Chapter 5: I Know

The thing about turning twenty-eight is that nobody tells you the day will mostly consist of staring at a text.

It's 10 a.m. on a Wednesday in October, and I am horizontal on my bed in my Koreatown studio with the blinds half closed, a half-eaten pint of Trader Joe's salted caramel ice cream balanced on my stomach, and my phone propped on a pillow next to me. The text is still there. I have not stopped looking at it for two days.

This is Dr. Black. Don't drive for 2 more weeks. -A

It's beautifully boring. It's clinically responsible. It's a doctor telling a patient about a driving restriction. There is no flirtation in it. There is nothing weird in it. The fact that I have read it about seventy-four times is my problem and not anyone else's.

I have decided to reply.

I have also been "deciding" to reply since last night, which means I have drafted approximately thirty-six versions of the text, all of them in the notes app on my phone, none of them sent. They include:

- Hi (too eager, deletes after typing)

- Thanks, Dr. Black! (too cheerful, sounds like I'm trying to marry his malpractice insurance)

- So you're alive. (an active violation of the Geneva Convention)

- Are all your patients this lucky or just the ones who almost die. (probably correct, definitely unhinged)

- Hi, this is Emma Park. I am not driving. Have a good day. (this is probably it)

I open the text thread. Read his message again. Type the boring one. Stare at it. Stare some more. Hit send.

Wait.

Hi, this is Emma Park. I am not driving. Have a good day.

I have just introduced myself to a man who knows my blood type and what my voice sounds like on morphine. I have just described myself with my full government name to a man who watched me bleed out on an operating table. I have just sent a *good day* wish to a man who has never once in his life stopped doing paperwork long enough to think about a patient he isn't actively saving.

I put my face in the pillow.

The phone makes a small ding.

My entire body bolts upright. The ice cream container falls. I catch it, mostly. A blob lands on the sheet. I do not care.

Two minutes. It took him two minutes.

Good.

One word. No punctuation. No emoji. Nothing cute. Just good. Like I'd passed a test. Like I'd done the right thing. Like a man who texts ninety percent for professional reasons and ten percent for reasons he is not yet ready to examine had checked in on his patient, at 9:56 a.m. on a Wednesday.

I wait.

He doesn't text again.

I put the phone face down on the nightstand. Pick it up. Put it face down. Pick it up again. I do this for about forty-five minutes while the sun does what L.A. sun does, which is make my entire studio look like a postcard for "sad girl autumn," with the soft fall light coming through the half-open blinds and the dust dancing in it.

By noon I have eaten all the ice cream. By one I have made a sandwich I do not finish. By two I have changed outfits once and put the same outfit back on. By three I am wondering if maybe I should text him a follow-up, something like how's your day, except that is a serious escalation and I am not prepared.

The doorbell rings.

I freeze.

Nobody rings my doorbell. People text "here" or honk. My landlord is in Maui. The cello neighbor is in treatment for something and has been very quiet for weeks.

"I'm coming up!" Sophie yells through the intercom. "LET ME IN."

She has used the intercom incorrectly three times. She doesn't care. She is my older sister and she lives by her own rules.

The door to my apartment swings open. Sophie appears holding a small bakery box, a bottle of Prosecco, and an opinion.

"Happy birthday, you disaster."

"How did you get in?"

"Your neighbor with the cello, who I now know is named Tim. He let me up. He was cute. I'm not making this a thing."

"You absolutely are making this a thing."

"HE PLAYS DEBUSSY, EMMA. Debussy." She sets the box on my coffee table. Inside is a small lavender cake with white frosting and a single candle. "I got this from the place on Beverly. Don't ask how much. I cried at the register."

"You didn't have to"

"You absolutely deserved it. You almost died. You ate the ice cream already, didn't you?"

I gesture at the empty pint on the counter. She looks. She sighs.

"You are not allowed to do nothing on your birthday."

"He said that."

"HE SAID THAT?"

"Sophie. Calm down. It was a normal"

"If you say normal doctor thing I will smother you with this bakery box."

