Bette exhaled, slowly, wondering if she could somehow ease that tension in her chest, and turned her gaze back to Emily. The surgeon hadn’t moved, but her expression had shifted. Everything about her shouted vulnerable.
And Bette didn’t want to see her like that. “How about you come over for dinner tonight? Just a platonic dinner at my place.” The words were out before she could yank them back in. But then again, did she even want to? “I’ve got a patient to see now. Can we talk about it tonight?”
“Tonight,” Emily said, nodding. “Alright. Just send me your address.”
Bette stood in her small, cozy kitchen staring down at the pan. She’d decided on making lemon garlic chicken and roasted vegetables; a meal she could pass off as effortlessly thrown together even though she’d stress-chopped the carrots into far too small cubes.
The chicken sizzled in the skillet, but Bette was barely paying it any attention. Her mind was racing, replaying that moment when she’d invited Emily over for dinner.
What the hell had she been thinking? She could’ve suggested coffee, drinks at a bar, or literally anything else that didn’t involve her house, her personal space.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to fake an emergency. Bette glanced at the phone on the counter. She could text Emily and claim food poisoning or an allergic reaction. She could say a sinkhole had swallowed her kitchen.
“Get a grip,” she muttered, flipping the chicken in the pan. It was a little more golden than intended, but not burned. “Emily had the guts to tell you how she felt, the least you can do is make her dinner.”
But the mere idea of Emily sitting across from her at the table, looking at her with those lovely sharp eyes, made her stomach twist into a thousand knots.
The doorbell rang.
Bette froze, the stainless-steel spatula hovering mid-air. Her heart climbed straight out of her throat as she watched Emily’s silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door.
Before Emily could ring the doorbell again, Bette set down the spatula and rushed across the kitchen to open it for her. There was no running now. No back door to escape.
“Hey,” Emily said, her lips curling into what Bette assumed was a smile but looked just as hesitant as Bette felt. Her eyes scanned the inside space—the living room, the brick fireplace, and worn leather couches Bette had thrifted when she first moved in. “Your place is very cozy. It suits you.”
“Thanks,” Bette said, closing the door behind her. She felt awkward standing at the threshold, so she moved toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine?”
Emily walked to the round table and sat down in one of the chairs, crossing her legs. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Plain. Simple. Yet somehow still gorgeous. “I’d never turn down wine.”
Bette grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and wondered what the hell they were going to talk about. Surely they weren’t going to jump right into the conversation from earlier today? Surely Bette had to be drunk for that. But then what did they talk about? Their conversations had come so effortlessly before it all went downhill, before that night at the gala. They’d chatted. Laughed. And chatted some more. But now, there was too much tension, too much awkwardness.
She uncorked the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and poured them each a glass. “Hope you like white wine.”
“White. Red. Any kind,” Emily said, taking the glass. She glanced at the stovetop. “It smells more fancy than a simple dinner. I was expecting microwaved frozen burritos.”
Bette, who could probably cut the awkward tension in the air with the carrot knife, smiled. “Frozen burritos have their place. But I prefer to serve my guests something homemade.”
“Well, I appreciate it. Especially after today.”
“How did it go?” Bette asked, remembering this morning. “Your first surgery back?”
Emily’s expression flickered like an old lightbulb. She sighed and shrugged. “It was… um, something.”
“Something good? Something bad?”
“Both,” Emily admitted, letting out a breathy, almost exasperated laugh as she set her glass down and crossed her arms. “It was incredible in some ways. You know, being back in the OR, scrubbing in, holding the instruments again. Like riding a bike. Muscle memory kicks in.”
Bette nodded. She didn’t have first-hand experience, but she could imagine the feeling.
“The patient had a massive rotator cuff tear. She couldn’t lift her arm past forty-five degrees. A skiing accident,” Emily said, tapping her finger absent-mindedly against her bicep. “By theend of the surgery, I’d repaired the tear, cleaned up the bursa and the joint looked great.”
“Sounds like a win.”
“It was,” Emily agreed, nodding, but there was something else behind her eyes, something unreadable. “But it was also daunting. Being back there, you know? I thought I’d feel like myself again. Like the old Emily Sharp when being in the OR was everything…” Her words trailed off and she flicked her gaze to her wine glass looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that’s too much information. I’m not sure why I even said that.” She gave a small self-deprecating chuckle. “Just ignore me.”
Bette couldn’t ignore her. From what she knew—Bette had gathered information from nurses—Emily had been obsessed with her work. The hours, the pressure, and the constant need to be better had fueled the surgeon, until the accident at least.
“But it feels different now?” Bette asked.
