Archive of Our Own

i.

“Dr. Javadi.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. She stared up at the board for a moment longer, as if through sheer force of will she could make that voice belong to anyone other than her mother. It was a pipe dream, obviously; no one else called her “doctor.”

“Dr. Shamsi,” McKay said, a touch of hero-worship in her voice. Victoria cringed.

“Hi,” she said, finally turning around. “Um, sorry. What … what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m down to see a consult,” Eileen said. “A young man with a hot appy. Great teaching case.”

As she spoke, she gestured to the woman at her side. She wore a graphic t-shirt under her scrubs, and her dark hair was pulled away from her face. Something about her posture demanded space, attention, her shoulders set back and her nose in the air.

“Trinity Santos,” she said. “Intern.”

“Surgery?” Victoria asked.

Santos raised her eyebrows, then said, “Of course.”

McKay glanced at Victoria, looking vaguely bemused.

“I’m Dr. McKay,” she said to Santos. “This is Victoria Javadi.”

“Right, yeah,” Victoria said. “Sorry. Uh, MS3.”

Santos nodded, a curl to her lip that suggested there was a private joke on Victoria that she was not in on. Victoria pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek.

“Would you mind if Javadi came with?” Eileen asked, addressing McKay again. “I’d be happy to do a little bedside teaching.”

“Oh, yeah, I would love that,” McKay said. “Do you mind if I join? Maybe I can learn something new.”

When Eileen agreed, Victoria pressed her lips together, vaguely wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. She hung back a little as Eileen started to walk, Santos at her heel.

“What about our four-year-old?” she whispered to McKay, hoping the panic wasn’t coming through in her voice.

“Oh, I can’t say no to a hot appy,” McKay said, smiling. Her elbow brushed Victoria’s comfortingly. “It’ll be quick, promise.”

As Eileen walked into the room and made her introductions, Santos stood at her side, sharp-eyed and square-shouldered. It was almost too eager, Victoria thought with a little distaste. She’d met her fair share of brown-nosers through her mom; she could clock the type.

“Now, everyone knows McBurney’s point,” Eileen said. “Who can tell me the name of this sign?”

She instructed the patient to raise his right leg until pain apparently struck. He groaned, body unfurling again, spilling back against the sheets.

Victoria could feel her mom’s eyes on her. She resolutely did not meet her gaze. It wasn’t like she needed to avoid it for long, though, because soon Santos was opening her mouth.

“Psoas sign,” she said, toying with the ends of her stethoscope. “Friction of the psoas muscle over the inflamed appendix.”

“Excellent,” Eileen said. “Now, back in the day, appendicitis meant you went straight to the OR. Who can tell me about the CODA study?”

She was obviously expecting Victoria to answer this one, too. It wasn’t like Victoria didn’t know the correct response. Her mom knew that she knew it, but that wasn’t the point. It was a posturing exercise, prodding Victoria like a wind-up doll until she behaved impressively enough to be put back on the shelf.

“It showed that without an appendicolith, there was a seventy-five percent success rate in the antibiotic-only group,” Santos said, quickly enough that Victoria would’ve only just beaten her to it, had she played along.

“Yes, exactly,” Eileen said, a little tightly. In Victoria’s peripheral vision, Santos preened. “Honey. We discussed this at home, right?”

Victoria grimaced.

“Honey?” Santos echoed, sounding incredulous, if not delighted. “Wait, she’s your daughter?”

“It’s Victoria,” Victoria said, rounding on her mom, “or Javadi, Dr. Shamsi.”

The worst part was that Eileen didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic, or ashamed. She ducked her head, her lips tightening into a terse smile, and glanced at Santos. Santos, who was watching Victoria gleefully, her hands still wrapped around the ends of her stethoscope.

By the time McKay invented an excuse for their escape, Victoria was hot all over. It didn’t help when McKay couldn’t stop herself from laughing, even if Victoria could recognize the irony of the situation.

She could only be grateful that no one else from the ED had been there. She’d managed to go the whole day without earning a nickname — Whitaker had already been called Funky Music — and she didn’t want to start with one based on the heritage she’d rather just ignore.

***

“There’s a black widow spider in your shoe.”

“You’re shitting me,” Delores said, halfway through a groan.

