-hour drive away, and not once during our six-month stint had he proposed we visit them. And yet here was Ricky, ready to merge our lives without even a week’s hesitation. But was that out of his regard for me? Or simply out of a habit of making a home with every woman he dated? He loves love, Shae had said, and Ricky had demonstrated that over and over again, in his effusive love for his family, in the fact that he’d left his grandparents’ home for his ex. I threw open my car door, relieved to find the abandoned bag nestled under my front seat. Tossing it over my shoulder, I journeyed back up my stairs, my pace slowed by the whirl of my thoughts. Maybe I should have said yes to the birthday party. Maybe meeting Ricky’s grandparents wasn’t as big of a deal as I was making it out to be; maybe, as he’d postulated, his grandmother and I would get on like a house on fire and all my hand-wringing would be for naught.
I sighed, pushing open my front door. Inside, I could hear the muffled sound of Ricky’s voice. He was on the phone, no longer sitting at the table but standing by it, looking out the window to our building’s courtyard below.
“I know it must feel like shit,” he was saying. His voice was gentle, like he was trying to lure in a skittish cat. “Okay, yeah, worse than shit. But you’re doing good. Just . . . try to power through.”
As I approached, the voice on the other end grew audible. It was a man’s voice, trembling with an infectious anxiety. The tension felt familiar, and I pondered why for several seconds until it clicked—it was the same panicked tone I heard from my patients right before they were wheeled into surgery; uncertainty, fear, and anticipation rolled into one. Ricky looked at me askance as I stepped closer, giving me a small, hapless shrug, and suddenly I knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.