Page 119 of Wistful Whispers

Boston’s a frozen postcard—too bright, too clean, too cheery.

Marcella tugs her red knit hat over her ears and loops her arm through mine like we belong here.

Maybe we do.

The icy air nips at my face when we step out of the hotel, our breath visible with every exhale. It’s December and the city’s wrapped in an end-of-year hum—twinkling lights in the trees, street musicians playing jazz near the corner of Harvard Square, a kid trying to juggle while wearing mittens.

I’m still riding the high from my presentation this morning at Harvard Medical School to neurosurgical staff. I’m not sure what I expected.

Definitely not a packed room.

Instead of awkward silence or schoolboy snickering—which, let’s be honest, I half expected after presenting a neuroanatomical breakdown of the female orgasm—I got a standing ovation. A few muffled chuckles, sure. A flushed med student or two ducking their heads. Mostly? Serious questions. Respectful curiosity. Three different professors asked if I’d consider coming back to teach or taking on a full-time research fellowship.

At HarvardFuckingMedical School.

Marcella was in the back row, grinning like she knew something the rest of the room hadn’t figured out yet. Well, I guess she does because she’s the beneficiary of most of my research. Seriously, though, she’s always told me I’d be great at public speaking. Her support gave me confidence.

I can’t wipe the grin off my face when I look at her. The kind of love we share really does something to you.

“You gonna tell me what you’re smiling about or gape at me like a psychopath?” Marcella bumps my hip with hers as we pass a bookstore window full of leather-bound journals and expensive, pretentious pens no one actually uses.

I laugh. “If things work out, I’m wondering how we’re gonna explain my profession to our moms.”

“Oh God.” Marcella stops and puts her gloved hands up to her mouth. “I never thought about it.”

I shake my head and wince. “Your mom will be like, ‘What kind of fellowship is it, Seamus?’ I’ll say, ‘Female sexual response in relation to neuroanatomical stimulation and cortical response mapping,’ and she’ll faint.”

“She’s Spanish. She won’t faint. She’ll pour you a sangria and pray for your soul.” Marcella mimics a prayer. “I’m more interested in what you’re going to tell your brothers.”

I make a pinching motion with my fingers. “I’ll say I’m mapping the clitoris. I’ll be a hero.”

She swats my face with the fluffy end of the scarf.

“Seriously.” I laugh. “I love surgery. This research is a game changer. I’ve spent so long trying to prove to Caldwell I deserve to be in the OR. With Madison and this work, I’m creating something of my own instead of trying to measure up.”

I smile to myself at the thought of Caldwell. It's funny, he didn’t blow up when he found out Marcella and I were a couple a few months ago. No threats, no terse warnings—only a long, tired sigh and a dry, “Well, I guess it explains some things.”

He hasn’t mentioned it since. Things are…fine. Neutral. Every now and then I catch a look in his eyes—less judgment, more resignation. He knows who I am. Who he is.

Now who we are.

She beams. “I love you so much.”

“So, business as usual, then?” We stop at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for the walk signal. She shivers slightly, and I tug her closer. “Still cold?”

“I seem to always be cold right now.” Marcella puts her hand in my coat pocket.

With my free hand, I tug my scarf loose and wind it around her neck. “We could go back inside where I could warm you up properly.”

“Save it for after pizza. I’m starving.” She arches a brow.

We find a cozy spot off Brattle Street, an old-world place with brick walls and a wood-burning oven. We’re seated in five minutes.

“You know, if this law thing doesn’t work out,” I pick up the menu, “you could have a career in managing problematic neurosurgeons.”

“Only if they’re as hot as you…Orgasm Whisperer.” She reaches for my hand across the table.

I thread my fingers between hers. “Today was the first time in months I didn’t feel like the guy who almost got kicked out of his program.”

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