Victoria pinched the spider with a needle driver, holding it up so Donnie could see.

“Red hourglass marking,” he said.

“We need IV diazepam,” Victoria said. “Start with five. Might need ten.”

Donnie nodded, rushing off to retrieve the medication.

Victoria set the shoe and spider to the side. She was trying her best to fight off a smile. It’d be beyond inappropriate to gloat in front of Delores, let alone the fact that it was probably disturbing to get such a rush of euphoria from finding the body of a deadly arachnid.

“What does a spider bite have to do with my Crohn’s disease?” Delores asked as Donnie returned to the room, setting about administering the diazepam.

“Oh. Uh, nothing,” Victoria said. She settled her hands on the bedframe. “Black widow venom can cause muscle spasms in the belly. People have had surgery thinking it was appendicitis.”

As she finished her sentence, the door behind her flew open, two sets of footsteps following.

“Hi, Delores,” Eileen said, approaching Delores’ bedside. She looked at Victoria sharply. “Why didn’t you get her to CT yet?”

“I … I don’t think she needs it,” Victoria said.

Santos was already pulling the blankets aside to feel Delores’ stomach. “Abdomen is rigid.”

“She’s perfed,” Eileen said firmly.

“Maybe not.”

Eileen turned to Donnie, a furrow in her brow. “What are you giving?”

“Diazepam,” Donnie replied.

“I didn’t order that.”

“I did,” Victoria said. “She has a rigid abdomen but no other GI signs or symptoms. It didn't make any sense. There's a black widow spider and a bite mark on the foot. The venom is causing spasm of the abdominal wall musculature.”

Santos raised her eyebrows. Eileen blinked at Victoria for a moment, her eyes softening.

“Whatever you gave me,” Delores said, punctuated by a relieved sigh, “it’s working.”

“Possibly,” Eileen said.

“No, definitely,” Delores said. She sank back into the bed. “I’m much better.”

Eileen glanced at Victoria once more, her expression settling into something like pride. Victoria bit back a smile.

She set about disposing of the spider as her mom stayed at Delores’ bedside for a few more moments: discussing her symptoms, what her treatment would entail, and how soon she could expect to be discharged.

Victoria didn’t mind her mom taking over from here as much, if it was what made Delores more comfortable. What she wanted to refute was the assumption that as smart as she was, she couldn’t possibly solve a problem that hadn’t been set up for her, that someone else hadn’t already known the answer to.

“Nice catch, nepo baby.”

Victoria looked up. Santos was standing next to her, arms folded over her chest.

“Me?” Victoria asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Santos said.

“I’m not a nepo baby,” Victoria said, neck prickling. “I’m not — Dr. Robby didn’t even know who my mom was. So.”

“Right,” Santos said, as if nothing could be less interesting. “So, what are you, sixteen?”

Victoria clenched her jaw. “Ha-ha.”

“It was a serious question,” Santos said. “Are you safe? Should I call HR?”

“I’m twenty, thanks,” Victoria said. “And I’m going through med school, same as you did.”

“Ah,” Santos said, lip curling, as if everything suddenly made sense. “You’re a prodigy.”

True as it might be, Victoria would normally disagree with that assessment. It was a bad look to label herself as such, for one, and even if she didn’t care about appearances, she wasn’t entirely proud of how far ahead she was. Sometimes, it felt like her age created more roadblocks than it offered advantages. She was out of touch with her peers, her patients. McKay had lived, properly, and she knew how to get people to trust her in a way Victoria just didn’t. Sherry Davis had proved that.

Something about Santos’ tone, though, put Victoria on edge. The way she said ‘prodigy’ indicated it was something Victoria should be embarrassed by, or something she hadn’t earned. Victoria narrowed her eyes.

“Yeah, actually,” she said.

“Ooh,” Santos said. “Mommy must be proud.”

Victoria stared in disbelief. “Are you seriously making fun of your attending’s daughter in front of your attending?”

She was pretty sure her mom wasn’t listening, but it was the principle of the thing. General surgery interns were usually far more eager to appear polite and by-the-book.

“Not making fun,” Santos said. “I think your family is adorable.”

“Thanks,” Victoria muttered.

“Your dad works here too, right?” Santos said. “Shamsi said something about her husband in endocrinology.”

