Chapter Text
Mel pushes the button to summon the parking garage elevator once. Then twice. Then a third time, before pressing her ear to the cold metal doors, praying to hear the sound of the mechanisms whirring to life. The thing’s been on the fritz for the last month, working for a few days and then dying again in an endless cycle, and she doesn’t fully trust it. Whitaker did get stuck for nearly half an hour the other day. But she barely got to sit down for what had turned into a fourteen-hour shift, she’d had to park all the way up on the fifth floor that morning, and she’s already late for her plans with Becca.
The elevator shaft is eerily silent, and she pulls back with a heavy sigh just in time to see the little red light at the center of the call button flicker out. Time of death, 9:17. Mel hangs her head and turns to the stairs. Time to start climbing.
It is statistically improbable that the 80 steps up the parking garage stairs will kill her, but not impossible.
By step 27, she’s breathing heavily. It’s the frigid February air filling her lungs. Not that she’s so out of shape. That’s what she tells herself. By step 62, there’s a stitch in her side. Maybe she should take up Trinity’s offer to join her kickboxing class. Mel has been trying to find more hobbies. It could be fun. And a little therapeutic. She doesn’t think of herself as a violent person. She can’t even watch action movies without cringing away from the screen at the fight scenes. But it probably would feel nice to hit something every now and then.
93 steps later, the back of her neck is prickly with sweat despite the freezing temperature, but her car is in sight. Mel sticks her hand in the pocket of her puffer coat, gloved fingers curling around the clicker for her ancient Honda Accord. She’s just pressed the unlock button when her phone starts to buzz in her other pocket. It’s definitely Becca, wondering where she is and prevaricating over where they should go for dinner. Not that they’ll have a ton of options at 9:30 at night.
It’ll be Italian. It’s always Italian. Spaghetti and pizza are Becca’s primary safe foods. And that’s fine. It’s one less decision Mel has to make on a day when she’s already made thousands.
Fishing the device from her pocket, she accepts the call without even checking the ID and presses it to her ear.
“Hey, Becca. I’m getting in the car right now. I’m sorry, I’m running late again.”
“It’s okay,” Becca replies. “We don’t have to go to dinner.”
“But it’s Friday…” Mel freezes in her tracks, fingers curled around the door handle. “We always go to dinner…”
“I know…” Becca says. “But Adam’s parents brought him a new Lego set today. It’s an aquarium. I’m building a crab right now. He’s gonna be really cute.”
“Oh…”
The stinging at the corners of her eyes has little to do with the cold. Mel is not going to cry over this. This is fine. She’s the one who’s two hours late for their plans. It just feels like this is becoming more and more frequent of an occurrence, Becca cancelling or changing their plans last minute. But it really is fine. She’s happy for her sister, despite her initial shock over the revelation that her twin had been in a relationship for months without telling her. It just… stings. Becca’s been the center of her world for… their entire lives. The fact that Mel has been displaced in her sister’s is something she’s still getting used to.
But if she’s honest with herself, it’s not just that Becca is blowing her off. It’s that she doesn’t have anyone that she’d ever do the same with. Not that she would ever cancel on Becca like that. It just makes her feel… lonely that there’s no one she would even really consider it for. She’s been so focused on her sister, on making sure that Becca was taken care of, for the last five years since their mom died, pushing herself to finish medical school, and then through her residency, she’d kind of forgotten that she also has needs. It would be nice to have her own someone. But that would mean Mel would have to try dating, and…
“And I got hungry waiting, so Adam and I ordered spaghetti, ” Becca continues, interrupting Mel’s thoughts. “Sorry…”
The apology comes out rushed after a long pause, and it sends a pang through Mel’s chest.
“It’s okay.” She pastes on a smile, even with no one to see it. “We’ll go next week. I’ll make sure to get out on time too, so it’s not so late, okay?”
“Okay! Love you!”
