Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

PRESENT DAY

SYDNEY

I look like the victim in some kind of slasher film.

I have locked myself in the bathroom at the coffee shop, waiting for Mystery Man, a.k.a. Tom, to return with a clean shirt for me. I have managed to clean off all the blood on my face, but I stupidly chose to wear a pale pink color. It looks bad. If I had to walk home this way, I would definitely get some stares. There is a non-zero chance somebody might call the police.

On top of that, I don't exactly look my best. It's hard to look like a movie star after you've just lost half the blood in your body out through your nose. Part of me wishes that Tom would ask to reschedule our dinner for another night, but another part of me feels like if we do that I'll never hear from him again.

There's a knock at the bathroom door, and when I pull it open, Tom is standing there with a white shirt crumpled in his hand. He thrusts it in my direction. "Small, right?"

I accept the shirt and hold it out in front of me. Oh no.

"I am not wearing a shirt that says ‘I Love New York'!"

He smirks at me. "Why not? Don't you love New York?"

"I'm going to look like a freaking tourist!"

"At least you won't look like a murder victim."

I can't deny that he has a point. I reluctantly keep the shirt and lock myself back in the bathroom. I remove the dirty blouse and slide on my new, embarrassingly touristy T-shirt.

Well, it could be worse. At least it doesn't have a picture of an apple on it. And I do have a jacket I can hide it with.

I smooth out my hair and apply a fresh layer of lipstick. After another minute, I feel almost presentable again. I attempt to squeeze the blouse into my purse, but it's a lost cause—my little delicate purse fits my wallet and not much else. I guess I'll have to throw it out or else hold it in my hand for the rest of the date, which is not an appealing option.

I pull open the bathroom door and Tom is waiting there, wearing a light Thinsulate jacket, his arms folded across his chest. Once again, I am struck by how handsome he is.

He flashes me a thumbs-up. "Looks great. I only wish I'd gotten you the Statue of Liberty snow globe to go with it."

"What do I owe you for the T-shirt?" This awful thing probably cost like fifty bucks.

"Don't be silly—it's my treat."

"Well, thanks." I hold up my bloody blouse. "Not to be gross, but I'm not sure what to do with this. It doesn't fit in my purse."

He pats his jacket. "This thing has huge pockets. Give it here."

I'm impressed that he's not so grossed out by my blood-soaked shirt that he's unwilling to touch it, and that he'll even risk staining his pockets. Then again, he is a doctor.

"You ready?" Tom asks. "If we walk over to Sixth Street, we'll have our choice of a bunch of great Indian places. As long as you like Indian food…?"

"Love it," I say.

He grins at me. "Look at that. We've got something in common."

We head through the coffee shop, and Tom holds the door for me. I've been on a lot of dates, but it's actually rare for a man to hold the door. On top of everything else, he's a gentleman too.

"By the way," I say, "I don't want you to think I get horrible nose bleeds like that all the time."

"Good to know." He cocks his head thoughtfully. "That was an impressive spontaneous epistaxis though. I mean, it wasn't that dry in the coffee shop. I hope you weren't picking it."

Even though he's teasing me, my face flushes scarlet. " No ."

"I remember that first time we met, you had…" He touches his forehead, where I had been attractively gushing blood on our first meeting. "You know…"

I may as well be honest. He's got to suspect something, and it's better he knows the truth than thinks I'm a picker. "Actually, I have a mild bleeding disorder."

"Oh yeah?" His black eyebrows shoot up. "Von Willebrand's disease? Factor X deficiency? Factor II?"

"Von Willebrand's disease," I confirm before he can keep guessing. I'm slightly impressed—even my primary care doctor didn't seem to know much about it. He had to Google it right in front of me.

"It's the most common inherited bleeding disorder." He grins sheepishly. "Sorry, I'm kind of a nerd when it comes to this stuff. In med school, I was always the kid who knew way more than I needed to for the test. But it does sometimes come in handy at work."

Tom doesn't seem like any kind of nerd. He actually seems pretty much perfect, to the point where it's annoying. He's gorgeous, clearly very smart, charming, and he's a doctor . Of course, I've had a bit of an aversion to the idea of dating a doctor ever since what happened to Bonnie, although I'm now convinced that guy was lying about his profession, as well as everything else. In any case, most women don't have any aversion to dating doctors.