“I’m actually a bastard,” Victoria said, on impulse. Santos’ eyes widened a little in surprise, and she huffed a small laugh, hiding it behind her hand. Victoria felt her face grow warm.

“Santos,” Eileen said, gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s go.”

Santos straightened her expression, then nodded. She looked over her shoulder as she disappeared back through the door, though, and Victoria was pretty sure she shot her a wink.

***

“The general surg intern is doing a REBOA.”

Victoria was checking over one of the patients in chairs, but when she heard Donnie’s voice, her head snapped up.

“Trinity Santos,” Santos said, feeding a guidewire into a woman’s femoral artery.

“Oh, no,” Mel said, eyes flickering between Donnie’s face and Santos’ steady hands, as if she couldn’t quite compute what she was seeing. “No, no way.”

“Yes way,” Whitaker said, like he sympathized.

“We need an attending for that,” Mel said. “Or — or a senior resident.”

“This is combat-zone medicine, blondie,” Santos said. “Would you rather I let her die?”

Mel was already walking off, though, presumably to find someone to supervise. Her face was tight, distressed. Victoria figured that she and Mel were thinking the same thing: that regardless of how quickly an attending was summoned, any damage would already be done. Santos was advancing an introducer sheath along the guidewire.

“What’s going on over there?”

Victoria looked back down. The man she’d been caring for was staring at the unfolding scene with a furrowed brow.

“Uh, nothing,” Victoria said, trying to shake off her nerves. “Good news, though, you seem to be fine. Just minor surface injuries.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told you,” the man said. He glances in the direction Mel went. “That lady seemed pissed.”

“Yeah, well, Santos isn’t technically…” Victoria caught herself, wincing. She definitely wasn’t supposed to admit liability, just in case everything went south. “Everything’s just tense right now. We’re, like, super overloaded. Don’t worry about it.”

When Mel came back in, she had Eileen in tow, the same look in her eye that she got when Victoria tried to dye her hair purple at age fourteen.

“A REBOA?” she said. “That’s an advanced emergency medicine procedure.”

“Yeah, well, I aced my EM rotation,” Santos said. “Also, uncontrollable bleeding from a pelvic artery — no other options.”

“We need an art line to know if the BP’s up,” Donnie said.

Victoria could tell that her mom was rippling with barely-contained anger, but she said with a level voice, “Not possible. We’ll go with pulse strength and mentation.”

“Carotid’s weak,” Whitaker said. “Radial’s barely there.”

Eileen’s jaw tensed. She instructed Santos to inject more saline into the balloon, which she did, as Mel rounded the patient’s bed to check her systolic blood pressure.

Victoria knew she was wasting time by watching, but she couldn’t help it. She bit the inside of her lip, still hovering over her cleared patient.

“Woah,” Whitaker said. “Uh, radial’s much stronger now.”

Victoria let herself breathe out, the pressure in her ribcage waning. She relaxed further when Whitaker confirmed that the woman’s bleeding had ceased.

Eileen obviously didn’t feel the same way. The rigidity of her spine hadn’t dissipated, and she was staring at Santos with an utterly unreadable expression. Victoria found herself kind of admiring Santos for a moment, making a decision to save a patient’s life that would have, whether it had failed or succeeded, completely nuked her reputation.

Eileen was procedure, routine, convention. She followed the rulebook to the letter, and her expectations were meant to be exceeded. She had no time for the kind of doctor Santos was shaping up to be, impulsive and overconfident and uncaring of authority.

“That was incredibly irresponsible,” Eileen said, her voice low enough that Victoria barely caught it. “You should have never done that without permission or supervision. Do you understand?”

Not meeting her eye, Santos nodded.

For a moment, Eileen was silent. Then, she said, “Excellent technique.”

Santos looked over her shoulder to watch Eileen as she disappeared, her face caught in an expression of soft surprise. She steeled herself quickly, turning back to her patient. The only thing that gave away how pleased she was was the subtle curve at the corner of her mouth.

Victoria stared in complete disbelief.

ii.

The TV humming on low volume, the end of a pen pressed to her lip, Victoria reviewed a binder full of various medical studies from the past decade. The pages were well-trodden, filled with highlighter and neat annotations, but Victoria read them diligently anyway. She liked to wrap up her week with some study — it was habit by now, and, if nothing else, it kept her on track.