“Love you t…”
The call goes dead, and she lets out another heavy sigh. Great. She’s been ditched by her sister, and now she has to decide alone what to have for dinner. It’s supposed to be one of the two nights a week she doesn’t have to make that choice for herself. She could still just order a pizza, but it’s always a little depressing eating it alone. She could call Frank. He’d always welcome her company, but it’s his night with his kids. He’s probably busy reading Penny her seventh story, attempting to get her to finally fall asleep. He gets so little time with them as it is, it would be wrong to interrupt.
She’s about to get in her car and scroll on DoorDash until something sounds appetizing so she can time its delivery with her arrival home, when a dark green Subaru pulls up behind her, the driver lowering her window and half leaning out into the cold February night.
“Get in, loser,” Trinity Santos calls. “We’re going shopping.”
“What?” Mel asks, brow furrowed. “I don’t think most places are still open…”
“Haven’t you ever seen Mean Girls?”
Mel shakes her head. She’s seen Elf 173 times in the last two decades or so. There hasn’t been a lot of time for other movies.
“God, you’re as bad as Huckleberry sometimes.” Trinity scrubs a hand over her face. “Please tell me you’re in the mood for some scream therapy? I had a shit day, and I cannot handle Steven’s pity if I go to karaoke alone again. And you look like you need it almost as much as I do.”
Mel tilts her head, considering the offer. She likes going to the karaoke bar a few blocks from the hospital with Trinity. It’s become a surprisingly frequent addition to her calendar since the 4th of July. So frequent, Mel immediately knows Steven is their usual bartender. And that he (jokingly?) gives Trinity a hard time over her “depressing as shit” song selections.
She doesn’t always understand Trinity Santos’ sense of humor, can’t always tell if she’s in on Trinity’s jokes or the butt of them. It’s a fine line. But Mel’s pretty sure the regularity of these trips means that they’re friends now. And there really is something about scream-singing Alanis Morissette or Kelly Clarkson into a microphone that takes the edge off a bad day. Or, on the rarest of occasions, Taylor Swift. Mel’s been sworn to secrecy that Trinity knows all the words to the ten-minute version of “All Too Well.” She doesn’t think of the video on her phone as blackmail material exactly. But it’s nice to feel like she could easily have the upper hand in a situation if the need ever arises.
And Mel, too, has had a bad day. Two of her patients died, and a six-year-old puked red Kool-Aid all over her new sneakers. The wash will take care of the smell. Probably. But they’ll probably always look a little pink in the bright fluorescent lighting of the ED. Becca’s cancelling on her is just the cherry on top of her bad-day sundae. She’s tired, but she needs to scream sing into a microphone.
She’s going, but she’s driving herself. It’s impossible to know if Trinity was serious about the offer to get in her SUV or joking. Mel doesn’t want to ask for clarification. Riding with Trinity typically involves bracing herself against the dash and stomping an imaginary brake, and Mel isn’t really sure if her nerves are up for that on this particular evening.
“I’ll meet you there?” she offers.
“Yes.” Trinity drags out the S at the end of the word for a few extra beats. “See you in 10.”
It takes Mel 20 minutes to get to the bar, although the last 5 are spent circling the block looking for parking. She gets lucky when a car pulls out of the postage-stamp-sized lot directly behind the bar and slips easily into the spot, saving her from the horrors of parallel parking in the dark.
She almost regrets her decision as she pushes open the heavy glass door. The place is packed, and a bachelorette party is screeching along to Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman” as Mel tries to push her way through the crowd to the spot Trinity’s claimed along the bar close to the DJ booth, two shots of clear liquid waiting in front of her on the polished surface.
“What are you thinking about singing tonight?” Mel asks, shrugging off her coat to drape across the back of the stool and reaching for the book of available songs sitting just outside her reach on Trinity’s right. “Because I got a few ideas on the drive over…”
“Oh, no.” Trinity picks up one of the shots and sets down in front of Mel with unnecessary force, the liquid just barely keeping from slopping over the rim. “Shots first. Then we’ll talk music.”
