It was him.
Steven Thompson.
Why did he have to be in this cafe, this morning? Weren’t there a thousand coffee places in Chicago? How was it that the night after meeting him, he was sitting in my regular Sunday stop?
I started and ended my Sunday lakefront runs at East Randolph and always popped into Buzzy Bean afterward. I’d never seen him before, and I was positive about that because I would have certainly noticed him. As it was, I recognized him immediately when I stepped inside.
It was the glasses. His horn-rimmed, hipster glasses were designed to be eye-catching.
And caught my eye, they had. They suited his face, highlighting his hawkish nose and intense gray eyes.
The night before, those eyes had made me very uneasy.
I debated for a moment before joining the line to place my order. I needed my caffeine fix, and a quick assessment of him told me I could probably get in and out without being noticed. He was sitting at a two-seater across the room, his face in profile. On the tabletop sat a tall-sized beverage, a large muffin—really, these portion sizes were out of control—and a messenger bag. He wasn’t eating or drinking anything, but instead, scrolling on his phone, not looking up. Not once. It irritated me.
The fact that it irritated me, irritated me. I wanted to get my coffee in peace, didn’t I? To not be dissected by his intense gaze? I didn’t need his scrutiny.
He had made Botstein’s party a strange experience. It was already going to be awkward and uncomfortable, with so few familiar faces, plus, I had been exhausted. We’d been short-staffed with both an intensivist and a nocturnist on vacation and I’d been working long shifts up until yesterday. I wanted to skip out of the party, but as one of Dr. Botstein’s former Chief Residents, I felt it was only right to attend his retirement bash. He’d been my research mentor, and if it hadn’t been for his encouragement and tutelage, I doubted I’d be in the same position I was in now at BKC Memorial. I owed him a lot, so I downed some coffee, donned a suit, and put in an appearance.
When I spied Elizabeth, my first reaction was to be happy our residency group had been invited. But as I made my way toward her, I couldn’t see anyone else. A cursory inspection told me we were the only ones.
That struck me as strange. I understood inviting me, but Elizabeth? I guessed Botstein (or his wife) was hoping to get Nico Moretti to attend.
Ugh, Nico.
A flash of irritation hit me at the thought of seeing the man, but the feeling had been quickly replaced with petty triumph when I saw her companion was not her husband.
Mr. Thompson had been with her instead. He was bold with his gaze and his words, sticking up for Elizabeth when I picked on her. In my defense, she made a terrible mistake when she married Nico and I wasn’t above an I-told-you-so. Even though his interference was annoying, I respected his loyalty.
But he just wouldn’t stop eyeballing me. From the moment we made eye contact, to the moment they left, I felt his eyes on me—and not in a sexy, appreciative way, either. I knew those looks, I got them all the time, and I wouldn’t have minded if he’d sent me a few. But, no, his were probing and assessing and knowing.
It made me nervous and pissed me off.
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Elizabeth had brought him with her for the express purpose of annoying me. It was just like her to have such an off-putting friend.
As I paid for my iced coffee, I considered saying something to Mr. Thompson. Our previous interaction left me at a disadvantage, and the competitive side of me always wanted the upper hand. I knew it probably wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t care to do any introspective digging.
What I could do was walk up to Mr. X-Ray Eyes and compliment him on something. Put him in a position to be polite. Show him I wasn’t bothered by his intimidation tactics last night.
Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. I couldn’t stand around the shop staring at him and his stupid, big muffin all day.
I squared my shoulders, set my expression into one of practiced coolness, and walked over to his table. He didn’t notice my approach until I was standing next to him.
He glanced up, then set his phone on his bag. “Well, well, Dr. Ken Miles,” he said, smiling broadly. His eyes gave me a sweeping once-over and he sat up straighter in his seat.
“I like this rumpled, sweaty look you have going on.” He gestured briefly to my running shorts and T-shirt. “It suits you.”
Damn him. He sounded sincere. I was supposed to be the one saying nice things, disarming him. I struggled to find the right words. Your glasses are sexy. What? No, Jesus, I needed to think quickly. I like the way your shirt matches your eyes. Creepy…something not creepy.
