To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: November 20
Subject: I know it's not Thanksgiving in England, but…
When was the last time you were home for the holidays? I got back to Dallas for Thanksgiving and Christmas two years ago, but I'm either working or on-call every day in December. The joys of being the newest attending, I guess.
My mother understood during my internship and residency, but she's less thrilled about it now. Then again, she has Maya and Dahlia's kids to spoil at Christmas, so not making it home isn't the biggest deal in her world.
What do you usually do this time of year? I hate the idea of you being alone. I hate it more than I already hate you being alone as it is.
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: November 20
Subject: I know it's not Thanksgiving in England, but…
There's always someone who insists on herding the stray cats and hosting a non-denominational event around the holidays. Always, and they never take no for an answer. I say this as the person who tries to get out of the non-denominational hodgepodge events.
Back in Iceland, there's a researcher who shares lab space with me, and he's been there for several years with his family. He's having all the forlorn Americans over for pseudo-Thanksgiving later this week. I'm sure there will be someone at Oxford who does the same thing.
The Iceland guy, he's an interesting one. We talked about the ancient Gálgahraun lava field outside of Reykjavík before I left. It's apparently inhabited by elves. Huldufolk, to be exact. The locals have some strong feelings about researchers traipsing all over the elfdom. It started with me asking whether he knew of any grocery stores that carried premade cookie dough. I think it was his way of apologizing, maybe.
Like, no cookie dough, but we do have elves so that's something.
It's not traditional American Thanksgiving, but I am having dinner with Lauren's brother Wes over the weekend. He's in the area for something James Bond-inspired, and it seems he has a few minutes when he's not averting some international crisis. So that's nice. It's better than elves.
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: November 21
Subject: Elves…
Somehow that fits perfectly with your stories about alien black diamonds, Stonewall Jackson's hypochondriasis, and the relative location of Australia.
*Were you baking cookies? What kind?
**Should I be worried about the James Bond-inspired dude taking my wife to dinner?
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: November 21
Subject: don't judge me but…
I don't like cookies when they're baked. I only like the dough, but I can't always find it overseas. You could say it's my white whale.
*No. He's more attracted to you than he is me.
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: November 22
Subject: don't judge me but…
Okay, I've been thinking about this all night.
Did you know that I wouldn't judge you for any of the other things you've shared with me in the past six months or did you think I'd find raw cookie dough consumption that revolting?
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: November 22
Subject: don't judge me but…
Yes.
*happy thanksgiving, husband.
I wasn't bitter, and I was going to keep telling myself that until I believed it.
Bitter didn't have a place in my life. I'd always had it easy, and losing what little contact I had with my wife to two months in the Arctic Circle wasn't the worst thing in the world. It was really fucking frustrating and I was still pissed about the pediatric neurosurgery board certification exam falling during the one week that our schedules spoke to each other, but I wasn't bitter.
Although if I didn't see her soon, I'd get there.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my alerts. It was a good distraction from the chatter around me, and Matt and Lauren's Thanksgiving celebration was low-key enough to endure phones at the table. Riley was on his phone too, but the glazed-over look in his eyes told me he wasn't focused on the content.
I was on call for the next few hours, but I'd discharged my last three patients this morning, and my service didn't take many hits on this particular holiday. Cardio, gastro, emergency medicine, they took the hits.
"Oooh, I think that's them," Lauren whispered, popping up from her chair. "Remember—we're all being nice and friendly and not weird. Got it?"
Matt refilled his red wine, shaking his head. "You say that as if you're not speaking directly to Patrick. I'm nice. I'm the nicest one here."
"Wrong. Miss Honey's the nicest one here," Riley said, invoking the nickname he'd chosen for Lauren.
Looking up from my phone, I rolled my eyes at Riley. He didn't even try to hide his obsession with her.
"You're all wrong," Andy said, taking the wine bottle from Matt. "I'm definitely the nicest one here."
That earned a hearty round of laughter. No one would mistake Andy for warm or fuzzy.
Sam appeared in the doorway, a dark-haired woman carrying a pie dish at his side. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place that familiarity.
"Hi," Lauren said as she approached them. "You must be Tiel. I'm Lauren, and I'm so happy to meet you. Come on, sit down."
I wasn't up to date on Sam's new girlfriend, or any other family developments. I'd been spending all of my free evenings with Erin, or as close as I could get to her. This distance was good. Too much time around happy couples like Matt and Lauren and Patrick and Andy only reminded me that I didn't get to spend every day with Erin, and it encouraged the bitterness to creep in.