“You know I really don’t like…”
“We’ve been over this, Melancholia. You can’t look at me like someone just kicked a puppy in front of you and then not let me buy you a shot.”
“Fine…”
Mel’s really not a drinker, but she’s learned over the last six months’ worth of karaoke nights that with Trinity Santos, sometimes it’s really just better to give in. If she does the shot now, the sprite she’ll order later will most likely be left alone. She tries not to grimace as she pinches the glass between her thumb and index finger, picking it up to knock it against Santos’.
“Cheers,” Trinity says, throwing back the shot with ease.
Mel is not nearly as practiced. The tequila burns the back of her throat, making her eyes water, and she has to choke it down. But she’s rewarded with the karaoke song book for her troubles. The bar’s owner refuses to upgrade to a digital list, and the black binder is thick, at least two inches; the plastic sheet protectors are sticky with spilled beer as Mel scans the list of available songs.
“I know the shot gets you first pick,” Trinity leans over to glance down at the pages. “But hear me out… Paramore.”
She must have had another ill-fated encounter Garcia again. Mel tries to school her face into a neutral expression. Santos will push her off her barstool if so much as a hint of pity crosses her face. She’s never told Mel exactly what’s going on between her and the surgical resident since July, but her go-to karaoke artists are Chappell Roan, Paramore, and Alanis Morissette. The list kind of speaks for itself.
“Steven is definitely gonna judge you if you pick ‘Ignorance’ again,” Mel replies, flipping toward the back of the book.
It’s been Trinity’s go-to since the incident at the PTMC staff Christmas party in December, when Yolanda Garcia had shown up with a date. Mel likes Paramore. Her playlist of punk female singers/bands is one of her favorites. But she feels like she gets an almost voyeuristic look into her friend’s pain whenever they sing it.
“Fine.” Trinity sighs and props her chin up with her hand, elbow on the bar. “Pick. But I am nowhere near drunk enough to attempt to rap with you right now.”
Mel wasn’t totally in the mood for Megan Thee Stallion or Lizzo anyway. She’s already past their pages in the binder and can feel the R2’s eyes on her as she continues to scan over the available songs. She’s much deeper into the book than she typically gets, and Trinity tries to peer over her shoulder for a hint as to what she’s about to pick.
“This one.” Mel points to a song on one of the last few pages.
“Whitney?” Trinity’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Not really the vibe I thought we were going for here, but okay… If you’re sure that’s the one you want…”
“I’m sure.”
“You know I’m gonna make you dance, right…”
Mel does not like the positively gleeful smile that lights up Trinity’s entire face. She’s seen that smile before. It has never ended entirely well for her.
“I’m gonna need another shot for that.” She gulps.
“Coming right up, sister,” Trinity grins, waving over the bartender.
They’re fourth in line for karaoke, and it’s only after Mel does her second shot that she remembers just how empty her stomach is. She’d split a sandwich in the breakroom with Frank between patients sometime in the early afternoon, each of them scarfing down their half as they compared Wordle stats between patients. But that was hours ago, and her mind already feels buzzy after just two drinks.
The buzz makes her stumble a little as they wind their way through the crowd, but it also carries her up onto the stage and keeps her from fleeing when she feels dozens of pairs of eyes on her. The music starts to play, a synthetic beat that the crowd instantly recognizes and starts to clap along with. Mel is not a singer. But Trinity is, and their voices blend into something almost passable as they belt the lyrics to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”
She’d picked it because she wanted something to boost her mood instead of sinking into the doldrums that threatened to overtake her. Whitney Houston was her mom’s favorite singer, and Mel has countless memories of dancing to this exact song in the kitchen with her mom and Becca as they helped make dinner. But this time, the lyrics don’t really conjure up memories of home and happier times. Instead, she thinks maybe… Maybe they’re something she wants too.
