“Your first grant,” he said, and my blood went cold.
That voice. I knew that voice as well as I knew human anatomy.
“You got your first significant grant at a very young age. Most doctors are fellows or attendings before receiving that kind of research funding, but you were only a resident,” he said.
My heart launched itself against my ribs, and, I swear, my poor lungs were caught in the crossfire because I couldn’t breathe. The words were getting in, but I wasn’t computing—not yet. I squinted, trying to make out the face that I knew in my bones belonged to the voice, but the lights were too bright. I had to give up.
I steeled my spine.Fake it till you make it,I reprimanded myself.Feel confident. Be confident.“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not hearing a question in there.”
“Please forgive me,” he said. His accent had gotten softer over the years, but that voice was undeniably his.“My question is—where did you get the inspiration for your first research grant?”
The bastard. He was goading me. Here. In front of all these people. Fine. I could play his game. I could give as good as I took.
“A researcher was working in the sub-specialty of cancer research I was interested in at the time. I read all of his research, and I found a way I could improve upon his work.”
“Isn’t that plagiarism of someone else’s research?” he asked.
“That is actually a misconception,” I fired back. “All medical advances are built on the foundations laid by research before them. A mentor once told me that research was a dance. One doctor takes a step forward, and the next doctor picks up the lead, spinning the research into a twirl, pushing it further.” I grinned and challenged him with a raised eyebrow before realizing he was probably too far away to make out my facial expressions.
“Sounds like a wise mentor,” he said.
“He had his moments,” I said, and just like that, our banter was back. “Medical research doesn’t necessarily mean living in a laboratory like a mad scientist inventing new medicine, though it could certainly involve that. A lot of research, mine included, is about adjusting existing medications and protocols into new modalities. There are drugs that are used now for one thing but were originally intended for something else. I haven’t invented any of the medications or radiology methods in my research. Other scientists did that long before me. But what Ihavedone is change dosing and experiment with different combinations of medications. A lot of my research also involves psychological components—how much can a patient take mentally before it becomes too much?” I sat back, pleased with my answer. He wouldn’t publicly ruffle my feathers—he had already taken enough.
I hadn’t heard that voice in over seven years, not since he left town after nearly destroying my career. Despite my hatred of him, the familiar back and forth we had always shared returned, and I resented the excitement that simple fact brought into my body.
“Thank you, Dr. Ramirez. If I may, a second question, or rather a request—”
“Sure.”
“I also have a copy of your book here with me. Would it be okay if I also stayed behind to get a signature?”
“Of course.”
The last thing I wanted to do was speak with him, let alone sign his book. And what business did he have buying my book anyway? I took a deep breath; this was the worst possible time for my hatred of Hector Medina to rear its head.
I answered about twenty more questions. The entire time, I couldn’t see him but knew his glare was glued to my skin. I managed, somehow, miraculously, to concentrate on the questions, but I know I wasn’t one-hundred-percent on my A-game. Luckily, my B-game was also rather spectacular. When the interview wrapped up, I took a break backstage to gulp an entire water bottle in hopes of cooling off and calming down.
After the auditorium emptied, I came back on stage to meet with Araceli, as promised. The spotlight was turned off, and I was aware of the second figure in the room only by my peripheral vision, but I refused to look at him.
I sat on the stage, my legs dangling off the edge as I took Araceli’s book. I chatted her up for about ten minutes to get to know her a little better so my dedication could be personalized. She left with a dazed look, as though she might swoon, and I grinned like a fool after her.
I didn’t see him move so much as I sensed him approaching, drawn to him like the pull of a magnet that had always been there between us, binding us together. That hadn’t changed, and alarms started blaring in my brain.
“That was very kind of you, Dr. Ramirez,” he said.
Crossing my arms, I finally turned to him as he walked over to me, his steps a loud echo in the empty auditorium. I liked this position of power, sitting on top of the stage like a queen waiting for her peasants to come up to her from below. I smiled and clung to that image to give me the strength I would need to deal with the person I hated the most in this universe.
“Dr. Medina,” I said. “How . . .niceto see you.”
“Please call me Hector, Carolina,” he said, his voice trying to soothe me like a child. The nerve.
“That’s ‘Dr. Ramirez’ to you,Dr. Medina. Let’s keep this professional.”
He finally stood in front of me, and I reveled in this view from the higher vantage point. He looked up to meet my face from several feet below. Letting out a breath, he handed me the book. I arched an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “I would very much like a dedication.”
“You are kidding.” I scoffed.