Despite my absence, I knew it was fairly remarkable that Sam was introducing a woman to his family, since he was a card-carrying manwhore and had the one-night stand market on lock. But people grew and changed, even stubborn-minded Walshes. I was counting on it.
"So you've met Patrick and Andy," Lauren said to Tiel, gesturing down the table. "That's Matthew, he belongs to me." Matt tugged her onto his lap. "That's Riley, and Nick."
Riley was staring at the ceiling and offered little more than a nod in Tiel's direction.
"I've met you before," I said, standing to shake her hand across the table. "Where have I met you?"
"I have no idea," she said, but it sounded like Shut the fuck up.
I tapped my phone on the table as I nodded. "It'll come to me," I said.
"I thought you weren't with us today," Sam called to me. He was in the adjoining kitchen, pouring himself a drink.
I grabbed a dish of paella—Matt and Lauren's version of Thanksgiving—and forked up a mouthful. "Technically, I'm on call," I said. "Until midnight. Then, you know, it's time to rage. Or whatever people who have lives do these days."
"And by rage, you mean you'll be hanging out at the hospital?" Sam asked.
Laughing, I murmured in agreement. It was much simpler than telling him I'd be stealing video chat moments with his sister before she, the one I'd married six months ago, left for the North Pole. That, and Erin had to be the one to tell them. Yeah, I could drop that morsel right now, just nestle it in between the paella and empanadas and sit back while everyone blew it far out of proportion, and take this one for Erin. That was the quick and dirty solution. It would save me from many months of lies by omission, and her from a confrontation she obviously didn't welcome. But I wasn't playing the short game, and I didn't think Erin was either.
"Is this tapas?" Sam asked, frowning at a dish of grilled corn with cotija cheese.
"Yes," Matt said from the far end of the table. Lauren was still on his lap, and now he had one hand tucked right between her knees. Riley was still staring at the ceiling. This was either really good exposure therapy, or the worst night imaginable for him. Probably both. "With the Black Widow in New Mexico, no one reminded Tom to pick up the turkey. So, we called Toro last night and ordered everything on the menu."
"Who's Tom?" Tiel asked.
"Shannon's assistant," Sam said. "Has anyone determined whether she's actually in New Mexico?"
"We are not talking about this. She's entitled to a little space," Lauren said, holding up her hands as if she was keeping Sam and Matt in their respective corners. "Instead of dragging all that drama out like a prize pig at the county fair, why don't you two tell us how you met?"
"It certainly wasn't the way Sam usually meets women," Tiel said, and she was either really fucking hilarious or a prickly pear cactus disguised as a human lady. Not that prickly pears weren't great. My grandmother made the best prickly pear jam. I didn't even like cornbread unless I could drown it in her jam, but finding the fruit required getting past the thorns.
"We met over Labor Day weekend," Sam said. "Tiel introduced me to bluegrass, and a few other things."
The paella recaptured my attention, and I tuned out talk of Tiel's work as an adjunct professor at Berklee College of Music and Riley's newest Dexter theories. He'd only recently discovered Netflix. But the spicy rice triggered some neural connection, and I snapped my fingers as it came to me. "You did the seminar on the comparison of music therapy and pharmacological sedation using chloral hydrate in pediatric EEG captures," I said, thrilled that I'd finally figured out how I knew Tiel.
"What were you doing there?" she asked.
Right, prickly pear it is.
"I cut brains," I supplied. "You know, for medical purposes. I had eight first-year pediatric neuro-surgical interns with me." I paused, thinking back to that session and my attempt to implement those practices. "I don't let them sedate toddlers anymore unless they've already tried and failed non-pharma measures, and I can only think of a few cases."
She softened a bit, and said, "I'm glad it's working."
I asked, "You're at Berklee?" Tiel nodded. "What else are you working on? I have plenty of residents who need to publish, and enslaving them brings a lot of joy to my life."
"Well," she murmured, glancing around to find everyone watching her. That couldn't have been fun, especially considering she'd bared her teeth at our very own Miss Congeniality. "I've been applying some new therapeutic approaches with children on the autism spectrum. Too early to draw any correlations."
"All right," Patrick said. It sounded like he was ready to make his ruling on Sam's date. "You're obviously very intelligent. What the hell do you see in the runt?"
"Don't answer that," Andy said, shaking her head. "What he meant to say was Lauren and I go to an incredible winter farmers' market on Saturdays, and you should come with us this weekend."