It would be nice to have her own someone. Someone to dance with. Someone to go home to. Someone to help decide what to eat for dinner…
At one point in the chorus, Trinity grabs her hand and attempts to spin Mel around the stage, but she’s already off balance, and the move almost sends them both careening into the laps of a middle-aged couple at a table close to the stage. By the time the DJ is mercifully fading out the song as Whitney repeatedly calls out “Don’t you wanna dance,” they’re both breathless with laughter. As they reclaim their barstools, Mel doesn’t even protest when Trinity orders them another round.
“So,” Trinity says. “I know I’m typically screaming into the void that is Yolanda Garcia, and you typically humor me. So I gotta ask, that song dedicated to anyone in particular?”
“Umm,” Mel feels her cheeks flush. “Me, I guess. I was standing there feeling kind of sorry for myself when you pulled up. Becca and I normally spend Friday nights together, but when I was late, she made other plans with her boyfriend and… I… I guess I just realized that’s something I want too.”
“Plans with someone other than your sister?” Trinity asks, eyes narrowing appraisingly. “Or a boyfriend?”
“A boyfriend?”
Her voice nearly breaks on the second word as a pair of startlingly blue eyes flashes into her mind, and she swallows hard, feeling the color rise into her cheeks.
“Or a girlfriend?” Trinity guesses, brow furrowed, misinterpreting the blush’s meaning.
Which is totally fine with Mel. That is not a conversation she particularly wants to have. And it’s a non-starter anyway.
“No.” She shakes her head. “A boyfriend. Not that there’s anything wrong with having a girlfriend… I just… I mean I don’t…”
“Don’t short-circuit on me, Meladaptive.” Trinity chuckles and shakes her head. “I knew what you meant.”
“I’ve just been really busy since my mom got sick.” Mel toys with the cuffs of her sweater. “With taking care of her and then Becca… I haven’t really had time for anything for myself… But Becca’s settled and happy now and… Maybe it’s my turn to be happy too?”
“Fuck yeah, it is.”
Trinity slaps her hand against the bar, the sound loud even over the din of the other bar patrons and someone warbling their way through “Friends in Low Places” on the stage, causing Mel to jump.
“So what’s your type?” Trinity asks, eyes roving over the crowd. “Surely there’s at least one male specimen here that piques your interest. I’ll be your wingman.”
Tall, dark hair… Mel’s entire body flashes hot and then cold, bile creeping up the back of her throat. She can’t just pick a man out of this sea of sweaters, flannels, and Steelers jerseys. She doesn’t know them. What would she even say…?
“Okay, scrap that idea. Breathe, Melatonin.”
Mel exhales the breath she hadn’t realized that she was holding in a loud woosh and then inhales deeply to fill her burning lungs.
“Give me your phone,” Trinity demands, holding out her hand.
“Why?” Mel asks, even as she’s already sliding it across the bar.
“Because I’m gonna make you a Tinder profile.” Trinity flips the phone around to unlock it with Mel’s face, and then pulls it in close, “An app is perfect for you, and that’s what all the straights are on these days, right?”
“I don’t… A what?”
Mel is distantly aware of the app, but she’s never so much as considered downloading it for herself. Or any other dating app. She’d heard girls in her med school classes share horror stories of dates gone wrong and men showing up far older than their pictures. But there’s really no stopping Trinity now. Mel can always just delete the profile later.
“Do you ever take pictures of yourself?” Trinity asks, brow furrowed.
“I have some with Becca from when we went to the zoo…”
“God, why am I still scrolling through pictures of Fort Pitt?”
“Oh, I went on my last day off. There was a…”
“You’ve definitely never taken a picture with your tits out.” Trinity sighs and looks up at Mel, lips pursed. “Well, we’ll work with what we’ve got. Take your hair down.”
“Why?” Mel asks, already complying and shaking out her braid.
It really is difficult to tell Trinity Santos no. She says everything so definitively, like every request or suggestion is a forgone conclusion.
“Because you need a profile pic. Now smile… Not like that…”
Trinity leans back in her seat, holding the phone up to take a picture before lowering it. She looks down at her own chest at her off-the-shoulder black sweater and then over at Mel’s striped one. One of them looks like she planned to go out after work, and one looks like she could teach elementary school. Mel’s under no misinterpretation of who she is in the equation.
