Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

7. Sophie

Chapter 7

Sophie

I t’s been four days since I’ve seen him.

Four days for him to completely upend my life.

After he left my office, Isaac popped in, and he was so excited to have passed Jonah Dallmann in the hall, wide receiver for the Tarpons, that I didn’t really have time to process my and Jonah’s conversation or how he made me feel before I saw my next patient.

But the minute I got home and every one since then, that’s all I’ve done. I’ve replayed in my mind every move, every face expression, and every word.

“Can I see you again?”

What does he want to see me for? He’s had over two years to find me and see me, and now by some random chance, he runs into me again and thinks now is the time? I know this isn’t fair, but it’s how I feel.

Actually, I feel like a rutabaga.

I know that’s a terrible comparison, but everyone has that one crazy relative who makes a rutabaga casserole as a holiday dish for the family get-together. We always eat it, and every time I think to myself, this vegetable doesn’t taste too bad, but then I forget about it once the dinner is over until the next holiday when I’m like, “Oh yeah. I forgot I like rutabagas.”

Out of sight, out of mind.

But even though I liked the casserole, it wasn’t memorable enough for me to seek out rutabagas in the store to make them for myself. So aside from being confused as to why he would ask to see me again, I’m also irritated. Because, rutabaga. No one likes being a rutabaga.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Isaac says, pulling me from my thoughts. He’s looking at me, but the second my eyes catch his, he looks down at his plate.

Inwardly, I flinch. He’s right. I’m here on a date with him, but I’m not here at the same time, and now, I feel bad.

“Am I? I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.” I try to blow it off and ease his thoughts.

Earlier today, Isaac asked me if I wanted to grab dinner after work, and of course I said yes. I told myself I had no reason not to want to grab dinner, that I should want to. After all, we are dating. So here we are, even though I’m still out of sorts and kind of wishing I was just at home in my pajamas.

“Anything you want to talk about with me?” There are wrinkles between his smoky-gray eyes as concern moves over his expression.

I swear, this man is too good to be true. He picked a tapas place, which is perfect in that it’s noisy and not super romantic. The ambience is upscale, and all of the food has a Spanish name, like pollo al chilindron and arroz caldoso. They have the best sangria, which he said he knew I loved.

“No,” I tell him, and disappointment slips over his features.

“I see,” he says, leaning back, taking his sangria with him to pull a long swallow of it.

The problem is, there is nothing to talk about. At least nothing that he needs to be made aware of, and certainly nothing he can help me with. No guy wants to hear about another guy.

And I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Jonah and I are not a thing. We never were. Our time together wasn’t even twelve hours. I met him sometime around ten at night, and he was gone before nine in the morning. Now, years later, after two barely ten-minute conversations and a bouquet, I’m so out of sorts I don’t even know where to begin.

Actually, I do.

Nowhere. There is no place to begin.

“You know . . .” He sets his glass down, readjusts the napkin sitting in his lap, and then looks at me, like really looks at me. “All these months, I’ve been waiting for you.”

My breath catches, and deep down in my gut, I know he’s about to steer this conversation to a place I don’t think I’m ready to go. I don’t like confrontation or uncomfortable situations, and by this one statement, he’s surprised me and made me wary. “What do you mean?”

I watch as he pulls at the collar of his pale-blue dress shirt as if it is trying to strangle him. He wore the same shirt to work today, but it was buttoned up and paired with a tie covered in bears. “I don’t know. I’ve always felt like you needed time. Time for what, I’m not sure. I just never got the feeling that you were as into me as I was into you.”

I think about what he’s saying, and he sits back and sighs deeply as he sees the confusion on my face. I’m into him. I have been since the first time he asked me out almost six months ago. I always say yes, and we do everything he suggests. I can’t think of one time I’ve told him no. I want to make him happy, so I always go with the flow.

“I’ve been trying to give you space to get used to the idea of us, of me.” He runs his hand over his head. It disrupts his perfectly styled hair, and suddenly, I feel worse than I did before. I’m messing him up when normally he’s so put together, and I didn’t even know I was doing this. “I don’t know, Sophie. In the beginning, you came off almost like a skittish cat. You took the job with us, still wired from coming out of the fellowship, and I waited as I watched the contentment slowly settle. I get it. We’ve all been there. I didn’t want to push you too hard or too fast, but then I was afraid I might miss my shot.” He lets out another deep breath. “I feel like I’m always walking on eggshells around you. I hate it, but it’s been months, and I feel like we’re stagnant. Are we?”