I checked out of the conversation and went back to the room-temperature paella, and my not-bitterness. I decided that I resented the ice sheets. Fuckin' ice. I took no issue with her work or the fact that she wasn't the kind of scientist who made a home for herself in the bowels of a university course catalog. There was nothing hotter than imagining my girl kicking ass on a frozen tundra, and it gave her too much meaning for me to ever steal that from her.
But fuck if I didn't want to stumble into the universe where I went to bed with my wife every night.
"Erin's heading off on a research trip," Matt said, and that caught my attention.
"Yeah, I heard from her last week," Patrick added. "I don't think there's anywhere she hasn't been."
My apartment, if we're starting a list.
"Where's she headed now?" Sam asked. "Obviously, I wasn't on the short list of people she notifies about her journeys."
I scowled at him. It was the only thing I could do to keep from growling.
"Antarctica," Matt said.
Other pole, asshole.
"Wait," Andy said. "I think I know the answer to this but…are there volcanoes in Antarctica?"
Patrick shook his head. "I think it's the Arctic, Matt," he said. "Not volcanoes. Not exactly. She said she'd spent so long looking at these"—he held his arms far apart, as if he was measuring something—"I don't know what they're called, but all the layers of rock and lava, and in it she kept seeing evidence of little ice ages and periods of drought, and it got her wondering about change over time. Not just recent history, back to when people started recording daily temperatures and all, but back as far as she could find."
"Is that meteorology?" Sam asked. "Or…I'm at a disadvantage here since no one tells me anything. What is she studying now?"
"Climate change," Matt said. "I think."
"Sounds more like planetary physics," I added. I could've given a brief sermon on Erin's studies, but stopped myself right there. Not bitter at all.
"Whoa," Andy murmured. "And now she's going to…one of the poles?"
"You're probably right about it being the Arctic," Matt said to Patrick. "She sent me the details of her trip but I didn't read them through. I just told her it would take me a lot longer to bail her out if she got into trouble up there."
I'd never wanted to punch my best friend more.
"I'm so confused," Lauren said. "She's not in Italy anymore?"
"No, she's in Iceland now," Matt said. "But she's attached to a research institute in London."
Oxford. Not London.
"Guys, you make her seem like some wild child on the run," Andy said. "That wasn't the vibe I got when I talked to her at the wedding. I think it's time to dial down the big brother routine."
"Erin only does extremes," Matt said.
Give me a fucking break.
"Oh, spare me," Lauren murmured.
Matt looked from Andy to his wife, incredulous. "I'll dial it down when she and Shannon power wash the past. Until that happens, I'm still on hair-trigger watch. With Erin, anything can happen."
"Agreed," Patrick said, reaching for the wine again. "That shit with Shannon and Erin is sweating dynamite. Someone needs to keep an eye on her."
Patrick, too. That fucker. He was on my list.
I didn't know which part was more irritating: that I'd been hearing some version of this from them for years, or that they truly didn't understand the depth of their wrongness. I knew it was different from their seat, that they saw all the shit Erin had experienced—and instigated—as a teenager, and couldn't distinguish that from the reality of Erin now. And I was really fucking bothered that they didn't see it necessary to fix their outdated perceptions.
"Thanks for mansplaining that, bro," Lauren said, holding out her fist to Patrick for a bump. As far as I was concerned, Riley's unrequited love for her required zero explanation. She was fucking amazing. "Now let me do a little pussy-splaining while I have you here. None of you need to be on patrol. She's not a kid, and the whole thing is bullshit. She and Shannon will get there, but not because any of you were standing around telling her how to do it."
"Agreed," Andy said.
Riley growled and kicked me under the table before I could add my support to Lauren's comments. He shook his head at me, all too knowing, while he scratched his chest like a sleepy bear. He looked around the table and said, "I feel like doing something irresponsible tonight." He kicked me again. "Come on, Acevedo. Let's have an adventure."
"You should know," Matt started, laughing. Clearly, he wasn't still annoyed about someone suggesting that his brilliant sister required babysitting. "Riley's version of irresponsible adventure involves waking up in the bed of a truck on its way to Canada or getting his nipples pierced by a random guy in an alley."
Riley rubbed his chest, frowning. "Those hurt, man. I still have scars, physical and emotional."
"He's also been permanently barred from Howl At The Moon," Patrick added. "Something about getting naked and dancing on a piano."
"As if that wasn't standard fare," Riley muttered. "And if we're airing all the dirty secrets, why don't we talk about the party after Matt and Miss Honey's wedding?"
"Nope." I stared at my mostly full wine glass. "Let me stop you right there."
"Why?" Matt asked. He looked between Sam, Riley, and me. "What happened?"
Riley stared at me, smirking. I shook my head, mouthing, "Stop."
