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I want to tell him more, but I can't, so I say what I can. "Only that things are changing and I'm scared."
"To start your residency?" he asks.
That is true. I nod. "It will be hard. And I'll be away from everyone I love."
"Is Irvine really that far?"
No, of course not. I won't be in Irvine. I won't be sixty miles away in a neighboring county, in a city where I've spent hundreds of hours (Grandma and Grandpa used to live in the neighboring city, Newport Beach. They were a ten-minute drive from UCI. They were practically in the university's back door).
I'll be three thousand miles away in an unfamiliar city. I've only been to New York a few times. And never even in the winter. How am I going to survive rain and snow and cold?
A six-hour plane ride between me and everyone I love.
Plus, all the traffic going to and from the airport.
I know my program adviser. I know a few people from med school or undergrad. But I don't know anyone outside of medicine.
I'll be all alone there.
What I've claimed I wanted for so long.
"What if I can't handle it?" I say. "What if I'm not good enough? What if I spent all these years studying but I fail when the rubber meets the road?"
"What if?" he asks.
My brow furrows. What does he meanwhat if?What kind of question is that?
He sees the frustration on my face, but he doesn't take it personally. He stays soft and open. "Think through it. What would happen if you're not good enough?"
"I could get kicked out of the program." My stomach drops. It's almost too scary to consider. But the truth is, I consider it all the time. In that vague, abstract sense of danger. And right now, I feel all of that. The tension in my chest. The dryness in my throat. The pure horror of losing everything I've worked for my entire life.
"You're scared." Jackson studies my expression the way a scientist would. As if he's fascinated by every curve or line.
Usually, that kind of stare makes me feel awkward and exposed. I still feel exposed—these are things I don't discuss—but I feel comfortable enough.
It's uncomfortable as hell. But I wouldn't want to be uncomfortable with anyone else.
"Terrified," I say.
He offers his hand.
I take it and squeeze hard.
He squeezes back. "Is it all or nothing? You're good enough or you get kicked out?"
"No. I might just be the worst person in the program."
"What happens then?" he asks.
"I guess I'd work harder. More hours. More studying. So much I lose myself."
"Is that how it feels?" he asks.
"Sometimes." It's hard to explain, but I want to tell him about it. I want him to understand. "School is consuming and residency is supposed to be worse. I love medicine, but it takes all my time. All my energy. There isn't much left for me."
"What if it does?"
"What do you mean?" Why is he asking such weird questions?
