by Anna Yen
Toward the end of our trip, it was clear Scott and Jonathan had found the attraction that they liked the most: Back to the Future: The Ride.
“Let’s go again,” Scott said with a smile.
Ugh. It would be the eighth time on that same ride.
“Hell to the no!” I said. It was the most polite response I could muster and a phrase I’d picked up from spending so much time eavesdropping on groups of obnoxious teens.
“Sophia, live in the moment. Enjoy it,” Scott said, not noticing the small Japanese woman staring at us. She had circled us once already at an extremely slow pace and was on round two at a closer distance while holding out her camera. Knowing Scott didn’t like talking to fans, I purposely boxed her out without missing a beat in our conversation.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a downer.”
“Seriously. I’ll wait right here. And don’t use work as an excuse to get me on there, because by now I bet I know everything there is to know about the stupid ride. Speaking of which, we’re not really going to do this, are we?” As I spoke I took a few steps toward the stalker woman—her face had glazed over with the Scott effect—and gently turned her around before giving her a very soft send-off. Scott locked eyes with me and smiled.
“Do what?” Jonathan asked.
“A theme park,” I responded.
“If we can do it well, I’d like to do it,” Scott said, his cheerfulness gone. “You’re worrying about something that isn’t even a worry yet. Again, live in the moment.”
“Oh, believe me,” I snapped, “I do live in the moment. I live in the moment of five thirty a.m., when my cell phone rings and an investor asks me why you two are here at Universal Studios. It’s gotten back to the Street, you know!”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Jonathan said as he motioned for Scott to join him again on Back to the Future. “How would they know?”
“It’s summer break! Investors take their families places, and you’re not exactly invisible.”
“Our stock is stable—we’re fine.”
“Really?” I asked. “You don’t think they read into this? They read into everything, even the timing of your vacations. Did you know that? Last quarter they started calling a week before we announced earnings to ask a very innocent-sounding question: ‘Is Scott or Jonathan in the office?’”
“So? Who cares?” Scott asked.
I was about to lose my temper, but just then, a man’s voice called out from behind me, “Excuse me, but are you as stupid as you are good-looking? Wait, no! That’s not what I meant. I meant . . .”
Scott, Jonathan, and I turned around to see who the babbling idiot was; my anger-filled eyes turned soft as I caught sight of Mark’s roommate—the curly-haired, witty one, Peter. He was laughing nervously; his face was bright red. I hadn’t seen him since that night at the Dutch Goose.
“Oh my gosh, it’s you!” I exclaimed, completely surprised by the random run-in and also relieved to see someone friendly, someone from home. “Very ‘Rico Suave’ of you. Do they teach you that in urology class?” Without breaking eye contact with Peter, I waved Scott and Jonathan into the line.
“You know I didn’t mean that! I heard someone use that line in a bar the other day and I thought it was funny, especially because it was a woman saying it to a man.”
“What were her exact words?”
“Well, it was the end of the night, in all fairness, and she’d clearly been drinking. She walked up to a guy and said, ‘Are you as smart as you are good-looking? Or are you just dumb?’”
We both laughed, probably harder than the joke deserved, but it was good to see his face in the sea of insanity that I’d been in the middle of all day.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jonathan and Scott staring.
“I took a few days off. My sister and nephew are in town and wanted to see Universal Studios.”
“Where are they? Have you guys been here before?”
“They ran to the bathroom. And no, we didn’t have that kind of money growing up,” he explained. “Too many kids—there were six of us.”
There was something about Peter—his matter-of-factness, his humility, his warmth—that drew me comfortably to him. It had been almost four years since that night we’d met at the Goose. He was probably in his third year of residency by now.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“It’s confidential, but I’m here for work.” I turned to look at Jonathan and Scott and glared at them for still standing there; Peter’s eyes followed mine.
“Oh yeah, Mark said you’re working at Treehouse. Congrats!”
“Thanks. This is Scott and Jonathan, and they’re just leaving to get in line,” I said as I shoved the two men off toward the ride.
As my bosses left, I expected Peter to ask me about the legendary Scott Kraft. Everyone else did. But he just stood there and looked happy. It was refreshing.
“Thanks, it feels like I’ve been there forever, but I really like it. So you’re finished with medical school? Where are you doing your residency?”
“At Stanford. It’s hard to leave that place,” he said.
For the first time, I noticed Peter’s huge, beautiful blue eyes and impossibly long eyelashes. He looked like a cherub, a fit one at that.
“I know. I should have moved out of my parents’ house a while ago, but who doesn’t love the ‘no rent’ thing?” The truth was that living with my parents didn’t bother me anymore; they weren’t in town that often, and being at home meant I could save for my own apartment. In fact, I had begun looking through the Sunday open house listings, but stopped when I saw what my money could actually buy—a dilapidated studio with no parking, if I was lucky.
Peter and I talked about Kate and Mark’s engagement a little, about which part of medicine he enjoyed the most so far and why. Him talking about his work made him even more handsome than he already was. A ten. A definite ten.
“Listen, I don’t want to keep you—looks like your bosses are waiting for you over there. But let’s get dinner when you’re back,” he said, then gave me a hug and walked away.