He shrugged as if to say Stop what?
This time, I kicked him under the table. His eyebrows shot up, prodding me to slide further into this death roll. The harder I fought to keep him quiet, the louder my secrets became.
So I raised the stakes. I watched Riley with a slightly manic smile, and then slid my gaze to Lauren. One nod in her direction, and his expression fell.
Everyone watched our standoff, and if it wasn't heavy after that chat about Erin, it was heavy now. We all trafficked in inside jokes and odd references, but it was somehow obvious to our present company that the source of our disagreement involved no humor.
Finally Riley shook off his stricken expression and laughed. "Nothing happened," he said, spooning up a bite of pumpkin pie straight from the dish. "Acevedo knows how to have a good time. Not surprising for the good doctor."
I reached over and grabbed the pie plate from him. "I will fucking end you," I hissed.
"We're fucking lucky that they're too drunk and happy to give a shit about us," he said under his breath. "Buy me a beer, and then we'll kiss and make up."
"Is it getting any better?" I asked.
Riley stretched his arms across the bar top at The Green Dragon and dropped his head. "No," he murmured.
"Do you think either of them know?" I asked. My finger traced the edge of the cardboard coaster under my beer. "Matt and Lauren, I mean."
"No," he repeated. "Why does Lauren have fucking brothers? Why couldn't she have a sister so I can be happy and stop wanting Matt to trip in front of a train?"
"Sisters wouldn't make a difference," I said. "My sisters are complete opposites of each other. No guarantees there."
Riley lifted his head and regarded me with the kind of glare historically reserved for traitors and pedophiles. "You're not funny."
"You know what else isn't funny?" I asked. "You almost inciting a brawl over dessert. That wasn't cool, man."
Riley knocked his knuckles against the bar top twice. "If you'd just tell me what went down with you and Erin, I'd stop instigating."
"Why do you need to know?" I asked, returning to the coaster.
"Consider it quid pro quo, man. I confessed all of my unrequited love for Miss Honey, and what did I get for that? I found you molesting my sister. Multiple times."
I shrugged, not sure how much I wanted to admit. "It wasn't multiple times, and I did put your nose back together," I said. "She needed a breather from the festivities, so we went into town. We got a drink, walked around the harbor. That's it."
Riley tipped back his drink. "Yeah, that sounds like a nice way of telling me nothing," he said. "That's not even a tenth of the truth, is it?"
I shook my head. "Why are you entitled to a full report?" I asked. I was definitely bitter now.
Riley held out his hands, conciliatory. "Okay, okay. You don't have to say anything. I'll guess," he said.
"Please don't," I said, groaning.
"Hmmm. Let's see," Riley said. "It was the night before the wedding. It was the first time she'd been back to Massachusetts in years. That must've been a lot for her. She probably wanted to get the hell away from the inn because she knew everyone was waiting for her to fuck some shit up and—"
"I'm really fucking tired of hearing that," I interrupted. "Y'all need to give her some credit."
Riley leaned back, his arms folded on his chest as he looked me over. I'd already given too much away. "She wanted to do something crazy," he said, "and you couldn't say no to her."
"Let's talk about football," I said. "Football is a much better topic. Safer."
"Her crazy isn't my crazy, dude," Riley continued. "She likes getting lost in dark forests and climbing fucking glaciers and flirting with priests—"
"She flirts with priests?"
He jerked a shoulder. "I mean, I don't know of specific instances, but would it surprise you that much?"
"A little bit, yeah," I said. Erin lost her religion a long, long time ago. Could anyone blame her? "I don't think she hangs out with many priests, and she's not…" I almost said she wasn't a flirt, but the truth was that she wasn't an intentional flirt. She didn't know how alluring she was, and she didn't use it with any strategy.
"Salud." The bartender placed another round in front of us, and Riley knocked his bottle against mine. "So what did Rogue dare you to do, and are you sufficiently traumatized?"
I lifted the beer bottle to my lips, drinking deeply while I watched today's college football highlights on the television at the end of the bar.
"It looks like you're significantly traumatized," Riley mused. "Well done, Rogue. Well done."
Shifting in my seat, I leaned an arm against the bar and studied him. There was a smudge of pumpkin pie on his shirt, his socks didn't match, and his fly was open. He played the part of the black sheep, the dumbass, the fuck up…but he was none of that. He was as scatterbrained as they came, and he sincerely struggled with zipping his pants, but he was a good guy, the kind I'd trust with my sisters.
If they hadn't been primarily concerned with marrying for money, mineral rights, and social status, of course.
