Page 36 of Clinically Awkward

I swallowed, trying to convince myself.

I finished reorganizing the gauze—stacked the IV bags by size, the crinkle of plastic and distant hum of conversation in the hallway underscoring my mounting frustration. My jaw tightened as I made a mental note to have a blisteringly serious conversation with Nathan about the difference between “organized” and “chaos in physical form.” The task kept my hands busy, though my mind was anything but settled.

When I finally reached reception, the area was deserted—Winnie had vanished, probably the moment her shift ended. Her absence left the space eerily quiet, the muted glow of sunset spilling through frosted glass and painting the desk in pale gold. I could almost hear the faint tick of the clock above the door, measuring out the moments of solitude.

Smart woman.

I grabbed my bag from behind the desk, the scratch of zipper teeth and faint aroma of coffee grounds rising from somewhere nearby. I was digging for my keys when the soft tap of footsteps echoed behind me, each one raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Ready?” The word hung in the air, low and steady.

I turned to find Quinton standing there, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, looking annoyingly put-together for someone who’d just worked a full shift in the ER. The sharp scent of his cologne cut through the lingering hospital air, a reminder that he always seemed to have it together.

“Ready for what?” I asked, my voice thinner than I meant.

He blinked. “Thai food? The new place on Chapel Street? We talked about this literally fifteen minutes ago.” His words were light, but the way he studied me—one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together—made the temperature in the room drop by a few degrees.

Oh. Oh no. My heart thudded, echoing louder than the distant sounds of carts rolling down the hallway.

“I—” I started, then stopped, the words slipping away. “I’m so sorry. My boyfriend just texted. He wants to have dinner tonight.” The sentence rang out, brittle and forced, the sterile brightness of the overhead lights making everything feel exposed.

Quinton’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.

The quiet between us grew, punctuated only by the faint click of his bag strap as he shifted it.

“No problem,” he said easily. “We can do Thai another time.” His voice was calm, but I felt something slip away—a chance, maybe, or just the easy camaraderie we’d built.

“Are you sure? Because I feel terrible.” My fingers toyed with my keys, the cold metal biting against my palm.

“Viv.” He smiled, and it looked genuine. “It’s fine. Go have dinner with your boyfriend. I’ll survive.” His words were warm, but I sensed the cool undertone beneath.

“You could still go,” I offered, my voice low—almost apologetic. “Get takeout or something.”

“And eat pad see ew alone in my apartment while watching true crime documentaries?” He shook his head, a rueful smile ghosting his lips. “That’s a little too ‘emotionally unavailable bachelor’ even for me.” The echo of his laughter reverberated through the empty reception area, but the space between us only seemed to widen.

I laughed too, but it felt hollow, the sound barely stirring the stale air. As Quinton turned to leave, guilt prickled beneath my skin, settling like a stone in my chest. A flash of disappointment swept through me, heavy and persistent—his easy acceptance made it worse, not better.

“Rain check?” I asked softly, the words barely audible amid the hiss of the air vent.

“Rain check,” he confirmed, his footsteps fading into the corridor. I was about to say something else—some gesture to bridge the gap—when my phone buzzed again, its vibration humming against the wood of the desk.

Colton: Can’t wait to see you tonight, babe. It’s been too long

I looked up, but Quinton was already gone, leaving only the faint echo of his footsteps and the uncomfortable silence behind.

The restaurant Colton chose was nice—almost offensively so. It radiated a soft, cultivated hush, the sort that made every clink of crystal sound like a minor scandal. Starched white tablecloths stretched taut over tables, each one crowned with a flickering candle and glassware that caught and fractured the light. The air was thick with the scent of polished silver, aged wine, and some subtle cologne that felt miles out of my league. The menu looked like it belonged in a museum, and I half-expected the sommelier to quiz me on the soil composition of the Rhône valley.

It was too nice, actually. The kind of place where even laughter felt obliged to lower its voice, and I felt as though I should be sitting up straight, minding my elbows, and folding my napkin with surgical precision. I could feel every eye—or maybe just my own anxiety—pressing on me.

I hated it immediately. My stomach tightened, and I wished I could disappear into the folds of my coat. The scent of polished silver and expensive wine made me feel out of place—as if the whole scene was a performance I hadn’t rehearsed for.

Colton was already there when I walked in, glued to his phone, thumb flicking through glossy images that probably mirrored the room’s perfection. He looked up, offered a smile crafted for photos, and stood to kiss me. His cologne—something sharp and expensive—lingered as he drew back.

“You look amazing,” he said.

“Thanks.” My voice barely registered, muffled by the weight of the room and everything unspoken.

I slipped into the chair, trying not to scrape it against the floor, wishing for the comfort of a booth or, better yet, anonymity.