His eyes do that dark, glazed-over thing again, and I swallow the victorious smile as we continue slowly walking back to the BART station so that we can finish our ice cream. It takes me a second to realize that if it wasn’t for Grant, tonight would’ve felt like a date.
WithDoctor Devil.
Experiencing the real San Francisco—the part I doubt many tourists venture to. Eating thebest burrito of my life. Flirting a little bit. Sexual tension abound. Walking through the Mission District in search of thebest ice cream ever. His hand on my lower back whenever we pass someone, like he’s protecting me. The strawberry dress I bought just for him. Everything about tonight feels… different.
Hefeels different, especially when it’s just him and me.
Not to mention, he’s much less pretentious in person—we haven’t eaten at a fancy restaurant once. He seems to know his way around the cool parts of the city, too—even balking at the idea of a taxi earlier in lieu of taking public transportation, despite obviously having the means to leave very large tips.Everything about him is an enigma, and he’s constantly keeping me on my toes.
I can’t help but be intrigued by everything he does, and somehow, despite everything, feel comforted by his presence. And tonight… it feels like something is different between us.
It makes me want to tell him things I shouldn’t, but my mouth is moving before I can stop myself.
“The baby blankets are personal,” I tell him after we get seated next to each other on BART. There’s almost no one else in this car, so we have privacy. I can’t look at him, so I lean forward and stare at the seat in front of us. “You asked me before why I made baby blankets, and the reason is because I had a late miscarriage. I lost the baby at twenty weeks.”
Dr. Kincaid goes still in my peripheral vision. He’s watching me carefully, and panic floods me when I realize I just told him about the baby.
Fuck.
What a way to make him uncomfortable, Frankie.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I sigh and lean back in my seat.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you my sob story?—”
His hand shoots out to my thigh, and the warmth makes me snap my eyes open. As I do, he removes his hand and swallows audibly.
I still can’t look at him.
“Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry for your loss. That must’ve been difficult.”
“It was. I had a rough period for about a year, but I’m all good now.”
“And the ex-fiancé…” he trails off, and I look over at him. He’s watching me expectantly.
“Was the father,” I confirm. “After it… happened, we weren’t the same. Having to return all of your nursery furniture will do that to a couple. One night he got drunk and blamed me foreverything. It was a malfunction withmybody. Somehow, the placenta detached too early, and he used that as an excuse to blame me. The next morning he was gone, but he asked me to move out. It was about two months after the miscarriage, and honestly, I was relieved when he asked me to leave. I never would’ve done it myself. It meant a fresh start for me, but it also meant I could stop pretending to be okay. I packed my things and moved out. I took only my clothes and the one baby blanket I’d made for the baby, and that’s the long, convoluted story of the baby blankets. They bring me joy, and knowing they’re going to babies who made it earthside is… healing, somehow.”
I clamp my mouth shut and look away again. I said too much, and any second now, he’s going to make a comment about how uncomfortable he is.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, and at first I think I mishear him.
“Hmm?”
“You. Are. Incredible,” he says again, and his voice is full of some kind of raw emotion I can’t place. It stuns me silent, and I look over at him and watch as he swallows, as he inhales through his nose, as he turns his gaze to me. “To go through something like that and come out the other side tohelppeople…”
My heart is pounding in my chest as his eyes flick to my lips.
I’m not imagining it.
There’ssomethingthere—something between us, pulled taut and ready to snap.
Maybe it’s what happened last night, but I don’t think so. It’s been there all along, and I’ve just been too naive or angry to notice.
Too presumptuous about the persona I assumed he had.
“Your tattoo…” he says slowly, eyes flicking down to my left wrist. “What does it mean?”
“My mom bought me this pink orchid when I found out I was pregnant. It sort of came to represent the baby in a strange way. When I…” I swallow. “After I came home from the hospital, the orchid had shed all of its flowers. Like somehow, it had…died.I got the tattoo a few months later to represent what I went through. To remind myself that somewhere, the orchid is still flowering. To give myself strength. It’s symbolic,” I finish, shrugging.