I watched Peter for a moment, and then turned back to glare at Scott and Jonathan, who had only made it a few steps away. Without missing a beat, I continued our earlier conversation trying to be stern, but probably sounding giddy. “I care! Some sneaky, or stupid, investors assumed if you and Jonathan were out gallivanting around that it meant we had the quarter in the bag. If I said you were in meetings, they interpreted that as it was a tight quarter.”
“Wait, who was that guy?” Jonathan asked.
“He likes you. He’s got good energy. You should date him,” Scott added.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just finish this conversation,” I said. “If investors begin to whisper their expectations to their other investor buddies, a rumor on the Street takes on a life of its own—expectations that I can’t manage. So can we please go home?” I felt like I was nagging a husband or a child or something. I deserved to be somewhere sipping a glass of wine and reflecting on the hotness of various men in my vicinity, not cajoling executives out of an amusement-park ride. Is this what marriage is going to be like?
“Since you’re already in a bad mood, I should tell you that I’m not going to participate in our next earnings call,” Scott said.
I stopped walking, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten.
I’m going to kill him.
Then I turned around to face Scott and said very quietly, “Why?”
“I hate those things—you and Jonathan can do it on your own. It’s been over a year now. That’s enough.”
I turned and looked at Jonathan. He was just as stunned as I was. Scott could be difficult, but he usually agreed to what little I asked of him when it came to IR matters. I knew something was going on. What was it?
Two days later, I was finally (and happily) back in the civilized world of healthy foods and adult
madness when I received a text message from Kate: Just gave your email address to Peter. OMG. Call me asap!
Shortly after, an email appeared in my inbox that made my heart flutter.
To: Sophia Young
From: Peter Bruce
Subj: Next weekend
Sophia,
Hope you don’t mind that I asked Kate for your email. It was great running into you.
I’m not sure if you have plans this weekend, but I’m going to the internal medicine department’s year-end formal, and I was wondering if you’d want to go with me? The fancy invitation attached includes all the details.
Regardless, I look forward to seeing you sometime soon.
—Peter
I opened the attachment and laughed. The invitation was hand-drawn, I assumed by Peter, on the back of what looked like a pink “While You Were Out” note. It included fancy curlicue lines along the border of the paper and was personalized with my name. It read:
Doctor Peter Bruce, M.D.
Hereby Extends a Most Welcome and Warm Invitation to
Ms. Sophia Young
for
Stanford Medical’s “We Made It Through Another Year” Celebration
This Saturday at Seven O’Clock in the Evening
Transportation Provided
P.S. Formal attire requested
To: Peter Bruce
From: Sophia Young
Subj: Re: Next weekend
Peter,
I’d love to join you on Saturday. Are we talking tuxedos and floor-length dresses? Please help a girl out. ☺
Thank you for the invitation.
I peeked out my bedroom window just as Peter pulled up in a boxy Honda Accord that looked similar to the one my mom drove when I was two. Thank God my parents were out of the country; they would have added to my anxiety. Do I look okay? Am I dressed appropriately? I fumbled with my simple floor-length red silk dress, the only detail being a thigh-high slit. I tousled my hair one more time before opening the door. As soon as I saw Peter’s approving smile, a comfortable feeling warmed me over. Peter took three steps into the foyer, then kissed me gently on my cheek and whispered, “You look beautiful.” The corners of my mouth nearly touched my ears.
The Rosewood’s lobby was quiet, but when Peter and I approached the entrance to the ballroom, it was clear that a party was under way. Inside, the lights were dim and Top Forty music was blaring over the conversations of a young, jovial crowd. Their discussions seemed to stop suddenly, though; their eyes turned toward Peter and me. I looked down at my dress to see if I’d spilled something earlier, but the crowd wasn’t looking at me. They were looking at Peter.
“Well, well, well. You’ve finally brought someone to meet the family,” said a tuxedo-wearing man with glasses. He walked over and put his arm around Peter. “Hi, I’m Jared. You’re the first girl he’s brought to one of our many social functions. Seems our boy is a bit shy with the ladies.”
“Jared, this is Sophia,” Peter said, doing his best to hide his embarrassment.
“Nice to meet you, Sophia. Which department are you in?” Jared nosed.
“Oh, none of them. I work at a tech company.”
“Well, we welcome money-hungry tech people,” Jared joked before turning his comments to Peter in a more serious tone. “And congratulations, buddy. Well done. No one deserves it more and no one will do as good of a job. I’m glad you’re going to be our fearless leader.” Jared raised both hands above his head and made bowing gestures as though worshipping Peter.
Peter blushed and humbly changed the subject. “Thanks, Jared. How about you buy me a drink?”
“Yeah, you need one after the day you’ve had. That patient was a tough one. It’s an open bar, so sure, I’ll get you all the drinks you want.”
We followed Jared into the dense crowd. As though he was testing to see if I would hold his hand, Peter brushed two of his fingers against my palm. I grinned and interlaced my fingers with his, appreciating how strong and large his hand felt against mine. His lips turned upward and he leaned down to whisper in my ear in a commanding but joking tone, “You’re coming with me, woman!”