And Riley was a motherfucking vault. He had a gift for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was often party to his siblings' most confidential moments, but even under the weight of alcohol, he never let those stories loose. It was everyone else who told those stories first, never Riley.
"Remember how we promised we wouldn't let you object during the ceremony?" I asked.
"Yes," he grumbled. "My worst good decision ever."
"You have to promise me that you won't repeat this," I said. "You can get as many medical favors as you want, but you're not allowed to even hint at it. Ever."
"Shit," he huffed. "What did she get you into? Did you get a tramp stamp of a volcano? Dick piercing? Absinthe shots? Cow tipping? Goat theft?"
"That involved a lot of farm animals, man, and that made it strange." I gave him a curious look, waiting for some explanation of his fascination with livestock, but none came. Blowing out a breath, I said, "We got married."
He slammed his beer down on the bar. "You fuckin' what?"
"We got married," I said. "On a boat."
His miserable-yet-amused expression turned cold, his eyes incredulous. "I should take you outside and beat the snot out of you. What kind of man marries a woman on a damn boat without her family? I can't believe you, man." He huffed out a breath and shook his head, then gestured for the bartender. "Jäger! Bring me some fuckin' Jäger. I need something to quench my rage."
I held up a hand to stop the bartender from setting a shot glass in front of Riley. "No one is drinking any Jägermeister tonight. If anything, we'll drink tequila"—cue filthy memories of tequila dripping from Erin's nipples—"like men."
"Miss Honey drinks tequila," he said, and no fucking shit, he was on the verge of tears.
"Don't do that to yourself," I said. "It's damn near impossible, I know, because everything reminds me of Erin. There's an ER nurse with glasses just like Erin's, and I found myself staring at her this morning. It fucking killed me, and it was very awkward. I had to make up a lame excuse, and then pretend I was being paged."
"You actually like her?" he asked, a little incredulous. "Erin, not that nurse."
"Yes, I like her," I cried. "Of course I do."
"But she lives in Europe," he said.
"She does," I conceded.
He rolled his eyes as if I was being remarkably obtuse. "Doesn't that make marriage a bit difficult?"
"She'll come home," I said. "When she's ready, and when she figures out where home is."
We sat in silence after that, staring into our drinks and blindly watching college football highlights.
"What are you going to do about it?" he eventually asked. "Because if you're waiting for her to make the next move, you've got to know she doesn't act particularly quickly. She only reacts when she's been pushed past her breaking points."
I gave him a what can I do? shrug. "If I figure it out, I'll let you know."
Riley waved me off with a sour frown. "Erin is incredible with many things, but she's terrible when it comes to taking care of herself. She lets dickface guys like you take advantage of her and leave her."
"I'm not a dickface guy," I said. "I'm not taking advantage of her, and she's better at taking care of herself than you think."
Riley studied his beer bottle for a moment, intent on peeling the label off. "What am I gonna do?" he asked.
"Well," I said, clearing my throat. "Have you thought about spending less time with Matt and Lauren?"
"Why the fuck do you think I go to Rhode Island every weekend I can, and leave the office as soon as possible every evening? I don't hate my job. I'm actively trying to avoid Matt-and-Lauren moments. That's why I went to the mat with Patrick to get my own office. I couldn't share a space with Matt all damn day. Not with him and Lauren texting back and forth about how much they love and adore each other, and they're going away for romantic weekends, and they want to have a million babies."
I pointed at him with my beer bottle. "But you also spent the summer helping out at her school, man. How many classrooms did you paint for her?"
"All of them," he said, groaning. "Every single one…with primer. And three coats. I can't say no to her, Nick. She invites me to dinner, or asks for help, and a really fucked-up part of me thinks that if I do, she'll suddenly realize that she has feelings for me, too. And, no, you don't need to tell me that any of that is fucked up. I know it's fucking terrible, and I'm lower than dick cheese for wanting my brother's marriage to fall apart. And fuck…I don't know. I just feel good when I'm around her, and I think I could make her happy."
It didn't seem necessary to state the obvious—that Lauren was very happily married to Matt, and Matt wouldn't walk away from her without a fight to the death. So I offered the only appropriate response.
"You've gotta stop that shit," I said. "Get her out of your head, man."
"And look how well that's working for you," he said. "We're basically in the same boat, you know."
"Which boat is that?"
"The fucked-over boat," he snorted. "I'm in love with my brother's wife. You're in love with your living-three-thousand-miles-away wife. We're completely fucked over, and neither of us can look Matt in the eye."
"Yeah," I said, knocking my beer bottle against his. "That's the boat."