“Come with me.” Trinity slides down off her stool.
“Where are we going?” Mel asks.
“To the bathroom,” Trinity replies, fingers curling around Mel’s wrist to tug her along behind her. “We’re gonna switch shirts.”
“Why?”
“Because you want dudes to want to fuck you. Not remind them of their kid sisters.”
“Shouldn’t they like me for me?”
“Yes, and they’ll get there. But you gotta reel them in a little first.”
At least ten girls are waiting in line for the bathroom, and Mel inwardly sighs with relief, thinking that she’s about to be granted a reprieve from whatever mission Trinity is hellbent on accomplishing. But instead of stopping at the end of the line, Trinity just marches them down the narrow hallway past the line and pushes into the bathroom.
“Sorry,” Trinity says. “We’re doctors. Emergency.”
“What?” The girl at the front of the line frowns and looks around in confusion. “Is everything okay…”
The door swings shut behind them before Trinity can answer. The bathroom smells strongly of cheap body spray and bowel movements, and the scent makes Mel want to gag. But she doesn’t have time to dwell on it as she’s shoved into a tiny stall.
“What are you…?” Mel jumps when she realizes Trinity has followed her and is sliding the bolt on the door behind them.
“Take off your shirt,” Trinity replies, yanking her sweater over her head, exposing her black t-shirt bra.
“What?” Mel squawks, staring at her in disbelief.
“Take a chill pill, Melanoma. We’re both girls. You ain’t got anything I haven’t seen before. Hurry up. We’ve got like 20 seconds before someone starts pounding on the door.”
“Okay…?”
Mel’s fingers curl around the hem of her own sweater, and she closes her eyes as she tugs it up over her head, careful not to knock her glasses askew. As soon as she’s free, Trinity shoves her sweater into Mel’s chest and snatches Mel’s from her hands, and then they’re both scrambling to pull on their replacement articles of clothing.
“Better.” Trinity nods to herself, eyes scanning Mel over just as someone starts pounding on the stall door. “We’re coming!”
“Emergency, my ass,” the girl from the front of the line says as she slips into the available stall.
“It was a fashion emergency,” Trinity replies, fingers once again wrapped around Mel’s wrist as she tugs her out of the bathroom. “Okay, lean against the wall and look toward the bar.”
“Why?”
“It’s exposed brick. It’ll be a good backdrop for your picture.”
Mel does as she’s told, and Trinity stands back for a moment, eyeing her up and down, before moving closer and tugging at the neckline of the sweater.
“Glasses on or off…” Trinity muses, tapping her chin.
“Off,” a girl at the back of the line chimes in.
“Hand ‘em over.” She extends a hand in Mel’s direction, making a gimme gesture with her fingers.
“But I can’t see…” Mel begins as she places them in Trinity’s outstretched palm.
“You don’t need to see. Don’t look at me. Stare off toward the bar. It’ll make you look mysterious.”
Mel does as instructed. Her vision isn’t really that bad. The stage is kind of blurry, but she can just make out two guys in hockey jerseys with their arms around each other’s shoulders as they sing “Islands in the Stream.” She smiles as they dramatically sway out of sync to the music, occasionally bouncing off each other like bumper cars as one or the other gets off beat.
“Got it,” Trinity says, grinning down at the phone and then up at Mel. “Come look.”
“Oh…”
It’s all Mel can think to say as she stares down at the image after replacing her glasses. It’s a good picture. Trinity caught her smile as one of the guys on stage realized his beer was slopping over the sides of his glass, and the golden glow of the hallway lighting shines off her hair. In her borrowed sweater, Mel thinks she just might look cool for the first time in her entire life.
“Good, right?” Trinity says.
“Yeah…”
“Okay. Let’s go write your profile.”
“Do you want to trade back…?” Mel asks, picking at the fabric of her borrowed sweater and pulling it away from her skin.
