Chapter 5: The Price of Indifference

Four tamales, even at the best place in town, wouldn’t cost more than twenty bucks. Not a big deal, right? But I’d made them from scratch, using my grandma’s recipe, carried them a thousand miles. To Nathan, they were just an accident. To me, they were everything.

I tried to keep my voice steady as I asked, "What happened? How did they end up on the floor?" Nathan scratched his head, avoiding my gaze. "It’s my fault. Sophia handed me the lunch box and I dropped it. Butterfingers."

I’d always covered for him, but not this time. I shot back, "When I walked in, you were sitting at your desk. She’d have to be Stretch Armstrong to hand you that box from across the room. You’re lying for her. You’re protecting her from me."

Nathan stiffened. Sophia came over, wringing her hands. "Oh my gosh, Rachel, I’m so sorry! I totally spaced and dropped it. Can I, like, DoorDash you lunch or something?"

I looked at her big doe eyes, then at Nathan, who literally stood between us. I could only rub my forehead and ask, "And then? That’s it?"

He replied, "You can just make them for me again next time. It’s not a big deal."

The coldness in his voice made my hands shake with anger. "Next time? Do you know making those took four hours? I burned myself twice! Then I had to carry them across the city, through TSA, keep them warm, Uber them here—don’t you care at all? Don’t you think you should apologize?"

This was the first real fight we’d ever had. Nathan just looked at me like I was being unreasonable. "Rachel, I know it takes you a lot of time to come see me. I appreciate it. But why make yourself so tired? You could just order takeout. I’m here, whether you come or not."

All my passion, all my hope, felt like a joke.

I flashed back to when we first met at NYU, in the Mount Sinai library. That day, sunlight poured through the library windows, catching on the dust motes and the faded NYU pennant above the stacks. Nathan was sitting by the window, lost in a book, so refined he seemed almost out of reach. I finally worked up the nerve to introduce myself: "Hi, I’m Rachel Miller from English Lit."

He smiled, warm for the first time, and said, "I know who you are. The way you look at me over your book isn’t as subtle as you think."

Everyone said I was lucky—he was the genius doctor, I was just average. But he made me feel special, needed. I thought we balanced each other.

But now, standing in that sterile hospital room, I realized maybe I’d been wrong. Nathan could comfort a colleague at midnight, lie to protect her, but never show me the same respect. I crossed my arms, hugging myself, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yeah, your way’s better. I won’t make myself tired anymore. If I don’t come, your relationships will be more harmonious, right?"

Nathan’s mask slipped for a second, irritation flashing in his eyes. He finally said, "Why argue over a few tamales? She’s had a rough time lately—her dad’s sick. If this affects the surgery, it’s a problem."

He could rationalize anything, always putting others first. But never me. I tried to breathe, counting to ten. "When do you get off work?"

"Three hours. I have post-op notes to write."

That was all I needed to hear.

It took me two months to work up the courage to confess my love. It took less than forty-eight hours to decide to leave.