“I didn’t think so, at least I didn’t until just now,” I say, frowning, balling up the fabric napkin lying on my lap.

The very first time he asked me out was to our office Christmas party. Dr. Stone, who was my attending and who is also my boss, hosted the party at his home. Isaac asked if he could pick me up and then casually tossed out that we could grab a drink together afterward. I only hesitated briefly when he asked because I was concerned about what others might think of us arriving together. It had nothing to do with him and more to do with fraternization within the workplace. Clearly, I got over that, as everyone knows we’ve been seeing each other since.

His eyes scan over my face before they come back to mine. The emotion in them is pouring out, and dread sinks to the bottom of my stomach. I feel horrible. He’s anxious and sad, and apparently, I put that look there.

“Let me give you a few examples. At work, you never come and find me to ask me about my day.”

“That’s because I know you’ll come find me,” I answer quickly. It’s become almost routine that he does, and I look forward to those moments.

The group at the table next to us laughs loudly, and my eyes cut to the noise before coming back to him.

Sheepishly, he says, “Well, it would have felt nice to find you in my doorway every now and then.”

My frown deepens. He’s right. I’ve never really sought him out. I’ve never had that uncontrollable urge to see him. He’s always the one to come to me or to bring me treats. Why has it never occurred to me to do these things for him? This makes me feel selfish and ungrateful for his kindness even though I didn’t mean for it to be this way.

He takes a deep breath. “The only time you’ve ever asked me to do anything with you was Gasparilla. You asked if I would go to the parade with you. All the other times we’ve gotten together, it’s because I asked you.”

I did ask him to go with me to the parade, but surely, that can’t be it.

“What do you mean? We have a routine. We always go to dinner on Tuesday and Friday nights. Sometimes Sunday, too.”

“Yes, and call me crazy, but I would like to see you outside of those nights, too. Don’t you want to see me?”

“I . . .” My face flushes, and heat rushes over me. “I thought that was what you wanted?”

He shakes his head and then continues.

“Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I should have asked for more, but back to the eggshells. I don’t know what you want.”

I lean forward. “Isaac, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was making you feel bad. That was never my intent.”

“I know that, but, Sophie, I’ve also never been inside your townhouse. It’s been months. When we get to your place and I walk you to the door tonight, were you planning on inviting me in?”

I wasn’t. It didn’t even occur to me to.

“See,” he says, then runs his hand over his face.

I think about that time he invited me over for dinner. He lives in a condo downtown. It has great views of the city and the water, but he’s never invited me back. Or now I’m wondering if maybe he was waiting to see if I would ask to go back?

Part of me feels like I’ve been tested and put on trial. I can’t believe that was ever his intention, but it feels terrible knowing someone you think you’re getting close to is waiting to see if you pass or fail.

“I’m sorry. Do you want to come in with me tonight?” I ask, feeling strange as I do. An image of Jonah flashes behind my eyes. I had zero hesitation about asking him inside. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get him inside and all to myself. My stomach aches. Have I thought about being intimate with Isaac? Sure. But I wasn’t in a rush to get there. I wanted to date, get to know him, and now I’m wondering if I hesitated because something was missing.

Something I refused to look at because I was too busy trying to settle into a routine of my new life and being happy to have a friend.

Or something, because I’ve never planned on staying. Of course, he doesn’t know this, just my close friends, like Camille, but I can see how subconsciously I would have put up a wall and not allowed things to get more serious.

“Of course I do, but more than that, I wanted you to want me to come in, and up until now, you haven’t, or you would have asked.”

He’s right. I’m thirty-three. At our age, we should know what we want, and as he’s pointing out, I didn’t want him, or things would have progressed faster than they have.

More guilt.

“I thought we were dating. I haven’t dated in so long, actually really ever, and I’ve been enjoying all of our time together,” I tell him. I thought we were on the same page. I thought he was enjoying getting to know me, too, but he’s not wrong, and it has been months. Suddenly, I feel as if I have been leading him on. I didn’t think I was, but maybe.