Trinity’s sweater is nice and all, but there’s a tag scratching at the base of Mel’s neck, and the seams feel wrong against her sides.
“I can live in this.” Trinity shrugs, making her way back to their seats.
Mel sighs and follows close on her heels. She doesn’t even argue when Trinity orders yet another round. It helps that she lets Mel have her shot in a Sprite this time.
Writing the dating profile makes Mel feel a bit like a circus freak. Every hobby she lists, Trinity scrunches up her nose or purses her lips as she tries to figure out how to spin it to make Mel seem more… interesting, maybe? Puzzles are deemed a non-starter. The zoo and Kennywood are more Becca’s things. Baking, she is allowed to include, because, according to Trinity, “Men are always thinking with their stomachs or the dicks. Or both.”
“Let’s try an easy one,” Trinity says after a few minutes of struggling with how to phrase Mel’s love of historical reenactments. “Cats or dogs?”
“Dogs,” Mel says immediately.
“You would be a dog person.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Trinity glances up from her typing.
“Nothing.” She shrugs and blows a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “Dogs are all unconditional love and shit. It just… tracks.”
“Is it so bad to want something to love you unconditionally?”
It’s been a long time since Mel’s felt like she’s had that. Since her mom died at least. She knows that Becca loves her. She does. But their dynamic is complicated sometimes, especially lately, as Becca has continued to assert her independence. It doesn’t always feel like it. Not when a solid third of her phone calls go unanswered, and Mel’s prompts for more info about her sister’s plans are met with stony silence.
“Of course not,” Trinity replies with a sigh, spinning her glass against the polished surface of the bar as she bumps her shoulder against Mel’s. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just a bitter, jaded cynic. But you… We are gonna find you exactly what you’re looking for.”
Mel strongly doubts that Tinder really is the answer to her problem here, but it’s still nice to feel like she has someone on her team.
“I’ll cheers to that.” She picks up her glass and extends it in her friend’s direction.
“Cheers,” Santos replies, clinking her own against it. “Now, let’s start swiping. I might not want them, but I’m more than ready to judge the single men of Pittsburgh on someone else’s behalf.”
…
“Motherfucker!”
Trinity Santos’ voice rings out across the parking garage the next morning just as Mel opens her car door, followed by a thunk that she immediately places as the sound of a foot colliding with metal. The elevator doors now sport multiple dents at all levels from various PTMC staff members, similarly expressing their frustration with its repeated insistence on being out of service.
Mel slows her steps as she approaches the elevator and catches sight of Trinity standing there, clutching a travel mug with her eyes closed and her forehead pressed against the stainless steel door.
“Good morning?” Mel says, fiddling with the strap of her crossbody.
Trinity opens one eye and glares in her direction.
Once, Mel would have been afraid of that glare, and more than a little intimidated by it. But she knows now that it’s one of the ways her friend expresses affection.
“How the hell are you not hungover?” Trinity asks, then straightens with a groan.
“I have a fast metabolism?” Mel shrugs.
“Of course you do,” Trinity mutters and shakes her head.
It’s long been a point of contention that when Trinity encourages Mel to drink, she’s the one who suffers the worst of the ill effects the next day.
“I did snooze my alarm twice.” Mel offers as they make their way toward the stairs.
“Don’t pity me,” Trinity replies, combing her hair back into a short ponytail. “So, did you talk to Kevyn yet?”
“Who?”
Mel blinks, forehead wrinkled in confusion as they pause on the parking garage staircase.
“The guy with the dog, the NASA t-shirt, and no major red flags on his profile.”
“Oh.”
That Kevyn. She feels a flush creep its way from the center of her chest up her neck and into her cheeks. No, Mel has not attempted to talk to her first official match on her new dating profile. Trinity swiped left on her behalf on dozens of men before they’d come across his profile, declaring them too old, too bald, or too likely to be a serial killer, before finally swiping right on a 31-year-old software engineer from Michigan.