“Honey.”

Victoria glanced up. Her mom was in the living room doorway, deep lines around her mouth.

“How can you focus like this?” she asked.

“I’ve read these, like, a million times, mom,” Victoria said, a little wearily. “And I’m not even paying attention to the TV. It’s just Parks & Rec.”

Eileen sat on the opposite end of the couch to Victoria, glancing at the TV. 

“Have we seen this episode before?” she asked, a furrow in her brow.

“Yeah,” Victoria said. “It’s the one with the mini horse.”

“Ah,” Eileen said. She looked at Victoria out of the corner of her eye. “You know, you shouldn’t sit like that. If you have to work, do it at your desk. You’ll give yourself back problems.”

“Okay,” Victoria said through a sigh, shutting her binder and sliding it onto the coffee table. To her mom’s disapproving look, she said, “I have all of tomorrow to review. And I don’t even need to, by the way. I’m doing fine.”

“Knowledge takes no space,” Eileen said.

“Yeah, I know, mom.”

Eileen nodded. A few moments passed, silent if not for the murmuring of the TV. Victoria thought about turning the volume up now that she wasn’t trying to study.

“So,” her mom said. “Tomorrow is your first day off.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Victoria said. She hesitated, then continued, “It’s, um, gonna be weird, I think. After so many twelve-hour shifts in a row, it’s like my whole life is the ER.”

“That’s what a shift with no breaks will do to you,” Eileen said pointedly. “Emergency med does not offer a sustainable work-life balance.”

“Neither does surgery,” Victoria said. “If I cared about a work-life balance, I’d go into family medicine.”

“Don’t even joke,” Eileen said, a touch of sarcasm to her voice. Victoria smiled a little, looking down at her lap. “Have you enjoyed your first week otherwise?”

“Uh, yeah. Mostly,” Victoria said. “Everyone’s really nice. No one’s ribbed me for being too young, or anything. Or for…” She thought about what her mom’s reaction might be to hearing that she fainted at the sight of a degloved foot. “…I don’t know. Anything else, I can’t remember. So there’s a good culture, I guess.”

“What about the work itself?” Eileen asked. “How are you finding emergency medicine?”

Victoria paused for a moment. Her knees came up further, tucking to her chest, and she rested her face between them so it was half-hidden.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Um, intense. You have to be really … impulsive. But you can never be wrong. It’s like you’re staring a life-or-death decision in the face, and you have two seconds to figure it out. And then you have to do it a hundred times over.”

“I remember,” Eileen said. “It was my least favorite rotation.”

“Oh?” Victoria’s ears perked up. Her mom rarely spoke about her youth. “Why?”

“The traumas were interesting,” Eileen said, “but the constant improvisation was exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Victoria said. “I, uh. I guess you got another taste of that last Friday.”

She regretted the words almost as soon as they were out of her mouth. It was weird, because despite the fact that she had lived through PittFest — collaterally, anyway — it felt markedly wrong to talk about it casually. ‘Last Friday’ just wasn’t how you were supposed to refer to a mass shooting.

“In a way, yes,” Eileen said, carefully. She kept her eyes fixed on the binder on the coffee table. “Victoria, you were … impressive that day.”

Victoria looked up, her eyes large. “Oh. Um, thanks, mom.” She felt the sudden need to deflect. “I didn’t really do that much, though. I mean, everyone else… Like, Mohan made a burr hole with an IO drill. And, well. Your intern…”

Eileen nodded, and Victoria wondered if she was imagining the small, pleased smile on her face. “Dr. Santos.”

“Yeah. Well. The REBOA,” Victoria said. She paused. “Um. Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you, like, always say that…” Victoria hesitated. “I don’t know. I feel like you always complain about junior residents who think too highly of themselves.”

“I do,” Eileen said.

“Okay,” Victoria said. “Then, uh. What about Santos?”

Eileen seemed to think about this for a moment, leaning back against the couch with her arms crossed.

“I guess it’s not overconfidence if you deliver,” she said.

Victoria stared. Her mom had never said anything remotely positive about a resident until they’d been at the PTMC for six months, minimum, and even then, they really had to impress her. Somehow Santos, who was antithetical to almost everything Eileen wanted Victoria to be, was becoming the first exception.

