I was wearing tinted lip gloss. Motherfucking lip gloss.
There was no clear reason why I was freaking out about seeing Nick tonight, but I absolutely was. I sawed my teeth over my upper lip and adjusted the pillows behind me again. There was no reason to worry about any of this. We were already married, for fuck's sake.
I checked my watch again, and then stared at the time on my laptop screen, as if I'd discover some major divergence between the two. I didn't. It was still a few minutes before midnight here, and if I really set my mind to it, I could've twisted myself into an emotional pretzel before our agreed-upon meeting time.
The screen pinged with an incoming video call, and I ran my hands through my hair one last time before answering. Nick's face filled the window, a smile tipping up his lips.
"Skip," he said on a sigh. His eyes crinkled and his hand went to the back of his neck as he grinned at me, and I couldn't bring order to the wave of emotions hitting me at once. He was there, close enough to touch—but not really—and it was like going back to the tireless nights we shared on the Cape. And there were maps on his wall.
I pointed at the screen, angling my head to get a better look. "Are those old maps?" I asked.
He shook his head, laughing to himself. "The words you're looking for are 'Hello, my husband' and 'I've missed the hell out of you and your frighteningly large cock.' Try that, Erin."
"Hello, my husband. I've missed the hell out of you, and the penis that torments my dreams," I said, an angelic smile spreading across my face. "Do I see that you favor old maps?"
Nick glanced over his shoulder, at the brick wall lined with nine square frames. The movement showed off the tendons in his neck, and I found myself leaning forward as if I could drag my tongue along those cords and taste him. "I do," he said, still looking at the block of maps. "Lauren likes flea markets and vintage shops, and Connecticut is a good trip."
I was still gazing at his neck, now focused on the dark stubble covering his Adam's apple, and it took an extra second to comprehend those words. "Lauren picked those out? In Connecticut?" I asked, squeezing my legs together because I could almost feel his scruff between them.
"No, that made no sense," he said, shaking his head as he looked back to the screen. "Lauren likes flea markets, and there's a big one in Connecticut. She drove there last spring, while Matt and I biked. We met her there and had lunch, and I saw these great old maps from the Civil War."
"And then you biked back," I said.
"Yeah," he said, as if riding a bike from Boston to God-knows-where Connecticut was the most regular thing in the world.
I pointed to the maps again. "Are you a fan of the War of Northern Aggression?"
That earned me a sheepish look. "Not yet," he conceded. "But I keep telling myself that as soon as I finish this fellowship and pass another board certification and have a life that doesn't involve power-napping in on-call rooms, I'll read a book or watch a documentary on the Civil War or…anything." He cast another glance over his shoulder. "I'm preparing for my post-residency life. I'm told that hobbies are allowed."
"How much longer?"
"It's July now, so less than five months," he said.
"Stonewall Jackson was a hypochondriac," I said, and full seconds passed while Nick registered my words, then his eyes widened, understanding that I was giving him some Civil War trivia. "The Confederate general. He was always worried about something, and resorted to old wives' tale treatments like sucking on lemons for his upset stomach, dunking his head in cold water for his bad eyesight. He didn't like sitting. He thought it was unnatural for his organs to be compressed."
"Fuck, I've missed you," he said.
I nodded, not quite ready to say the words yet. I wanted to, but I was afraid that with them would come a torrent of others like When can I see you again? and How are we going to make this work for months, years? and Do you even want to make this—whatever the fuck this is—work? and I don't understand how it's possible to feel so much, so soon, and when I stop to think about this, it's terrifying. So I said, "Yeah, me too."
"You look good," he replied. "Really good, Skip."
And Right now, I wish things were different.
"So what's going on with you these days?" I asked.
Nick was thoughtful for a moment, bobbing his head as he looked away. "I had some really good oatmeal this morning," he said. "A bowl of warm dirt would've been great after spending all night in surgery, but I think it was the little chocolate chips that made all the difference. I snagged them from the frozen yogurt bar, but the cafeteria police don't mind me." He uncapped a stainless steel water bottle and took a sip. "What do you eat for breakfast, Skip?"
"I spent four years in the Mediterranean. Espresso is the only breakfast anyone needs," I said, and the words weren't even out before he was shaking his head in disagreement.
"And that's why you're pocket-sized," he said, holding out his palm as if he'd solved the last great mystery of my existence. "For Christ's sake, Erin, have a banana."
"I don't like bananas."
