Between Then and Now

CHAPTER TWO

Ryan

I have exactly twelve minutes to finish my food and leave. I'm in The Corner Bistro, a local restaurant right at the literal corner of the entrance to our village. I'm finishing off my lunch before heading to the hospital for my residency, and I’m running a bit late, so I decided to time myself. I chose a seat outside because the weather is nice, and so I can easily bolt to my car after my meal. This is also good practice for when I’m a real surgeon and time is of the essence. I set the timer on my phone, place it down, and start munching on my burger.

From a distance, I see Bonbon park her car and make her way to the restaurant. I'm trying to steer clear of her because Bon is... a lot. She can make any conversation last for hours. And while it's amusing to talk to her, I just don't have the time right now. I make an effort to hide from her view by pretending to tie my shoelaces, but as I glance at her, I get distracted.

She chopped off her hair. For as long as I've known her—which is almost two decades—Bon has had long, straight black hair, like it was picked out of a shampoo commercial. Now she's cut it into a very short bob that grazes just below her ears. This is the kind of haircut that looks good on celebrity faces, but somehow Bon pulls it off. Honestly, she has never looked this good.

“Nice hair, Bonbon,” I say, despite my earlier commitment to keeping quiet.

Bonbon frowns. “Just Bon, now. You’re making me sound twelve.” Ever since she graduated high school several years ago, she insisted on being called Bon. Everyone came around to doing it eventually, but I’ve always felt like Bonbon was a better fit for her, so I still call her that occasionally.

“But thanks!” she beams. And then she stops in front of me. “I was already thinking of getting a trim, and then this salon I passed through offered a free cut if I donate my hair to cancer patients. So, ta-da!” she says, turning around theatrically and swaying her hair. “I feel fabulous, and now so does a cancer patient.” She smiles triumphantly, like she just solved world hunger.

A normal person would have just said thank you and continued walking. But Bon is probably the reason the word talkative was invented. She is an explosion of all things loud and bright, a walking burst of color and sound that draws attention effortlessly. Today, she is wearing a pink striped shirt that stands out vividly, paired with jeans adorned with playful butterfly prints. Her outfit is as lively as her personality. It's impossible not to spot her in a crowd.

“There’s no cure for cancer but at least they have nice hair.” I shrug.

“Whatever, grumpy grouch.” She takes a french fry from my plate. “The cure for cancer is your problem to solve, not mine. Maybe you should spend less time lurking around and more time solving world problems,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Eight minutes left, Dr. Miller,” she says in that annoying tone she always uses, pointing to my phone where the stopwatch is running. I frown as she walks away with my fry.

I proceed to eat while Bon greets everyone in the restaurant as if she owns it. She moves from table to table, her bubbliness drawing smiles and laughter. It's like watching a social butterfly in action, connecting effortlessly with strangers and turning mundane moments into lively interactions. It's a quality I admire, even if I don't always understand it.

While people like Bonbon easily connect with anyone, I'm the opposite. She has this innate ability to draw people in with her warmth and genuine interest, making friends effortlessly wherever she goes. I, on the other hand, struggle to find common ground with most people. There are only a handful of individuals I feel comfortable enough to engage in conversation with, and most of them are from Magnolia Heights. Among them, Bon is the easiest to talk to—because she’s so... Bon.

I really believe she has some sort of superpower that can draw people to her like a moth to a flame. Her ability to connect with people is both fascinating and intimidating. Watching her interact with strangers and turn them into friends within minutes makes me feel like I’m missing some crucial social gene.

Ever since we were kids, Bon was always the one who dragged everyone along with her ideas. She always knew how to persuade everyone to her favor.

One time, when she was in middle school, Bon convinced us all that she had a boyfriend in a different city. She conjured scenarios and dates that seemed so real we all had to believe it. It wasn’t until they “broke up” (because there was actually someone she liked for real) that she admitted it was all fake. She had us under her spell for a year. Now, as a doctor, I’m supposed to be firmly against spells and witchcraft, but that’s the only explanation for Bon’s whole deal. She’s a witch.