I laughed and asked, “What was Jared congratulating you about?”
“Oh, nothing. It was announced today that I’ll be chief resident next year.”
A chill ran up my spine. “Wow, chief. Impressive! Congratulations. Are you sure you want to be seen with me? I mean, you’re the big man here.”
Peter chuckled and squeezed my hand tighter. “It is a true pleasure. I’m glad you could come.”
As the party went on into the evening, I knew something special was happening, although I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Perhaps it was the wine, or the heady aroma of the large stargazer lily arrangements. Or maybe it was the way Peter maintained incredible modesty while his peers showered him with praise. But when I saw Dr. Peter Bruce step onto the dance floor and bust some moves like a Madonna backup dancer, I immediately realized what was so special. It was him. I was drawn to his silliness and carefree attitude and the fact that he didn’t take himself too seriously. He knew exactly where his life was going—he’d always known—and was excited about it. I felt giddy in a way that I had never felt before. So much so that it scared me. But I put it all in the back of my mind and strutted my way onto the dance floor with moves of my own.
Chapter 12
Peter’s new apartment was located across the street from the Palo Alto train station and within biking distance of Stanford Hospital. It was a dated one-bedroom sparsely decorated with dark IKEA furniture, the only exception being an old pink wooden desk that someone had left on a curb. “This is yours,” Peter announced one day while proudly setting up the desk next to his. “You can use it when you’re here.” We both knew our respective long work hours meant the pink desk wouldn’t get much use, but it showed how much he supported my career, so I loved every nick and pen mark on it.
The desk was the first thing that caught my eye when I walked into his kitchen early one October morning after taking full advantage of my parents being out of the country. The layer of dust on top of it was the second. But I fought the urge to start cleaning and to be the woman my mom raised me to be. It’s not your house, Sophia. Instead, I let my boyfriend’s voice grab my attention. The night before, he had fallen asleep next to me still wearing his pale blue scrubs and holding a yellow highlighter pen, which wound up on the floor next to the copy of the New England Journal of Medicine that he’d been reading.
“Well hello, Sophia,” Peter said, trying to act aloof but knowing I knew better. It was a game he played to evoke a smile from me, and I never failed to respond.
I walked over and nuzzled his neck. “Hi. Good morning. What’s on your agenda today?”
“Let’s talk about something else. I hate how sick people make you so sad,” Peter said. “How about I make breakfast for us?”
I grinned. “What’s on the menu?”
The sun had not yet risen as I drove across the Bay Bridge, which took me from Woodside to the East Bay. When I arrived at Treehouse thirty minutes later, light streamed through the crack under Jonathan’s door and into the still-dark hallway. I hadn’t recalled him ever arriving before me, so I stopped in to see if everything was okay. When I saw his face, I could tell there would be no good-morning hug coming from him today.
“Scott is taking over as temporary CEO of his former company, Quince. We need to issue a press release after the stock markets close.” I couldn’t believe the way he was just blurting it out like that, so calmly.
“What?” I asked, completely confused. How could he choose boring computers over animated films? Over us?
“He’s going to be spending half his time at Quince,” Jonathan explained. Quince had been floundering since Scott had “resigned” more than ten years ago, and its board had recently fired the company’s fifth CEO since Scott’s departure.
“What does that mean? Exactly?” I asked, feeling slightly p
anicked. I knew Wall Street would punish our stock for this and that it would take me weeks, even months, to calm down investors.
“He’ll still be involved in the things he needs to be involved in here, but you know that the office of the president—Dylan, Matteo, and I—really runs the day-to-day.” I assumed this would somehow turn out to mean more work for me, and I couldn’t imagine taking on another ounce. I felt scared for myself and for Treehouse. I worried that we’d be nothing without Scott.
Ashley’s car wasn’t in the parking lot, so I tracked her down on her cell phone.
“This is Ashley,” she answered, her don’t mess with me tone at its finest. Her phone was probably blowing up.
“It’s me.”
“Hi.” Ashley’s voice softened.
“Can you have him call me when you hear from him?” I asked.
“Hang on, he’s actually right here. Let me get him.” Here? Where’s here?
“What’s up?” Scott asked.
“Where are you?”
“We’re at Quince.”
Shit, it’s already happening.
“Please don’t do this. Please don’t leave me,” I begged into the end of the telephone receiver.
“This is important, Sophia. I’ll still spend quality time on Treehouse, but the company really doesn’t need me anymore. Not day to day, anyway, and that will be what we tell the Street.”
“But how can you go back?”
“Listen. It does no good for me to feel any sort of negative energy about the past. That doesn’t help me. It doesn’t help anyone.”
Goddamn Scott and his Zen theories!
I thought of my dad and repeated one of his many sayings: “Baggage only hurts us.”
“That’s right! I have a chance to restart Quince, and they are at rock bottom, so I have nothing to lose. I can take a lot of risk and be totally innovative,” he replied.
“Wait, what do you mean, ‘restart Quince’? I thought you were just doing this temporarily. You can’t do it forever, Scott. I’m telling you, you will never be able to turn that ship around.”
