Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

TWO MONTHS LATER

SYDNEY

Tom drinks his coffee with half a packet of sugar.

He always prepares it the same way. When the waitress brings him his coffee, he picks up the sugar packet, pinches it in the middle, and then empties exactly half of it into his coffee. If it's not enough, he will tip the packet to get a few more grains of sugar into the black liquid. It's practically scientific the way he always does it.

When you've been dating someone for two months, you start to notice these things about them. It's when the cracks start to show.

"What would happen if you accidentally drank a coffee with an entire pack of sugar?" I ask as I watch him go through his ritual. It's Sunday afternoon and we're having a lazy brunch together at a diner.

"Well, I would die, obviously." Tom grins at me. "And what about you? What would happen if you didn't drown your coffee in, like, half a cup of cream?"

"Hey, it's not that much."

"It isn't? Look at your cup. You're basically drinking cream with just a tiny bit of coffee in it."

Okay, he isn't entirely wrong. So we both have our quirks. But in general, most of his quirks are very tolerable. He's been to my apartment many times, and he never leaves the toilet seat up or pisses on the seat or uses half the toilet paper in one shot, and he's just generally pretty good about the toilet, which is kind of where a lot of guys go wrong.

He's got plenty of other good qualities, besides his superior toilet habits. He's generous—he always pays for everything when we're together, and whenever they ask in a store if he wants to round up for charity, he always says yes. He likes the same kind of movies as I do, or at least he's pretending to. He can be laugh-out-loud funny sometimes. And if I end up with one of my epic bleeding episodes, whether from my nose or a finger or God knows what, he doesn't get freaked out, which is a bit of a miracle after other guys.

He's also spectacular in bed. I stand by my initial assessment of unbecredifabulous.

Not that it's all great. Like Jake, he is a workaholic. He's at the hospital a lot, including weekends. And the worst part is thinking about what he does when he's there. He's cutting up dead bodies . Sometimes he will come to my apartment after work, and I can't help but think about it as he's kissing me. Even more disturbing is the fact that he feels like kissing me after what he's been doing all day.

But I guess he's been doing it so long it's become normal to him. It probably doesn't bother him at all.

While I'm finishing off the last of my French toast, a little boy runs past our table, his parents close behind. The boy is maybe three years old and pretty darn adorable. He's wearing a set of overalls, and his hair is blond and curly. Tom watches the progress of the kid, a slightly tender expression on his face.

"Cute kid," I comment.

He nods, and for a moment, there is something sad in his expression. "Yeah," he finally says.

It's weird, because there are moments when Tom seems terrified of any sort of commitment, and yet there are other times when we come across a family being cute together—like now—and I can see the longing in his eyes.

I have gently broached the idea of children, just to see where he stands on it. I'm very clear that I am not expecting him to impregnate me in the near future, just trying to get his general thoughts on the idea of fatherhood. But he has been remarkably evasive.

Tom reaches for my hand across the table. He smiles at me, tracing the blue veins on the back of my hand with his thumb. It's something he does a lot. I wonder what he's thinking. He looks like he wants to say something but isn't sure if he should.

"Do you know why veins are blue?" he asks.

Okay, that definitely wasn't what I expected him to say. "Is it because the blood in veins doesn't have oxygen in them?"

"Common misconception." He presses his thumb into a vein running over the back of my hand until it compresses. "But untrue. Deoxygenated blood is still red, although darker. The reason veins are blue is because skin absorbs blue light. The subcutaneous fat will only allow blue light to penetrate to the veins, so this is what you see reflected back by your retina."

Tom is always full of "interesting" facts like that. On one of our dates, he gave me a spontaneous lecture about von Willebrand factor. He seemed a bit embarrassed after, but I thought it was sort of sweet that he bothered to learn about my disorder.

I mean, he must have read up about it. There's no way he could have known all that off the top of his head.

"So," I say, "any interest in seeing a movie this afternoon?"

"Actually, I can't."

"Working?"

He shakes his head. "My mother is driving in this morning and I'm going to see her. She's coming over to my place, then we're going to have dinner."

Considering his father is out of the picture, he seems to have a healthy enough relationship with his mother. "Do you want me to come?"