My phone buzzes, reminding me it's time to leave. I sigh, take the last bite of my food, and wash it down with a final gulp of water. As I stand up, I spot Bon inside the restaurant, her face lighting up the room with that infectious smile. She waves at me, her eyes sparkling with the joy of the moment, and then turns back to her conversation with a group of elderly women. What they are talking about, I have no idea, and honestly, I don't want to know. I go to my car and make my way to work.

I’m a new doctor, and at twenty-five, I’m pretty young to have already finished med school. I skipped a few years in middle school, which put me ahead of the game. But being the youngest in my batch made it tough to make friends. I’ve always been a bit of an introvert and get socially awkward, and being younger than everyone didn’t help. People just assume I'm gruff and keep their distance.

I park my car in the residents’ lot and head straight to the head doctor’s office. I’m training to specialize in general surgery under one of the best doctors in the hospital. Today, I have clinic duty, and my shift starts in about thirty minutes. Still feeling sleepy, I decide to hit the cafeteria for some coffee.

And that’s when I see her.

Alexa Tiu. Beautiful, smart, perfect. She's wearing a black dress and carrying her white coat. Like me, she’s also twenty-five and the youngest in her batch, specializing in dermatology. But unlike me, she has a little group following her. I guess it helps that she looks so kind and pretty that anyone would want to be around her. She reminds me of Bon in that aspect, but I don’t think she’s as lively and talkative—which, in hindsight, is perfect for me.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today I’ll finally muster up the courage to say more than just “hi” to her. As I sip my coffee, I can’t help but steal a few more glances her way, wondering what it would be like to have her confidence and charm. Or just to have it directed at me .

I attempted to talk to her once. It was at a hospital mixer a few months ago. My friend John had convinced me to go, saying it would be a good opportunity to network and make friends besides him. At the mixer, I saw Alexa standing by the punch bowl, looking effortlessly stunning as usual. I’d rehearsed what I would say a hundred times in my head. But when I approached her, my mind went blank, and all I managed was a mumbled, “Hey.” She smiled politely and said hello back, but then someone else swooped in, and the moment was gone.

It’s always like that with Alexa. Chances of talking to her are like slices of pizza at a high school party—If you don’t get your slice immediately, you’d be left with nothing but crumbs. And so that’s what I always get: a small smile, a wave, a flicker of recognition. Just crumbs and never the whole slice.

“Brother, just talk to her,” John says from behind me. I jump at his sudden appearance. John has been my one constant friend in med school. “I could feel your desperation ten feet away.” I scowl at him as he keeps pace with me.

John and I are polar opposites, but we spent every single day of med school together. Our friendship started because he didn’t have a pen during our first anatomy class. It was the first day, and I was nervously organizing my supplies, making sure I had everything I needed. John plopped down next to me, looking equally apprehensive. When the professor began outlining the course, John started frantically patting his pockets and rummaging through his bag. In lending him a pen (which I never got back), we formed a weird alliance. He pushed me out of my comfort zone when I needed it, and I kept him grounded when his enthusiasm needed a reality check .

I sigh, grateful for John's presence but still feeling the weight of my social awkwardness. “Easier said than done,” I mutter, taking another sip of my coffee.

John claps me on the back. “Okay, let’s break into the usual spiel.” He clears his throat. “You've got this. Just be yourself. She's probably just as nervous as you are. It’s not you, it’s–oh wait, that’s for a different scenario.” I frown and shake my head.

He tells me those things every time I get hung up on talking to Alexa, and it always ends with me agreeing just to end the conversation.

When he tells me again that she’s probably just as nervous as I am, I scoff. Because I highly doubt that. Alexa always seems so composed, so effortless in everything she does. She’s a natural at making connections, her smile lighting up any room she walks into. Meanwhile, I’m the guy who still feels like a kid playing dress-up in a white coat.

My mind races with a hundred different scenarios. What if I walk up to her and stumble over my words? What if I say something stupid? What if she doesn’t even remember who I am? The more I think about it, the more my heart pounds in my chest, a mix of fear and anticipation battling within me.

As I finish my coffee and glance at the clock, I know my shift is about to start. I give John a small smile. “Thanks, man,” I say, appreciating his unwavering support. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He grins. “I’ll hold you to that.”

I smile back, knowing full well that I still won’t talk to her tomorrow.