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Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

December 25, 1:37 pm

NESSA

J ack is staying another night! Of course, I’m sorry he can’t get home to his family, but I’m thrilled he’ll be staying here with me.

Also: damn is he a good kisser. I don’t know if it was the buildup of all that tension or the fact that I initiated it, or because it was Jack I was kissing—but he was right, it was at least four times better than any other kiss I’ve ever had.

We’re still in the kitchen, eating peanut butter and brown sugar sandwiches (my dad’s specialty that I loved as a kid) while we try to figure out how we’re going to make latkes with the ingredients he foraged from his freezer.

“Do you really eat these?” I ask, holding up one of the Hungry Man frozen dinners. The Salisbury steak and green beans won’t be of use, but the side of “homestyle” mashed potatoes will be clutch.

He nods. “Sometimes I’m barely home long enough to eat and shower, then crash for a few hours before waking up and heading back to the hospital. They do the trick.”

“That’s sad.”

He shrugs, grimacing. “That’s my life right now. Sad.”

Something about his expression tugs at me. It reminds me of the way he looked when he first walked into my place last night—defeated. I’d assumed it was just because he missed his flight, but maybe there’s more to it.

“Really?” I say, concerned. “You’re not enjoying being a resident?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not meant to be enjoyable. It’s meant to teach you a lot of information and give you a ton of experience, crammed into a few brutal years, all while being pushed to your limit so you’re prepared for whatever happens and can be the best doctor possible.”

His voice sounds hollow, like he’s reciting a script, one he’s heard—or told himself—too many times.

“But hopefully it’ll be worth it?” I offer, not knowing what else to say.

He hesitates, his shoulders sagging. “I mean, I knew it would be hard, but it’s… more than I expected. Some days, I wonder if I’m cut out for it.”

The confession hangs between us, honest and raw. He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze. “Like yesterday, a teenage girl came in with meningitis and died three hours later—we ran the code, did chest compressions, the whole thing. Her mom and grandmother were there watching it all happen and...” He shakes his head, his eyes going glassy, like he’s back in that hospital room.

“And last week,” he goes on, “I had the cutest little four-year-old with leukemia. Doing well with treatment, but then he catches pneumonia and he’s just…gone. And his parents?—”

Jack’s voice catches. He blinks hard and clears his throat. “It’s starting to feel like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to help them, it doesn’t matter.”

His eyes meet mine, his expression guarded, like he’s waiting for judgment. I want to reach out, take his hand, somehow help him see what I can see so clearly: that he cares deeply about these patients and their families, that he would do anything for them.

“It sounds like you’re doing the best you can,” I say, knowing it probably sounds trite.

“Maybe my best isn’t good enough.”

“Jack…” I whisper, my heart aching for him. I know that feeling—the nagging worry of not being enough. I want to tell him that, but before I can, he blinks and gives me a lopsided, apologetic smile.

“Sorry. First time I’ve really said any of that out loud.” He clears his throat and turns his attention back to the frozen dinner. “Anyway, did you know that Salisbury steak was invented by Dr. James Salisbury during the Civil War to help soldiers digest their food more easily?”

I shake my head, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “I did not. Is it even steak?”

“It is not,” Jack admits, laughing, back to the guy I’ve gotten to know in the past few hours. “But it comes with potatoes, which is the point—right?”

“Right.” But in my head, I’m already doubling my Sunday meal prep for the week, making enough for Jack so he doesn’t have to eat these frozen sodium bombs. So he has a little bit of comfort to look forward to after a long day at the hospital taking care of everyone else.

Slow down, Nessa , I scold myself. The last thing I want is to scare Jack away by going way overboard and doing too much—my usual MO. I should just focus on the here and now, making the best of the situation we’re in. Making lemonade out of lemons. Or, in this case, latkes out of frozen potatoes.

An hour and a half later, we’re sitting on the couch about to dig into our latke-like objects and watch Jack’s favorite Christmas movie, which is apparently controversial.

“What do we think?” Jack asks, looking down at the plate of fried potato goodness in front of us.

“Well, they look like latkes—but the real measure will be in how they taste.”

We put the ingredients Jack brought into ChatGPT, and it spit out a recipe for us: equal parts mashed potatoes, finely chopped French fries, and pre-cooked hash browns, plus a few other things we had in the apartment—eggs, flour, salt and pepper. And of course, the condiments.

“Which do you recommend?” Jack asks, nodding toward the two bowls I put on the table.

“That depends what team you’re on.”

Jack quirks an eyebrow.

“You see, there are a lot of different kinds of Jews. You may have heard of some of them—like Sephardic or Ashkenazi. Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform. But…” I pause for effect. “The one thing that really divides us is the question: do you put sour cream or applesauce on your latkes.”

Jack nods as if he’s filing the information away for a future trivia contest. “I should probably try them both.”

“Good decision.”

I watch as he cuts a latke in half and puts one of the toppings on each piece. He’s taking this seriously, and I both appreciate it and find it hilarious.

“Gotta cleanse my palate,” he says, taking a big sip of water and swirling it around his mouth.

The sour cream one is first. “Crunchy, creamy, tart.”

Another sip of water. Then, the applesauce. “Sweet, but not too sweet.”

“So?” I ask. He kept his expression stoic, so I couldn’t tell which one he liked better.

“I didn’t dislike either of them,” he says. “But if I had to choose one….” He takes another bite of each. “I’d have to say I’m an Applesauce Gentile. The sweet and salty just does it for me.”

“I knew I liked you.” I heap a spoonful of applesauce and an extra dash of salt on my own latke. “Now let’s get into the Christmas spirit by watching Bruce Willis try to stop some bad guys—which sounds oddly Jewish. Most of our holiday stories involve a tragedy and how we persevered.”

I tell him abridged stories of several Jewish holidays—including Passover and our escape from slavery in Egypt, and Purim, where an evil man was stopped from annihilating the Jews in Persia—and by the time I finish, he’s staring at me, mouth open.

My cheeks flush. “Sorry, that was a lot. Sometimes I get excited and don’t know when to stop.”

“No, I love it.” He taps his temple. “Can never have too many factoids stored up here to bust out.”

I laugh, relieved.

“And never apologize for getting excited,” he says, knocking his shoulder into mine. “It’s cute.”

My cheeks flush again—this time, from pleasure. His words can’t erase all the times I’ve been told I’m “too much,” but they nudge some of the ache aside. For the first time, I wonder if someone might see my quirks, my enthusiasm, everything I’ve tried to tone down—and think I’m just right.

“You know who else is cute?” I say, and Jack’s eyebrows do a little dance. “Yes, you. Obviously. But I was thinking about Bruce Willis.”

Jack laughs and throws his arm around my shoulder. I’m thrilled—until he grabs the remote and hits play. Apparently, he actually wants to watch the movie.

Oh well. I snuggle into his side and pull the blankets up around us. We can Netflix now, then do the “and chill” part after.

Something to look forward to…

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