Sticky Situationship (It’s Complicated)

9. Libby

Libby

I t’s late, but my apartment smells heavenly, like sweet vanilla, as I slide a tray of cupcakes—not chocolate and not overfilled this time—into the oven. Then, before I do anything else, I set the timer.

“You know,” Zoe drawls from her perch at my counter, “it’s been a while since you’ve made cupcakes, even though you proclaimed baking to be your new hobby months ago.”

I know what she’s up to and don’t take the bait. I love her to death, but my best friend’s attempts to steer the conversation to Brock all evening are pointless. Things between my next-door neighbor and I are over. Like a course of antibiotics that’s run its course.

Not that the fact we’re through makes the sting of finding out he’s had a girlfriend for months any less painful. Especially because of the way I found out. From his mother, a woman I have the utmost respect for and who I still have to see every day. She’s a stark reminder of the ache that’s set up shop in my chest and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, anytime soon. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to put Brock out of my mind.

But I don’t want to relive that mortification, right now. So I swipe the batter dripping from the side of the mixing bowl, lick it off my finger, and focus on what Zoe actually came over to do tonight. “How would you manage a patient with new-onset atrial fibrillation and rapid ventricular response?”

She shoots me a look as I grab a dishtowel to wipe my hands. “You mean after I assess their hemodynamic stability?”

“Yes.”

“I would control the ventricular rate.”

“How?”

“Beta-blockers. Or calcium channel blockers.”

“Or maybe digoxin?”

“That would work. But seriously, Lib. You haven’t baked since you started seeing Brock. You were happy with him. I know you were.”

“First, I wasn’t with Brock. We were just sleeping together. And second, I’ll be happy when I’m board certified.” I busy myself cleaning up to avoid Zoe’s knowing gaze.

“I’m not saying you won’t be,” she says, clearly unconvinced. “It’s just that you’re baking enough cupcakes to feed an entire fire station.”

I toss the dishcloth at her. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I prefer the term ‘insightful.’” She catches the towel with a grin before her expression shifts. “But, come on, we both know you have feelings for the guy. Feelings you didn’t let him know existed.”

“Because we had an agreement!” And because things between Brock and me were easy, effortless. Unlike everything else in my life. I didn’t want to ruin that.

“Why don’t you just talk to him?”

I lean against the counter, my shoulders sagging. The vanilla scent that had been so comforting now seems cloying. “What’s there to talk about? I accidentally fell for the no-strings firefighter next door, and he…is seeing someone else. It doesn’t matter now.”

Zoe lets out a sigh. “It matters because you’re miserable. And from what I saw today, Dr. Novak seems to have thoughts about the situation.”

I groan, thinking back to the conversation Zoe witnessed this morning at the hospital. Dr. Novak caught the two of us grabbing a cup of coffee in the breakroom after rounds. Her usually stern face softened as she said, “You know, Dr. Bauer, you can be a doctor and a daughter, a wife and a mother, and whatever else you want to be. In fact, the best physicians have balance. They have priorities and relationships outside the walls of a hospital. It’s not in spite of these relationships, but rather because of them, that they can relate to their patients and their patients’ loved ones.”

I press off the counter and add dish soap to the mixing bowl then turn on the hot water. “I don’t know why she felt the need to share, especially because only a week ago, she’s the one who indicated I’m not ready for my boards, but it doesn’t matter. Once I’ve passed the tests, everything will be different.”

“Will it?”

Suds multiply as I glance over at Zoe. “I just need to get over the finish line. Pass my boards. It’s what I want, what I swore I’d do after we lost my dad.”

Her lips press together. “I know, Lib, but let’s say it’s eight weeks from now and you get the email letting you know you passed. Who’s the first person you’d want to tell?”

“My mom.”

“Then who?”

“You.”

“Good choice,” she says with a smile. “But who’s next? Who’s your third person?”

Brock. Or at least, it was until a few nights ago.

When I don’t respond, she murmurs, “That’s what I thought.”

I shake my head, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat that feels as if I’ve been intubated. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over. If he cared even a little he would’ve stopped by, but he hasn’t. Probably, because he’s out with his girlfriend .”

“Have you spotted a woman visiting him, even once, since he moved in?”

“No.” Not even his sister, who he’s close with.

“Did you ever hear anything from his apartment?”

I’m in full petulant mode now. “He probably went to her place.”

She tilts her head. “Was he gone a lot? Other than usual stuff like work and errands?”

No. I attack the mixing bowl with a sponge as if it’s committed a crime.

“I don’t know. It’s not like I kept tabs on him. Obviously.”

Zoe opens her mouth to respond, but she’s cut off by a sharp knock at the door. My heart ricochets in my chest, and she lights up brighter than a patient who’s just received a positive prognosis. But I know better than to get my hopes up.

“It’s probably Mrs. Peters again,” I mutter, wiping my hands as I head for the door. “I swear, if she’s got another mysterious rash…”

But after I unlock the door and swing it open, I realize how wrong I am. Behind me, Zoe squeaks as my jaw drops. Because, standing in the hallway, holding a Tupperware container in one hand and a bakery box in the other, is not Mrs. Peters. It’s Brock. His hair is mussed as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and his familiar face is missing that confident, playful grin he usually sports. In fact, he looks rather…vulnerable.

“You’re not Mrs. Peters,” I say, stating the obvious because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“And I don’t have a rash for you to examine,” he quips.

“That’s a relief.”

We stand there for a few seconds, the air between us humming with an electric charge I want to deny, but can’t.

“Hi,” he finally murmurs, in a delicious, low tone that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Hi,” I breathe.

“Libby,” he says, inching closer, “I… Can we talk? I want to clear up some things and apologize for the other night.”

“She’s free,” Zoe pipes up behind me, already grabbing her coat and laptop. “Why don’t you come in? I was just leaving.”

I could kill her. But she ignores the blistering look I shoot her way and instead, offers Brock a wide smile. “Zoe Meyer, Libby’s best friend. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Zoe—” I start, but she’s already slipping past us and heading down the hall.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Oh, and bring cupcakes!” she calls over her shoulder.

“She’s…” Brock starts as she waves before disappearing into the elevator.

“A lot, I know.”

He turns, and when our eyes meet, time grinds to a screeching halt. Brock’s gray gaze searches mine, as if he’s hunting for even a hint of an opening. And there’s no denying the feelings for him churning in my chest, despite what I know. And, try as I might, I can’t ignore the flush sweeping through my body. My pulse quickens in automatic response to his familiar presence.

But just as I’m about to say something—anything—to break the silence, my timer goes off.

“That’s my oven timer,” I say with a lame wave toward the kitchen.

The corners of his mouth lift, forming an irresistible, playful smile. “Good girl.”