At turns hilarious and gut-wrenching, this is a tremendously fun slow burn

I saw Elliot Petropoulos yesterday for the first time in almost exactly eleven years and I realized that I’m
still in love with him and probably always will be.
Still want to marry me?
Unfortunately, a couple of days of distance doesn’t appear to be in the cards: Elliot is waiting outside the
hospital when I walk up the hill from the bus stop.
It isn’t accurate to say that my heart stops, because really I feel its existence intensely, a phantom limb.
My heart pinches in, and then roars to life, brutally punching me from the inside out. I slow my steps and
try to figure out what to say. Irritation flares in me. He can’t be faulted for showing up at Saul’s when I
happened to be there yesterday, but today is all him.
“Elliot.”
He turns when I call his name, and his posture deflates a little in relief. “I was hoping you’d show up
early today.”
Early?
I look at him as I approach, eyes narrowed. Stopping a few feet from where he stands, hands deep in the

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pockets of his black jeans, I ask, “How did you know where and what time I was supposed to work?”
Guilt drains the color from his cheeks. “George’s wife works in reception there.” He lifts his chin,
indicating the woman who is sitting just inside the sliding doors, and whom I’ve seen every morning for the
past few months.
“Her name is Liz,” I confirm flatly, remembering the three letters etched into her blue plastic name tag.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Liz Petropoulos.”
I laugh incredulously. Under no other circumstances can I imagine a hospital administrative employee
giving out information about a physician’s work schedule. People turn pretty unreasonable when a loved
one gets sick. Make that loved one a child and forget about it. Even in the short time I’ve been working
here, I’ve seen parents go after doctors who failed to cure their kid.
Elliot stares at me, unblinking. “Liz knows I’m not dangerous, Macy.”
“She could be fired. I’m a physician in critical pediatrics. She can’t just give out my information, not
even if it’s her own family.”
“Okay, shit. I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, genuinely contrite. “Look. I work at ten. I…” Squinting
past me down Mariposa, he says, “I was hoping we would have time to talk a little before then.” When I
don’t say anything in reply, he bends to meet my gaze, pressing, “Do you have time?”
I look up at him, and our eyes hook, tunneling me back to every other time we shared an intense, silent
exchange. Even this many years later, I think we can read each other pretty fucking well.
Breaking the connection, I glance down at my watch. It’s just after seven thirty. And although no one
upstairs would complain if I showed up to work an hour and a half before I was scheduled, Elliot would
know that if I said I had to get inside, I’d be lying.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I have about an hour.”
He tilts his head, slowly leans to the right, and, as a smile curves his mouth, he takes one shuffle-step,
then another, as if luring me with his cuteness.
“Coffee?” His smile grows, and I notice his teeth, how even they are. A flash of Elliot at fourteen,
wearing headgear, pulses through my thoughts. “Bakery? Greasy spoon?”
I point to the next block and the tiny four-table café that has yet to be overrun with residents and family
members anxiously waiting for news postsurgery.
Inside it’s warm – bordering on too warm, the theme of my morning – and there are still two tables
empty up front. Seating ourselves, we pick up the menus and peruse in tight silence.
“What’s good?” he asks.
I laugh. “I’ve never had breakfast here.”
Elliot looks up at me, blinks leisurely, and something in my stomach melts into a liquid heat that spreads
lower. What’s weird, I realize, is that Elliot and I ate out together only a handful of times, and never alone.
“I usually scarf a muffin or bagel from the cafeteria.” I break eye contact, and decide on the yogurt and
granola parfait before putting my menu down. “I bet everything is pretty tasty.”
Covertly, I watch him read, his eyes scanning quickly across the words. Elliot and words. Peanut butter
and chocolate. Coffee and biscotti. Love matches made in heaven.
He reaches up, idly scratching his neck as he hums. “Eggs or pancakes? Eggs or pancakes?”
As he leans forward on an elbow, his shoulder muscle bunches beneath his cotton T-shirt. He rubs a
finger back and forth just below his bottom lip. His phone buzzes near his arm, but he ignores it.