Page 4 of Anatomy of a Meet Cute
Sam chastised herself. Why hadn’t she checked for an erratic pulse? No wonder he was surprised she could identify a mushroom. She had failed to do the most basic of crisis-management procedures. They literally taught that to fifth graders in babysitting classes. Her face rapidly cooled as all the blood rushed out of it to make way for ashen humiliation as the wheels of the plane bumped along the tarmac. Dr.Sexy hadn’t offered her his seat to be nice. He’d offered her his seat to get her out of the way while he did the real medical stuff. At least he’d done it nicely. Looking down at the sweatshirt in her lap, she picked up the item and began carefully folding it. If she couldn’t do a good job doctoring, at least she could fold with military precision.
As people on the plane began to shift, Sam risked a glance up to where the doctor was still wall sitting and talking to Mark in a low whisper, probably checking for pupil dilation, because she hadn’t. The corner of her mind where she had stuffed her ill-advised physical reaction noted that it was particularly difficult to maintain a wall sit for the length of time he was managing. The rest of her mind began to wonder how she was going to disembark when all her stuff was in the back of the plane, where the budgetiest of the budget seats were located.
Ears popping as the cabin depressurized, Sam watched Dr.Sexy help Mark out of his chair and into the arms of the first responders. At least she could relax now, knowing she would never see Mark or Dr.Sexy again. As soon as she could get back to 30A, she was off this disastermobile and free to forget her experiment in emergency medicine and heroics.
As the flow of passenger traffic slowed, Sam gently placed the sweatshirt on the doctor’s seat and began the arduous process of making her way to the back of the plane to get her things. As Sam row hopped her way to the back of the plane—ducking into row 10, then 17, then 25—passersby congratulated her on helping. Sam felt every inch a fraud. She hadn’t helped anyone.
Retrieving her bag from the overhead bin, Sam began her trudge back toward the front of the plane, grateful only the flight attendants were left to see her gracelessly knock her rolling suitcase into the armrest of nearly every row. Frowning down at her uncooperative suitcase, she had just enough time to wonder why she couldn’t wheel the stupid thing in a straight line when a voice caught her attention.
“No big deal. Happy to help,” Dr.Sexy told an airline attendant as he stepped back onto the plane.
For a brief moment, Sam thought about diving into the row she was standing near and hiding until he deplaned. She was taller than normal thanks to the stupid platform sneakers her mother had insisted she buy, but she could crouch and maybe—
“Hello,” Dr.Sexy said, picking up his sweatshirt. Waving the crisply folded garment at her, he added, “Thanks for this.”
Grasping at words through the pit of her humiliation, Sam cleared her throat and let what she hoped was a gracious smile cross her face. “Well, I can’t remember to take someone’s vitals, but I can fold, so at least there is that. Thank you for your help.”
The guy shrugged. The half smile was back, showing off a faint dimple in his cheek that Sam promptly ignored. She didn’t need another misguided physical reaction right now. “It was more important to keep him calm so we could land. It was clear he wasn’t dying, and the paramedics would have done the vitals again anyway.”
Turning to face the exit, he started walking, and Sam followed, still knocking her bag into every armrest, despite the aisle being wider in first class. Reaching the jet bridge, he turned with a sort of casualeconomy that reminded Sam of celebrities on a red carpet. Not at all like he was in a hurry but rather like he had a sort of graceful schedule to keep. Passing the sweatshirt to his left hand, he held out his free hand to her and said, “I’m Grant.”
“Sam. Nice to meet you, Grant.”
“Nice to meet you too.” He smiled, then added, “Little tip for your fellowship: You’re a doctor now. If someone like me barges in on your patient, you can tell them to back off.”
The attraction Sam had been fighting died in the middle of the frigid San Francisco jet bridge. “I did.”
Grant raised an eyebrow at her, and the familiar sensation of being on unsure footing returned, as if he were her professor. A better-looking professor than anyone she’d had at Case Western but still distinctly professorial.
“I mean, I didn’t know you were a doctor when I asked you why you weren’t in your seat, but I most definitely did tell you to go away.”
“Did you? Because I heard a barrage of questions about a call button,” Grant asked, his half smile turning into a smirk.
Sam tried not to sound indignant as she snapped back, “It’s not my fault you failed to read the room.”
“No. I guess it isn’t.” Grant shrugged, amusement still written on his face. He was laughing at her. This was officially the worst career experience ever. “Do you live in San Francisco?”
“I do,” Sam said, grateful for the subject change as she began walking again, bumping her way through the entrance to the boarding gate.
“So do I. Do you need a ride to the city? We could split a car.”
Sam marveled at Grant’s delivery, so friendly, as if he weren’t offering to share a cab with someone he had just insulted only moments before. Nothing could be less desirable than a twenty-five-minute ride back to the city in which she had to hear about her numerous failures as delivered by Dr.Grant. That was a hard pass from her, thanks.
“That’s nice of you to offer. I have a friend coming to pick me up.” Sam watched his face fall, and a small corner of her heart twinged with guilt. But not enough guilt to make her offer him a seat in her imaginary friend’s car. “I’d offer you a ride, but he drives a two-seater from 1987. You don’t want to ride in that thing.”
Guilt averted. Her midwestern-white-lady mother would be so proud of the brush-off she’d just delivered. Besides, if he could afford to fly first class, he could afford a forty-five-dollar ride home. In fact, he was probably offering her a ride because she’d admitted to being a lowly, overworked and underpaid, newly minted fellow.
“You’re right; I choose life.” Grant smiled at her joke, and the guilty twinge kicked back up a notch. “Get home safe.”
“You too,” Sam called as he began walking toward the SFO rideshare pickup spot, a fancy new phone in his hand. She waited a beat before wheeling her bag over toward the BART entrance. Sure, it would take her twice as long and be three times as unpleasant as sharing a car, but at least public transit wouldn’t judge her performance today. Wrestling her suitcase through the ticket barrier, Sam was convinced her pride was worth the hassle.
Chapter Two
Sam tumbled through the door of her third-floor walk-up, sweaty. Why had she let her stupid pride get in the way of sharing a ride with Grant? He could have berated her for twenty-five straight minutes, and it would have made the absurd BART-to-Muni-to-hiking-up-the-Potrero-Hill-of-doom trek home seem like the foxtrot. Really, the two flights of stairs up to her shared apartment were just salt in a very open judgment wound.
“Look who’s back,” Duke’s low voice called from the living room, where he and their other roommate, Jehan, were sprawled on the couches, his beloved Louisiana State University Tigers baseball game on at top volume.
“Hey,” Sam called, closing the front door with her sneaker. After shoving her suitcase down the narrow hallway that led to their bedrooms and the shared bathroom, she turned and marched toward the couch, then flopped onto the empty space next to her roommate with a muffled thud.
