His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia Read Online Free PDF Page B

you,” he tells me, his tone and eyes sincere.
    “Sure,” I answer, feigning like I’m not completely locked onto his gaze with a casual smile and a shrug. “Really, it’s nothing. It’s a nice change of pace for me after dealing with kids all day.”
    But he doesn’t release me from his gaze. “Yeah, well…it ain’t nothing to me,” he says. “I want you to know that. Understand it. You’re a real nice woman, and that’s new to me. So thank you.”
    “You don’t know a lot of nice women?” I ask, stepping forward. Because I’m curious, I tell myself. Not because he’s drawing me toward him with a term I don’t think 99% of the straight guys I’ve met would ever use to label me. He thinks I’m nice.
    “No,” he answers bluntly. The word falls into the space between us like a confession. “I don’t think I do. I mean, everyone on the floor has been real kind. But I don’t mean nice like hospital staff. I mean nice like you. I’m pretty sure I don’t know anybody else like you. You’re new. ”
    I’m new. And he thinks I’m nice.
    I rush out of there with the aortic nerve in my stomach full on pounding. Not sure if I should come back to visit a man who makes me feel like I’m waiting for the results of my Pediatrics Board Certifications to download on my computer screen.
    Yet here I am again on Tuesday, walking in with two bowls of three-bean avocado salad, and already afraid of what will happen when I leave at the end of the hour.
    But this time when I hand him his reusable container, he says, “Tell me how you got into this whole doctoring business. I’ve been trying to figure it out on this iPad, but I don’t see how you could be a Senior Pediatrics Resident.”
    My heart freezes. Apparently he’s been using the iPad I gave him for more than the brain teaser apps. Did he Google my name? Does he know…?
    But then he says, “From what I can figure, you ain’t anywhere near thirty, and it says here you have to do four years of college, four years of med school, then a three year residency on top of that. So you should be thirty, right? But if I had to guess, I’d guess you’re no more than twenty-five.”
    “You’re exactly right. I’ll be twenty-six in July,” I say with a relieved laugh. Then I peek at him to ask, “And how old do you think you might be?”
    He shakes his head. “I dunno. Can’t tell from looking at myself in the mirror on account of me being all broken up. Also, I get to feeling older than I look sometimes. Does that make sense?”
    I nod, thinking of the months after Chanel’s death. How silly every other person my age seemed at my arts college. At least until I met my best friend, Sola, a Guatemalan Dream Act student who actually had real shit on her plate.
    “Yes, that makes sense,” I tell him. “And as for my age, I came out here from California to attend the University of West Virginia on a special combined Bachelor/Med degree scholarship program for Regional Hospitals. It’s unusual because not only did I graduate in four years with a combined degree, I was required to do my residency at this particular hospital as part of a state grant I received to complete my education. So here I am at the age of twenty-five. Does that make sense?”
    He half-winces, before admitting, “Kind of. Go back to the part where you came all the way across the country to work here... ”
    We end up talking for the whole hour as opposed to doing the word association tree I’d planned. He wants to know what I had to do in med school. Why I chose peds—especially pediatric oncology—because “ain’t that a little sad for you, Doc?”
    Then he listens intently as I explain how many doctors, including myself, feel called to their particular specialties. I don’t tell him about Chanel. I still can’t talk about her, even after all these years.
    But I do tell him how I put in a semester at a performing arts college called ValArts, before I was accepted into UWV’s