"He told me not to do nothing. On the sidewalk. After the appointment. Cold air. Mid-stride."

Sophie stares at me like I've just told her I am dating the Pope.

"You are not processing this correctly," she says. "I am processing this correctly. Sit down. Eat cake. Tell me everything from the top. And for the love of God, hide the coffee cup."

"Why would I hide the"

"Because I know you, Emma Park. I know you still have it on the counter."

I look at the coffee cup on the counter. The one with the foam heart. I have been keeping it like a lunatic. Sophie is unimpressed. Or she would be, if she hadn't done almost exactly the same thing with her high school prom boutonnière, but that's not the point.

I tell her the whole thing. The text. The two-minute reply. The good. The nothing after. How I haven't stopped thinking about it. How I've been drafting follow-ups in my head for eight hours.

"He is a textbook slow burn," Sophie says, cutting the cake with her fingers. "You can't push this. You just have to wait. The man is probably the most emotionally unavailable surgeon in the Western Hemisphere."

"Sophie."

"I'm helping."

"You're not."

There is a knock at the door.

We both freeze.

Another knock. Louder. Professional knock.

"That's not the mailman," Sophie whispers. "It's too polite."

I opened the door.

A young guy in a black polo and a L.A. flower delivery uniform was standing in the hallway. He looked about nineteen, bored, holding a long white florist box and a small paper gift bag with a Cedars-Sinai logo on it.

"Emma Park?"

"Yes."

"These are for you."

He thrust both into my arms, like he had six more deliveries, which he probably did, because it was three twenty on a Wednesday in L.A. and Los Angeles was made of appointments. He was gone before I could thank him.

Sophie was already on her feet. I could hear her vibrating.

"Open the bag," she whispered.

I opened the bag first because it's a small bag and it's quicker. Inside was a folded piece of cardstock, the kind that comes pre-glued with an envelope, the kind that has tiny hospital branding in the corner. I pulled the card out.

The handwriting was blocky. Tilted slightly to the right. I had seen it on a prescription once. I had seen it yesterday on a sticky note.

Happy Birthday, Emma. Don't eat too much ice cream. -A

Sophie made a sound that wasn't a word. It was a small, sharp inhale that went up at the end, like a kettle.

"Emma." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Emma. Emma. Emma."

"Don't."

"Don't... don't me. There's don't eat too much ice cream. He knew you were eating ice cream. He knew, Emma. He knows you are lying around eating ice cream."

"He doesn't."

"How does he know?"

"Maybe" My mouth was dry. "Maybe he just guessed. General birthday behavior."

"Emma." Sophie turned to me fully. "This is not general birthday behavior. This is a man who did something about it. Look at me. Look at me. Did you tell him about the ice cream?"

"No."

"Did you mention Trader Joe's salted caramel to him?"

"No."

"Did you tell him about anything?"

"No."

"Then he guessed. He guessed because he's been paying attention. He guessed because he's been thinking about you. This is not a clinical recommendation. This is a man buying birthday flowers for a woman he is pretending to have a professional relationship with."

I opened the florist box.

Inside were a dozen white roses.

White roses. Not red. White. The kind with the wide open centers. The kind that smell like the very specific kind of clean that is a memory more than a smell.

"Take a picture," Sophie whispered.

I took a picture. The roses, the card, the Cedars-Sinai bag, my hand resting on the petals. I sent it to him. The text just said:

You didn't have to.

Sophie paced. I sat on the couch. The ice cream carton was still on the counter. The Prosecco was still warm. The cake was still uneaten. The October afternoon light was still very pretty on the wood floor.

Five minutes.

The phone buzzed.

I know.

I stared.

I stared for so long that Sophie stopped pacing.

"What."

"He said: I know."

"He said I know?"

"I know."

"Emma Park. Open the bottle. We are drinking Prosecco. We are crying. We are calling Mom. And then we are figuring out what is happening with this man."

I opened the bottle. We did not call Mom. We ate cake. We sat in the slanted L.A. light. I held my phone.

I know.

I smiled at the screen like an idiot.

To be continued...