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The air is almost frigid in the backseat.
Jack is grateful to the Uber driver for cranking up the AC, but he can see Samira shivering slightly from the corner of his eye. He wishes he had a jacket to give her. His bare arm brushes against the bulging bag of meds between them.
Samira impulsively opens the bag. She starts checking the items again.
“Hey,” he says at length, placing his hand near hers over the bag. “You got everything.”
She shakes her head with a weak smile. “No, this is really not much –”
“It’ll get him through a few days of home care. That’s a lot. Trust me.” He pauses. Looks away from her at the tinted window. “Been there.”
Samira relents. Her fingers slide away. She shivers again.
Jack clears his throat. “Excuse me. Sir. Is it possible to turn down the AC?”
The driver hems and haws. He tells him the cooling system is finnicky. It only works in extremes. If he tries to turn it down, it’ll be too hot.
“It’s okay, I’m fine. I prefer the cold,” Samira mumbles from her corner.
“No, you don’t,” Jack tells her, softly, looking away again.
It’s awkward between them in the crammed backseat of this car. He doesn’t quite know why. He’s usually good at smoothing out the edges of a conversation, especially with women.
He doesn’t understand why it doesn’t work with Samira. Why it can’t be easy-going, surface-level.
Hell, he’d met Dr. Al-Hashimi an hour ago and had already suggested drinks. He hadn’t had to think about that interaction, hadn’t had to consider the words he’d chosen or the tone of voice. It had been as routine as finding a viable airway. As natural and normal as breathing.
They’re predictably stuck in traffic, so he has time to think about these things.
The Beautiful Ones suddenly blasts from the driver’s playlist.
Don’t make me waste my time, Prince croons. Don’t make me lose my mind, baby.
Jack catches Samira trying to Shazam the song on her phone. He smiles.
“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize Prince.”
Samira blinks up at him. She returns a wavering smile. “Oh, you’re right. It does sound like him.”
“Not a big fan of Purple Rain, huh?” he drawls, feeling his age, all of a sudden.
“Um. I guess I only know “Purple Rain” from that album. Cuz everyone knows that song.” She shrugs. “I haven’t sat down to listen to music since…high school, maybe?”
He frowns. “Huh.”
She shrugs again. “Even when I have my earbuds in, I’m usually listening to, like, boring instrumental stuff or white noise.” She ducks her head. “But maybe I should listen to Purple Rain.”
Jack wants to tell her she doesn’t have to do anything. He wants to say, I like white noise too.
But Prince is belting, If I told you, baby, that I was in love with you, Oh baby, baby, baby, If we got married, would that be cool? and he lets the thing play out as they sit in awkward silence.
He recalls dancing with his wife to this song at their wedding. That feels like a different world; a different planet.
He thinks about the fact that his wife never made him feel nervous like this. He’d called that love, that comforting sense of predictability. And it had been love, known and safe.
Samira breaks the silence to thank him again for deciding to come with her. And insisting – again – that he didn’t need to. That maybe he shouldn’t have.
Jack is almost tempted to agree. There was no clear reason to overextend himself like this. Other than the fact that when he’d hovered near her workstation, waiting for her to locate Mr. Diaz, he had felt discomfited by the red-rimmed sadness in her eyes. He hadn’t liked the idea of letting her go do this thing alone.
He doesn’t tell her this, of course.
He says, “yeah well, at least when Robby gives you hell for it later, I can jump in and say it was my idea.”
Samira snorts. “You know he won’t buy that. He’ll know exactly whose idea it was. But thank you, anyway.”
Jack nods, not looking at her, avoiding her eyes. He drums two fingers against his knee. “Don’t mention it.”
Prince is still singing, screeching with relish, Tell me, babe, do you want me? I gotta know, I gotta know, Do you want me?
Samira squirms in her seat as the crooning grows louder. She leans her head back and closes her eyes.
She mumbles something inaudible. He bends his head towards her.
“Say that again.”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” she insists, eyes still closed.
And because the power of her eyes is diminished, Jack feels confident enough in the moment to reach out with his hand. He touches her forearm.
Samira jumps a little. She opens her eyes.
Jack doesn’t pull his hand away completely. He could say his elbow got stuck to the bag between them. He could blame it on the awkwardness.
In any case, his thumb still grazes skin.
“I just –” Samira swallows, fingering her pager, “I’m realizing we were probably more needed at the hospital. We’re still getting a lot of patients from Westbridge. We should be back there.”
Jack strokes his thumb against her wrist, once, twice. “Beating yourself up right now is not gonna help those patients or Mr. Diaz. Or yourself, for that matter.”
“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” she adds, shaking her head.
“You did not. I volunteered. I’m here because I want to be.”
His throat feels dry. He swallows. He doesn’t know why he wants to be here.
Sure, he likes her as a person. As a colleague. He admires her. She’s the future. He saw that at PittFest.
But he doesn’t know her like that. Does he?
They’re not friends. Not quite. He couldn’t suggest going out for drinks like he did with Al-Hashimi.
And why not?
Is it just because she’s younger?
Is it about hierarchy? Power? Experience?
Unresolved issues? Trauma? His fucking leg?
No. It’s none of those things.
He inhales, grateful for the frigid air, cooling the sweat behind his ears. “Just – just be in this car right now, Samira. Okay? And stop worrying.”
She glances at him. “But –”
“Can you do that for me? Can you just be?”
The ‘with me’ part almost slips out. He feels relieved it didn’t. He feels stupid it almost did. He blames it on the enclosed space.
Samira bites her lower lip. Behind her, traffic moves sluggishly. Dust particles tint her eyelashes.
Every part of her physiognomy is incredibly precise and delicate, he notes to himself. Sweat glistens beautifully down her face.
“Okay. I can do that for you.”
The softness in her voice – the sweet relenting note – makes his stomach churn.
I can do that for you.
He nods, jaw flaring. He finally removes his thumb from her wrist.
Prince is no longer imploring his beloved. But the echo of his words lingers like the cold air.
If I told you, baby, that I was in love with you…
And Jack Abbot is spooked by a different kind of ease.
Not the ease of casual banter, nor the smoothness of meaningless, friendly flirtation.
He is afraid – and, to some extent, elated – to find whole years, whole feelings and memories being put aside, softly suspended, melting away, as his heart jump-starts again.