But he's in his mid-thirties and still single. So there must be something wrong with him. Probably serious commitment issues, like half the other single guys in their thirties.

We arrive at the Indian restaurant, and again, Tom holds the door open for me. I am inspecting everything he does, watching for the usual red flags. He doesn't refuse to sit at the first place we are brought to because he must be sitting, like, due north or something, he doesn't inspect all the silverware for imperfections, and when we are seated, he doesn't declare that there's a weird smell in the restaurant and we have to leave immediately. He, in fact, pulls out my chair for me, which is refreshingly sweet.

"You have very good manners," I tell him.

He looks pleased by the compliment. "My mother taught me."

Oh—a mama's boy. I wait for some extended soliloquy about his sainted mother and about how no woman will ever live up to her. But it doesn't come. He is still frustratingly perfect.

"Are you close with your mother?" I ask.

He lifts a shoulder. "Somewhat. My dad died of a heart attack when I was in high school, so it's just been me and her since then."

"Oh…" I clasp a hand over my mouth. "I'm so sorry. My father died of a heart attack a few years ago, and it was so sudden and devastating. It must've been even harder at such a young age."

"Yeah," he says, although his jaw tightens. It's clear he's not eager to talk about his father‘s death on our first date, and I can't say I blame him. Time to change the subject.

"So," I say, "where do you work?"

"I'm at NYU."

Nice—not far from my apartment. "And what kind of doctor are you?"

He hesitates, like he's not sure he wants to tell me. "I'm a pathologist."

"A pathologist ? Isn't that the kind of doctor who cuts up dead bodies all day?"

He frowns as he makes a little tear in the napkin in front of him. "That's not all a pathologist does, you know. If you have a tumor and your doctor takes a biopsy, a pathologist is the one who looks at it under the microscope and tells you if you have cancer or not."

"Oh." My cheeks burn. "I'm sorry. So…is that what you do? Look at tumor samples under the microscope?"

"Well, no," he admits. "I'm a medical examiner. So I mostly do autopsies."

"So you cut up dead bodies all day."

He makes a face at me.

"And you enjoy that?"

"Well, it's my job . I find it intellectually stimulating, if that's what you're asking."

Okay, so the guy cuts up dead bodies for a living. That's…interesting. Maybe there's a good reason why he is still single.

"What do you do?" he asks, clearly eager to change the subject.

"I'm an accountant."

His face relaxes. "Oh, that's great. Very practical."

"Thank you. I was considering becoming a fortune teller, but then I was like, no, not practical—accountant would be better."

He laughs. "I can see why somebody might get stuck between those two career choices."

"Anyway," I say, "I enjoy it well enough." I clear my throat. "That is to say, I don't hate it."

"I might have some questions about my 401(k) to ask you."

"Get in line."

He laughs again, his eyes crinkling in a way that I find undeniably sexy. I love the way he's looking at me. Part of me feels like he is way out of my league, but he's not looking at me that way. He's looking at me like he wants to throw me on the table and make love to me right now but is too polite to do so.

The waitress brings us glasses of water and offers to take our order. I've barely had time to glance at the menu, so I just get my favorite: chicken tikka masala. I appreciate the fact that Tom lets me order first and doesn't pass any sort of judgment on my food choices or pressure me to order something I don't want. He also doesn't stare at the waitress's rather large breasts.

"You know," he says after the waitress leaves, "I wanted to ask you for your number the first time I met you."

"Why didn't you?"

"Are you kidding?" He sips from his glass of water. "You just got attacked by your date. What kind of asshole do you think I am? And also"—he pauses—"I was sort of at the tail end of a relationship then."

"Oh." I raise my eyebrows. "A serious relationship?"

"Not exactly." He shifts in his chair, obviously not excited to talk about it. "Anyway, it's over now. Definitely over."

My eyes fall on his left hand, verifying once again that his ring finger is bare. And he doesn't have any wedding-band tan lines either. "Have you ever been married?"

"No, never." He grimaces slightly when he says it, as if it upsets him that he has never been married. "You?"

"No, never. But I'd like to get married." Oh my God, why did I say that? You never, ever say that on a first date—it's a cardinal rule. There's something about this guy that makes me let my guard down. "I mean, someday ."

"Well, then." Tom raises his water glass. "Here's to someday."

And as we clink our glasses together, I wonder if it's possible that Tom could be my someday.