Mel nearly fell off her barstool when the screen flashed red with a message declaring them a match. She hadn’t really expected to get any matches. At least not so soon. Surely the men of Pittsburgh needed more than fifteen minutes to declare their interest. But there Kevyn had been, with his perfect profile declaring his own love for puzzles, tabletop board games, and his golden retriever, Toby. Trinity had declared it a match made in nerd heaven and her work for the evening done.
Right as Mel was letting herself in her front door, a short time later, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She’d pulled it out to see a notification declaring she had a message on her screen, making her heart speed up and sweat to prickle at the back of her neck. Standing in the dark entryway of her townhouse, she’d swiped at the screen with shaking fingers and opened the app to read the message.
Kevyn: If you were a vegetable, you'd be a cute-cumber!
The joke had made her smile, but only managed to ebb the tide of her panic for a moment before it came flooding back, full force. What was she supposed to respond to that? She’d wanted to ask Frank. He always had good jokes. He would know exactly how to respond. But it was late, and it felt… weird somehow, to ask him to help her talk to another man. Like it would be attempting to break through some invisible forcefield around their relationship.
Mel believes she and Trinity are officially friends after a year and a half of working together. But she knows she and Frank Langdon are. He’s her best friend, after Becca, of course. They get each other in a way she thinks might not just be rare for her, but for everyone. She likes his jokes and the way he always lets her finish her thoughts, and he likes her 75 Spotify playlists and the way they’re both weirdly competitive over their New York Times games stats. Mel still needs to complete that day’s Wordle…
“I’m gonna take that as a no.”
“What?” Mel jolts and glances over at Trinity as they step out of the parking garage into the still-dark morning, the sky just barely tinged with pink along the horizon.
“No, you haven’t talked to him,” Trinity clarifies.
“Not yet,” Mel says, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her puffer coat. “It’s just… I didn’t really know what to say.”
“Hello is a start.”
“Yes, but what do I say after that? I never know what to say to strangers. I either talk too much or I don’t talk at all. And either way I…”
“We work in the ED,” Trinity says, frowning. “You talk to strangers all day long.”
“It’s different at work.” Mel tips her head back to glance up at the hospital just before they step under the covering of the ambulance bay. “Here, there’s kind of a script to follow, specific steps we do every time. Information I know I need to gather to make a diagnosis. It’s easier.”
“So maybe you just need to come up with a script for online dating?” Trinity suggests with a shrug.
“I’m sorry,” Samira Mohan says, falling into step beside them as they enter the hospital and head toward their lockers. “Are you online dating?”
Mel jumps, her cheeks flushing scarlet.
“I…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trinity interjects.
Mel glances over at her, surprised by the sharpness in her tone.
“Nothing,” Samira replies, eyes widening as she shakes her head. “I just am too. Trying to put down roots here so my mom will accept that I’m taking that job at Presby and stop trying to convince me to move back to New Jersey. What apps are you using?”
“Trinity made me a Tinder profile last…”
“You use more than one?”
Mel and Trinity speak at once, and Samira’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline as she takes in what they said.
“I’m hedging my bets. And you signed her up for Tinder? Are you trying to get her murdered?”
“Hey!” Trinity protests. “I found her a perfectly nice match. In like 10 minutes, too. Maybe you just also need my help…”
“Let me see.”
Samira holds out her hand as they reach their lockers, and Mel digs her phone out of the pocket of her coat as she slips it off, swiping to unlock the screen before handing the phone over.
“Well, his opening line isn’t a dick pick.” Samira squints and holds the phone up closer to her face as she examines something on Mel’s phone screen. “So that’s something… But this guy is married… Or he lives with his parents.”
“How can you tell?” Trinity asks indignantly. “He seems fine to me…”
“His couch in this picture is from Pottery Barn,” Samira holds out the phone for Mel to reclaim. “And it’s white linen. No single, straight man on the planet is picking out that couch. Not to mention the throw pillows.”