“So, you think she’s good,” Victoria said incredulously.

“She has great instincts,” Eileen said, apparently ignorant of Victoria’s tone. “Very sure of herself. She has a genuine passion for medical science which is … less common in surgery, in my experience, due to its prestige, and that makes her easy to teach.”

Victoria kind of wanted to be bitter and say, Why don’t you adopt her, then? but she couldn’t imagine a world where that would go over well.

“Cool,” she said instead.

“You could probably benefit from speaking to her, actually,” Eileen said. “Maybe I could set that up.”

“Oh,” Victoria said. “Uh, no, that’s not necessary.”

“Just to discuss residency pathways,” Eileen said, breezing past Victoria’s dissent. “She’s been through the system far more recently than I or your father have. Might be able to offer a fresh perspective.”

“Mom,” Victoria said, “you really, really don’t have to do that.”

“I’m sure it’s no trouble,” Eileen said.

“I don’t know about that,” Victoria muttered. “I mean, she has tattoos. She probably also has a life.”

“I’ll be sure to ask her if she’s available sometime.”

Victoria tipped her head back, resting it against the couch cushions. “Great. Thanks, mom.”

She tried to imagine the same smug, confident Trinity Santos she met last Friday sitting down to discuss career pathways with a med student out of the goodness of her heart, and couldn’t.

Then, she tried to imagine Santos sitting down to discuss career pathways with a med student whose mom she wanted to get in good with. That was a lot easier.

***

“I brought an intern with me to shadow,” Garcia said as she scrubbed in. As always, she asked for forgiveness rather than permission. “Hope that’s okay.”

“That’s … fine,” Robby said. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the door and said, with a touch of surprise, “Dr. Santos.”

“Dr. Robby,” Santos replied, and Victoria’s eyes flickered up and away from the open dislocation in front of her. Santos was pulling on gloves, a wide grin on her face. “Miss me?”

Robby said nothing, but his eyes crinkled in amusement.

Victoria stepped away to make room for Garcia and Santos, neither of whom acknowledged her, rounding the patient’s bed to stand alongside Mel. Mel kept glancing at Santos, her expression somewhat wary. Victoria couldn’t really blame her. If she were Mel, she wouldn’t trust Santos either.

“Santos,” Garcia said, “you ever done a reduction on an open dislocation before?”

“Not one this gnarly,” Santos said, peering over the exposed bone. “Jesus.”

“I’ll talk you through it,” Garcia said.

“Hang on,” Robby said, frowning.

“She’ll be fine,” Garcia said, shooting him a look. “Santos here has magic hands.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. She glanced between Mel and Robby for any indication that they had heard that, too. Mel’s expression remained obliviously impassive, but Robby raised his eyebrows at Garcia, who avoided his gaze while Santos got into position.

Victoria had been surprised, when she started her EM rotation, just how physically effortful so many routine procedures were. Surgery, when described in a textbook, had never seemed like it was done on human beings, but on isolated aspects of the body. It was careful, precise, civilized — sanitized medical instruments carving through skin and tissue and fat, abstracted.

Watching Santos muscle a man’s humerus back into its socket threw all of that out the window. Her forehead beaded with sweat, her arms straining, she would’ve looked more like an athlete than a surgeon were she not so obviously adept at molding the human body to her will.

Victoria was tasked with closing the wound when Santos was finished, under Mel’s supervision. Before she began, she caught Robby offering Santos a fist bump out of the corner of her eye.

“Nice job,” he told her, and she nodded, obviously suppressing a grin.

“Thanks,” she said. “You know, I’m gunning for a trauma surgery fellowship after my residency, so you might be seeing a lot more of me.”

“She’s coming for my brand,” Garcia said as she stripped off her gloves.

“I’m coming for your career,” Santos corrected, lightly, and Garcia’s lip quirked.

Mel nudged Victoria in the back with her elbow, startling her back to attention.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Mel said gently. “Go slow. Don’t worry, I’m watching.”

“Uh-huh,” Victoria muttered, finally inserting the needle into the skin.

***

From then on, it was like Santos was everywhere, all the time.