My window for an appropriate duration of silence was shrinking fast, and I was on the verge of losing this match without having said one thing, so I blurted loudly and with unintended derision, “Nice messenger bag.”
There was a beat of silence in which Steven arched one blond eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. His smile didn’t dim. If anything, it grew broader.
“Your tone confuses me, but the words were phrased as a compliment, so I’ll take it as such and say, thank you, it is a nice messenger bag.”
“I-it was,” I stuttered. “Meant as a compliment, I mean. Excuse me if I was terse.” I gave myself a head tilt to crack my neck. I felt the need for movement, but what I really needed was to turn the conversation around. I forced myself to relax and issued him what I hoped was a charming grin.
He pocketed his phone, grabbed his bag, and hung it on the back of his chair. “Well, in that case, please have a seat and tell me more.” He pointed to the chair across from him. “I love compliments. More so if they’re spoken as insults. Maybe if I get to know you better, I’ll let you verbally abuse me in a pretty sing-song voice. It will be psychologically thrilling and completely unhealthy. I’ll love it.”
His statement shocked a laugh out of me. Uncharacteristically, and probably because Steven’s comment struck me as so funny, I started to sing low as I sat in the chair. “You’re a weird, little freak of a man, Mister Thoooomp-son.”
I could feel a slight heat rise to my cheeks as I did it, but Steven didn’t make fun of me. Instead, he said, “Hold up there, DKM, we need to be in a very special place in our relationship before you start with the head games.”
The heat in my cheeks intensified as the implication of us in a relationship planted itself in my mind. It unnerved me because Steven, with his messy hair, lanky build, and prominent proboscis, was just the type of guy I went for. Except, ideally, he wouldn’t be looking at me like I was an oddity or a specimen under a microscope.
Steering the conversation away from relationships, I asked, “DKM?”
Smile still in place, he nodded.
“Dr. Elizabeth Finney’s influence, I presume?”
“Oh, no,” he chided with a strange wobble-shake of his head. “Give it up, it will never catch on. You can’t out-Finney Finney.”
Elizabeth always called me “Dr. Ken Miles.” Never “Dr. Miles” or “Ken.” At one time it rankled because I knew it was her way of keeping me at arm’s length. Now, it just seemed oddly petty, like she was going out of her way to take me down a peg. Steven obviously didn’t think my attempt at turnabout was working.
I sighed. “Well, if you’re going to call me that, I should get to call you MST.”
“M?” Steven furrowed his brow and adjusted his glasses with the knuckle of one finger. I liked it.
“For Mister,” I clarified.
“Yes, of course. Hmm, it’s okay.” Steven took a sip of his coffee and then made a show of pondering the nickname. He tilted his head to the side, squinted, and tapped his lips with a forefinger. “If you tack on 3K to that, I’ll approve. But it will have to be a private, pet name.”
“MST3K? What does that mean?” I asked, genuinely confused. I was also—again—hung up on the suggestiveness of his comment. A private, pet name? I was beginning to suspect he was making these comments to rattle me. I’d felt from the start that he knew me, knew every thought, flaw, and vulnerability I had.
“Gasp.” He said this with an odd lack of inflection but wore a comically horrified expression. “I knew it. You were raised on corn, football, and textbooks, weren’t you?” His assessment wasn’t far off, and it set me on edge again. I wanted to fidget, but instead, I smoothed my hair.
“An adolescence without Mystery Science Theater 3000,” he continued, “is a joyless one.” He bit his bottom lip in a way that I supposed was to convey pity, but the truth was, it only served to draw attention to his mouth. Hot.
“I’m afraid I missed it. Was it a cartoon or something?”
“It was—or is, I guess, since they have a reboot now—a television show with poor production value, robots, and horrible B movies narrated by a funny and sarcastic cast, who were being held hostage in space by a mad scientist.”
Oh, man, he was a nerd.
A Hot. Nerd.
I didn’t have a ready response, so I was honest. “Sounds like a colossal waste of time.”