“Maybe it’s not his couch…”
“There’s a picture of his dog on the end table…”
“Maybe this was a bad idea…” Mel says, setting her phone at the bottom of her open locker so that she can pull out her scrubs.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Samira replies as she opens her own locker. “30 to 40 percent of couples are meeting online these days. I’m getting brunch with an accountant I met online on Sunday. But Tinder is mostly for hookups. And serial killers. You would not believe the weirdos I’ve swiped past on there. If you’re looking for a real relationship, though, you’re going to want to try Hinge… Or maybe the League… No. Hinge for you. Definitely.”
“I didn’t realize there were so many options.” Mel shakes her head, willing her eyes to refocus on the interior of her locker.
“I’ve got a spreadsheet I use to track my matches for peak compatibility,” Samira continues. “It’s got questions I make sure I ask. I can share it with you…”
“Yes, please.”
“You would have a spreadsheet…” Trinity says and then slams her locker shut.
“I’m a busy woman.” Samira shrugs. “I don’t have time to entertain subpar men. The spreadsheet helps ensure that anyone I schedule a date with meets certain basic criteria that…”
The locker room door swings open, and their heads swivel in unison in its direction as Frank Langdon steps out, tightening the drawstring on his scrub pants. Mel’s gaze instantly snags on the smattering of temporary tattoos of The Little Mermaid characters on the inside of his left wrist, and the corners of her lips quirk up in a smile. He’s got Ariel, Flounder, and a seashell scattered haphazardly up his forearm that she recognizes as from the activity book based on his daughter’s current favorite movie she’d picked out for Penny’s birthday a few weeks before. Mel had to work the day of the party, but she’s happy to see that her gift was a hit.
When her brown eyes meet Frank’s blue ones, though, he’s not smiling. There’s a little wrinkle in the center of his forehead, and she feels her entire body flush.
At what point in that conversation exactly had they arrived at their lockers? How much did he hear?
The locker room door is notoriously thin. Mel’s had the back of her scrub top or jacket snagged on more than one occasion by Princess or Perlah as they attempt to listen in on a conversation happening on either side. He might have heard almost the whole thing, and something about that knowledge settles like a stone in her gut.
It’s not really that she thinks she has anything to be embarrassed about. She’s 29. She doesn’t need anyone’s permission to date if she wants to. And online dating is not the shameful secret it once was. But it feels wrong somehow that this is how he found out about it.
“Morning,” he says, nodding to Samira and Trinity before his eyes settle on her.
His gaze shifts over her face, like he’s searching for something, and the wrinkle in his forehead deepens. Mel feels her toes squirm inside her sneakers, and she has to avert her gaze, turning to pull out her clean set of scrubs and hug them to her chest
“Morning,” Samira returns the greeting with a nod.
Trinity just barely dips her chin before shoving her backpack into her locker and slamming the door.
“Good morning.” Mel says, attempting to smile up at him.
She must be successful, because that wrinkle in his forehead relaxes as he returns it.
“I’ll see you out there,” Frank jerks his head in the direction of the already bustling ER as he passes by. “Oh, and I expect those Wordle stats ASAP, Dr. King.”
Shoot. She still hasn’t completed the day’s puzzle, but she gives him a little mock salute as he takes a backwards step toward the charge desk, eyes locked on hers and is rewarded with a broad grin. Their gaze holds for a long moment before someone calls his name, forcing them to break eye contact as he turns and is subsequently pulled into a nearby trauma room. Mel bites her lower lip and closes her locker before turning to face the locker room door.
“Are you sure she needs a dating app?” Samira mutters.
“Definitely,” Trinity replies before turning sharply on her heel and pushing the door open with enough force to send it swinging in her wake.
Samira turns to follow, pausing for a moment as she glances back at Mel. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it, and then opens it again.
“Don’t… Don’t let me forget to send you that spreadsheet. If you’re sure you want it.”
“I’m sure.” Mel nods as they make their way into the locker room. “I think I might need all the help I can get.”
“Maybe.” Samira shrugs. “Maybe not…”