“I guess our definitions of dating are just different,” he says sadly.

From the time I was twelve, I knew I wanted to be a doctor. I loved playing Operation and learning about the body. When I was sixteen, I ruptured my Achilles tendon during a soccer game. I’ve always loved sports, too, but soccer was mine. The rehabilitation was almost a year, and by that point, I had missed the window to be recruited by a college, but it was the surgeon who inspired me to study orthopedics.

She was amazing.

That’s right, she. In a field of predominantly men, I met her, and my life was forever changed.

Since then, I’ve done nothing but focus on my studies and get to where I am today. Yes, I dated a few guys over the years, but no one specifically for any period. A guy for me, or a husband as some would say, wasn’t the end goal. The white coat, the title of doctor, and achieving every goal I set for myself. In fact, when it comes to guys, this time with Isaac is the longest I’ve been with anyone. With schooling and training, there really wasn’t a lot of free time, not that I would have given it to myself. I had something to prove. I never questioned that I was smarter or better than the others in my class or residency pool, but competition and jealousy are a potent combination, and along with making sure everyone knew why I was there, I went out of my way not to do anything to tarnish the work that I was doing or my reputation.

And then there was also my mother’s death.

I was seventeen when she died of breast cancer. I never would have made it through to high school graduation without my father. We leaned on each other for support and comfort. We understood what each other was going through because we were both losing and then lost her. Our relationship strengthened and locked into place. After all, we were all each other had left. Together, our plan was always undergrad, medical school, residency, fellowship, and then return home.

To Minneapolis.

I have no interest in living permanently somewhere he isn’t. He’s my family, and I’m biding my time until a place opens up for me.

“Do you think about me?” He snaps me back to reality, his boyish features and insecurity pulling on my heartstrings.

I glance down at my food and back to him. My plate is still mostly full, but I’ve lost all of my appetite. “Of course I do,” I tell him, and I mean it. I think about him all the time, but now that I’m being put on the spot, I realize I haven’t thought about him past what we’re doing on a day-to-day basis. I haven’t been dreaming of long term, something I’ve done my whole life, and that is eye-opening and telling.

Once the residency was over, most of my colleagues moved on. Yes, I’m friends with Camille, Missy, Lexi, and a few others, but it was those colleagues who I spent most of my time with, and over the past two years, I really haven’t gone out of my way to make any more. Did I know who Isaac was? Of course, I trained with his physician group, but it wasn’t until I was offered the job that he made his move. He became my friend, and I’ve loved being friends with him.

Friends.

This word strikes a mental chord, and internally, I flinch. A heaviness settles on my heart as I realize I don’t see him in my future. At least not in the way he wants.

“What do you think about?” he asks nervously.

“You’re a nice guy, Isaac. You’re kind, thoughtful, handsome.” Heat floods my cheeks. “I really like you, and I enjoy spending time with you.”

“A nice guy.” He nods his head and lets out a deep sigh.

He’s right.

I’ve thought to myself over and over about how we are casually dating, and now I see that’s all my doing. He wasn’t taking us slow. I wasn’t moving us forward.

His eyes find mine, and they are clear and sharp. He’s made a decision about how he wants to lead this—well, finish it—and I squeeze the napkin on my lap because I’m not sure I want to hear it.

“I don’t think of you as nice. Don’t get me wrong, you are, but I think of you as absolutely amazing and incredible. I’m crazy about you. I think about you so much, it’s like I’m having an entire other relationship with you in my mind. We are not at the same place in this. I want to wrap you up in my arms and shout to the world that you are mine. But after months and months, I don’t know if you are. Are you mine?” he asks, hopeful and pained at the same time.

This causes me to pause, and my mouth opens with the words I want to say to him, but they don’t come.

What is wrong with me?

I adore him.

I know he needs a response from me. He’s politely begging me to give him something, so I answer him honestly because we’ve always been truthful with each other, knowing it’s not the answer he’ll want to hear. Only now, I wonder if I’ve been lying to him and myself all this time, and a huge part of me hates myself as I tell him, “I thought I was.”