After Afterall

11

I pull on my jeans and slip into my flats. My scrubs are filthy, but instead of carrying them home, I shove them into the back of my cubby to deal with another day. Sometimes I sneak my clothes into Alex's laundry bag since he has it sent out, but he's been hiding the bag from me lately because he claims I've been "abusing his kindness."

Speak of the devil. "Hey, are you sure you don't want to go out for a drink?" Alex asks.

Today was a bad, bad day, which usually can be fixed with a drink, but I just want to be home. "No thanks. Have one for me."

"Suit yourself. See you at home."

I watch my friends walk ahead of me and down the stairs. They're already having a good time, which makes me glad I said no. I'm grumpy and I'm sure I'd be a downer if I tried to go out. There's no real reason for me to be in such a bad mood. Sure, I lost a patient, but I knew it was going to happen. And yes, my residents are barely keeping their interns in line, so I'm constantly babysitting. But none of that really got to me. I'm just in a shitty mood.

When I get home, it's starting to snow. I keep the porch light on for Alex, but lock the door behind me. I head upstairs and change. And just like clockwork, Derek calls.

"Hey," he says and he sounds about as shitty as I feel.

"You sound just how I feel."

"Bad day?" he asks.

I walk downstairs. "Bad day."

"What do you normally do after a bad day?"

I sit down on the couch and pull my knees to my chest. "Drink, usually, but I'm in no mood to be out and I don't actually feel like drinking. I want chocolate cake. A huge piece. No, an entire cake. That's what I want."

Derek laughs. "Chocolate frosting, too?"

"Of course."

"Buttercream frosting?"

"Is there really any other kind?" I ask.

"You're asking the wrong person. Hold on for a second," he tells me.

I'm used to Derek disappearing during our phone calls. He's always on call and expected to be ready to read some important document or make a call even in the middle of the night. We've been talking for over a month now and only a handful of those calls haven't been interrupted. I turn the TV on and the volume way down. Musak is playing into my ear as I remain on hold.

As of Thursday, Derek's been in office for three months. I've known him for three months. It seems impossible, mostly because he seems so well. Most gun shot victims struggle for the first few months, but I guess he doesn't have the time. Derek doesn't talk about that day much or the days that followed, which is pretty standard. I don't really bring it up, either. Those few days were stressful for me. I was under the biggest microscope and I was terrified that at any moment, I'd become the woman who let the President die. I'm happy he didn't, if only for my career. Of course that's not the only reason.

"So," he says, finally putting a stop to the endless loop of Musak. "Chocolate cake then."

"If we keep talking about chocolate cake I'm going to get depressed because everywhere is closed and I want some right now."

"The thing is, everywhere is closed, unless you're the President."

I feel my cheeks flush. "Derek, what have you done?"

"You'll see in about twenty minutes. Bye." He abruptly ends the call.

For a minute, I sit still. I'm trying to figure out if Derek is sending a cake or if he's about to arrive with a cake and I'm trying to figure out which option I'd like more. I haven't seen him in a month, since he showed up and wanted to try. I blew him off, totally, but he called the next night and we fell into a comfortable pattern. It's been easy just talking to him, but that doesn't mean I don't miss seeing him.