He yanks his hand away from mine, no longer interested in my veins or why they look blue. He looks like he's about to spit out the coffee he just drank. "To dinner with my mother ?"

Well, that answers that question, doesn't it? "You don't have to say it like I suggested you drink poison."

"We've only been dating for a few months, Sydney."

My cheeks burn. I have completely lost my appetite for the rest of the French toast. "Right. I get it."

"A few months isn't very long."

"I said I get it ."

Tom toys with his napkin, obviously trying to figure out a way to make this right. It's not the first time I've gotten a reaction like this out of him. When I suggested a double date with Gretchen and Randy, he looked like he was about to pop an aneurysm. Granted, he's right—we've only been dating for a short time. But at the same time, I wish he didn't look quite so horrified when I suggested things like that.

"Maybe next time," he mumbles.

Yeah, right. But what can I do? I can either dump the guy because he has commitment issues, or I can hope that things change and continue enjoying incredible sex.

"So what are you doing with your mom then?" I ask.

He rubs his chin. "I thought I might take her to that Middle Eastern restaurant you dragged me to a couple of weeks ago. That was really good. What was it called again?"

"Uh, let me check."

Tom takes another drink of his coffee while I scroll on my phone, trying to figure out the name of the place we went to. Gretchen recommended it, so I have to scroll through our text messages. While I'm doing this, our waitress comes over and flirts shamelessly with Tom. To his credit, he just smiles politely back. He's charming but not a flirt, which I appreciate.

Finally, I find the link to the restaurant's name and address. I copy the link and text it to Tom.

"I sent you the link," I tell him.

I look over at his phone, which he placed on the table at some point during the meal, waiting for it to buzz with a text. But it stays silent.

"That's weird," I say. "Did you get my text with the name of the restaurant?"

"Uh…" He looks down at the screen of his phone, which is black. "Yeah, I think so."

"How do you know that? You didn't even touch your phone and the screen is black."

"Well, the phone is on silent."

"No, it's not. It just buzzed ten minutes ago."

"I don't know." Tom grabs his phone and shoves it in his pocket. "I'm sure I got your text. Anyway, do you really want me looking at my phone while we're eating together?"

"You're constantly looking at your phone while we're eating!"

"Well, I get texts from work. I have to see if they're important."

I don't know why Tom is being difficult right now. I'm not asking him to fly around the earth backward—I just want him to look down at his phone so that he can confirm he got my message. It would take all of half a second.

"Why are you being weird about this?" I narrow my eyes at him. "Why can't you tell me if you got my text or not."

"Jesus. Fine." He takes the phone out of his pocket and taps on the screen. "I got your text. Okay?"

"So what's the name of the restaurant?"

Tom looks down at the screen then up at my face. He lets out a long sigh. "Fine. I didn't get the text message."

Okay, I am utterly confused. Why is he lying about this? It doesn't make any sense. "So should I send it again?"

His jaw tightens. "Send it later."

But I'm not listening to him. I send the text message a second time and look up at him. "Did you get it?"

"I…my phone is broken. Don't worry about it. My mom likes Italian food better anyway."

He is squirming in his seat. He looks so uncomfortable. What the hell is going on?

"Send me a text message," I say.

"What? Why?"

"Why don't you want to send me a text message?"

Tom finally puts down his phone on the table. "Look," he says, "this is my work phone. That's why I don't get your text messages on it."

"Your work phone?" I look down at his iPhone, which looks like the standard one that everybody I know owns. It seems to be the one he always carries. "So where is your personal phone?"

"I don't have it with me. It's at home."

"So you carry your work phone but not your personal phone?"

He shrugs. "I guess. Like I said, I need to make sure there are no emergencies at work."

"What kind of emergencies? Your patients are already dead!"

He shoves his phone back in his pocket. "Look, you asked me a question and I gave you the answer. I don't know what you want from me."

What do I want? I want to know why the number I have for him is clearly not his main phone number. Because I don't believe that the phone he carries around all the time is not his personal phone. That was a bullshit excuse if I have ever heard one.

But there's no point in insisting on an answer. One thing is very clear—Tom is not willing to tell me the truth.