"Okay, fine. Let me give you a list of alternatives because coffee isn't breakfast. Get a pencil."
"Oh, don't even start that shit with me," I said. "Any more paternalistic commentary from you, and I'll have to start calling you daddy."
"We do not want that," he murmured.
"No," I replied, laughing. "Not at all."
We'd talked about everything before, all the important things that shaded our world views and shaped our identities, but somehow this—nothing—was better. There was a foreign comfort in learning all of Nick's quirks and preferences, and the burgeoning love affair at his hospital, one between a gastro surgeon and her resident. Telling him about Iceland and my lab and the curious research fellows I'd inherited was an odd pleasure. I didn't talk about everyday things with anyone, not with much frequency.
"You're tired. I should let you go," Nick murmured. We'd been talking for more than three hours. "But I just don't want to. It's kind of a problem I'm having, not wanting to let you go."
I pushed my glasses to my head and rubbed my eyes. I was scheduled for a long day at the subzero lab bench in a matter of hours. "When was the last night you slept?"
"Remember what I said about power naps in on-call rooms?" he asked. "Yeah. That. Around two o'clock this afternoon."
"What are we doing?" I asked, and at the same time, Nick asked, "When can you get back here?"
We stared at each other for a moment, and then returned to talking at once.
Nick: We're running a highly scientific experiment that's currently measuring how long I can stare at your mouth before I come in my—
Me: I want to see you, I do, but between the lab and commuting between here and Oxford, I can't—
Nick: I hate asking you to do all the traveling and—
Me: You think you're making it any easier? All scruffy and sleepy and fucking adorable like—
Nick: —I know it isn't easy for you to come here, but my schedule sucks right now and I can't—
Me: I fucking miss you, and I don't even understand that emotion—
Nick: Wait. I'm adorable?
Me: —and it isn't entirely welcome! I never wanted to like you or miss you or any of this—
Nick: You think I'm adorable?
Me: —and maybe it was a mistake. Maybe we're inventing problems for ourselves. Maybe we shouldn't—
"Stop right there, darlin'." Nick pointed a finger at me, his serious expression snatching away my words. "We didn't make it easy on ourselves, no," he said. "But I believe you told me there's no time to live with regrets."
I rubbed my eyes, stealing a second away from his watchful gaze.
"There's gotta be a few days, a weekend, something," he continued. "This is good, and I intend to thank the Lord for your tits and stable wi-fi, but I'm greedy. I want more, and I'll sell my soul to anyone who's buying if I can see you again soon."
My fingers slipped away from my eyes, down my cheeks and over my lips. They stayed there, pressed into my skin as if I was barricading my most honest words from this conversation. But words weren't entirely necessary as I was nodding eagerly, agreeing to this plan long before it was fully formed.
"I want you," he said. "It's as simple—"
"And really fucking difficult," I added.
"—as that."
Nick smiled and dropped a hand to his belly, as if he could feel my words right there. But his words? I felt them everywhere.
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: July 12
Subject: Here's an idea
I have a week in early November, right before I'm back at Oxford for another six-week session, and I think I can swing that.
Would that work for you?
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: July 13
Subject: Here's an idea
It depends which week. My oral boards are November 7-9.
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: July 13
Subject: Here's an idea
Yeah, that was the exact week I had in mind.
(going outside to smash some rocks now)
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: July 14
Subject: Here's an idea
Fuck it. I don't need another board certification.
(I know you know what you're doing with those rocks but be careful)
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: July 14
Subject: Here's an idea
Yeah, overachiever much?
*I'm not letting you blow off your boards for me. That's insane. More insane than any of this already is, and I won't be the one responsible for you fucking up this fellowship. Put on your big boy undies and deal with it.
**Guess what? When you pass, you won't be able to give me shit about getting another doctorate anymore. We'll be even.
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: July 14
Subject: Say more about those underwear
I'll be out of surgery by 7 or 8 tonight, and then you can get on video chat and tell me all about these underwear you speak of. Maybe you can show me this process.
*That wasn't just one footnote-styled asterisk but TWO. Are you okay over there, Skip?
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: July 14
Subject: Maybe this?
What about immediately after your boards? I can fly in for a weekend, and then go straight to Oxford. It'll be tight, but it's something. Or…maybe late December? I'm not sure I can handle any traditional Christmas at home, but maybe we could meet somewhere? Or something? Anything?
*Did you see that? It's me, trying.
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: July 14
Subject: I saw
We can talk about it tonight, while we have that lesson on underwear.