“I suppose it is if you don’t much value entertainment and humor.” He said this with a friendly and calm tone, but his gray eyes caught mine with an intensity that contradicted his careless persona. I broke the contact and took a long pull from my straw.
“I didn’t mean to rain on your nerd parade.” The slight reproof I detected bothered me, so I said the word ‘nerd’ as if it were completely repugnant. As if a nerdy man wasn’t my personal, potent Spanish Fly.
“My parade’s impervious to your rain.” He waved off my words. “But seriously, check it out. You might actually enjoy it.”
“Even if I did have a desire to sit around watching old TV, I really don’t have the time.”
“Ah, yes. Elizabeth mentioned you were running an ICU or something.”
I cleared my throat and briefly met his eyes. “In rotation, yes. I do switches between the ICU and inpatient and outpatient pulmonology.” I shrugged. “It’s what I trained to do,” I said modestly.
Normally, I wasn’t modest about my position. I took a lot of pride in my job and the work I had to do to get there. I’d finished my fellowships and was an intensivist double boarded in critical care and pulmonology. I found my niche in the ICU and was suited to it.
But I didn’t want to come off boastful or cocky to Steven. Clearly, Elizabeth had been talking about me and I didn’t want to sink to whatever low opinion she’d given him. I knew the residents under me had never appreciated the standard of excellence I’d required of them. I’d been seen as a hard-ass or Botstein’s sycophant, but neither of those things were true. I just wanted everyone to do their best. We had immense responsibility, needed to be cognizant of that fact, and act accordingly. Elizabeth and I had not only disagreed about behavior on shift, but we also had a near-brush with romance. So, I didn’t hold out hope that Steven heard much that was positive about me.
Imagining all manner of skewed embellishments, I became increasingly agitated. I placed an elbow on the table and propped my chin in one hand, letting my fingers graze the tip of my nose. I hoped the move looked casual. I wanted to fidget. I wanted to leave.
I also wanted to stay.
There was a protracted silence during my woolgathering, and Steven watched me with an amused glint.
“See, this is the part where you say, ‘Oh, yes, Steven. I have grand plans to do such-and-such and so forth and make a difference in this terrible world we live in,’ and then I say, ‘Good for you, Dr. Ken Miles!’” He said this last part with such exaggerated happiness and an energetic fist thrust, that I couldn’t help but laugh again.
“Good, relax. You need to relax,” he encouraged.
“I am relaxed.”
“No. No, you’re not,” he said with a small shake of his head. “You look perpetually uncomfortable. It couldn’t be me, I’m a delight.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “A real ‘delight.’” I made air quotes with my fingers, and, I swear to God, I never hated myself more than in that moment.
His assertion pissed me off. Generally, I was a confident person. My ego was very healthy. But in those times when I felt unsure or off-kilter, I faked it. I knew how to disarm with a smile, speak with authority, and keep completely calm when chaos was happening around me. I took great pains to never let anyone see me falter or experience stress. If someone took me by surprise or I didn’t immediately know the best way to react, I had a mask. A set, blank expression that gave nothing away. It usually worked like a charm. At least I thought it did. No one ever accused me of being ‘perpetually uncomfortable’ until now.
This only confirmed what I already suspected about Steven: He was too astute. I wanted to admit that it was him, that his propensity for examination was something I didn’t think was particularly delightful. But that admission felt like giving him power over me, so I choked down my irritation as well as I could, stood up slower than I wanted to—because I really just wanted to fly out the door and jog out my frustration all the way home—and made my excuse to leave.
“I’m not high-strung, Mr. Thompson. Just busy.” I could hear the stiffness in my voice, and I hated it. “I need to leave, but I appreciate you letting me interrupt your breakfast.”
I held my hand out for a shake.
Steven opened his mouth and glanced from my face, to my hand. Then he closed his mouth and looked again, from my face to my hand. He made a small whimper in the back of his throat before muttering, “Oh, what the hell,” and giving me a firm shake.
It was a bizarre moment, but I didn’t take the time to ponder his behavior. I released his hand, left the cafe, and headed back to the trail for another run.