She and Garcia functioned like a well-oiled machine. They Patrick Swayze-ed their way through several procedures, Victoria watching incredulously as Garcia wrapped herself around Santos’ back and directed her hands. Victoria didn’t want to be the first to comment on it, though, and everyone else seemed to be fine to let it happen.

Robby, for instance, greeted Santos with increasing familiarity each time she passed through the ED; they quickly dropped the ‘doctor’ from each others’ names. He raised his eyebrows in amusement at her unflinching self-assuredness, and he tested her knowledge as easily as he did his residents’. He would sometimes ask, “No Santos today?” if Garcia came into the ED alone, and Victoria would quietly roll her eyes. 

The annoyance Victoria felt at Santos getting in with her attending, though, was nothing compared to what it was like hearing of her exploits through her mother. Eileen would frequently praise Santos’ quick, flexible thinking, the ease with which she took control of a situation. She would sometimes lament over dinner that Santos was so intent on becoming a trauma surgeon, when Eileen would willingly recommend her to be matched into a more prestigious specialty.

“She should do what she wants, mom,” Victoria mumbled, pushing her food around on her plate with a spoon.

“I just don’t want her wasting her talent,” Eileen replied, and Victoria slumped down in her chair. Where had she heard that before?

If Victoria had been asked a couple of weeks ago, she wouldn’t have labelled Santos a social butterfly. Santos seemed capable of being polite when it might benefit her, and she’d proved that when she strategically built relationships with everyone she needed to impress.

However, Whitaker didn’t really fall into that category of person. In fact, he was blatantly below Santos on the food chain.

And still: “Why so blue, Huckleberry?”

Whitaker glanced up briefly from his workstation, then looked back down, expression sullen. “Nothing.”

“Aw,” Santos said, pouting. “Did someone finally tell you that raw milk’s illegal in Pennsylvania?”

“It’s actually legal through retail sales,” Whitaker said automatically. Then his cheeks went pink. “And shut up.”

“Of course you would know that,” Santos said.

“I don’t drink it,” Whitaker said hotly. “I’m not stupid.”

“Uh-huh,” Santos said, turning her attention to Victoria, who had been trying to pretend she wasn’t listening. “Hey, princess. Will you tell me why he’s in a mood?”

“Mind your business,” Victoria said, because it was a better answer than I don’t know. The truth was that with each passing day since their first shift, Whitaker seemed more and more exhausted, withdrawn. “Also, there’s a nurse here called Princess. You probably shouldn’t call me that.”

“Wait, really?” Santos said. “Weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Victoria snapped.

“Woah. Testy,” Santos said, lifting her hands in surrender. “Anyway, I’ll see you losers later. Lives to save, et cetera.”

“Don’t come back,” Victoria called as she retreated, and got a small, huffed laugh in response. When she turned around again, she caught Whitaker looking at her oddly. “What?”

“I just don’t get your whole deal with her,” he said, shrugging.

Victoria frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why does she annoy you so much?” Whitaker asked. “She’s barely around.”

Victoria folded her arms over her stomach. There were a million answers to that question, and none of them would sound rational to Whitaker.

Santos earned Eileen’s approval the same day they met. More than that, it was clear from the way Eileen spoke about Santos giving Victoria career advice that she wished they were more alike. Still, Eileen labelled Santos’ impulsiveness as “instinct,” her ego as “confidence,” and her excessive bragging as “ambition.” Every aspect of Santos’ personality had been stamped out of Victoria growing up — she could only be humble, thoughtful, deferential.

Worst of all, Santos didn’t seem to understand the value of what she’d been given. She was willing to risk Eileen’s goodwill for a fellowship.

“I just think she’s stuck up,” Victoria said. “I mean, she barely knows you, and she’s given you a shitty nickname. She’s an asshole.”

“She doesn’t mean it in a bad way,” Whitaker said.

“…Right,” Victoria replied.

It was only a few days later that Whitaker, for the very first time since Victoria met him, didn’t mysteriously materialize at eight in the morning on a day he was scheduled to work, as if he’d never left the PTMC. Instead, Victoria saw him in the parking lot, getting out of Santos’ dusky blue car. Her eyes widened.

A few hours passed before she was able to corner him. She caught him as he was coming out of the bathroom, and he stilled the moment he saw her, looking more than a little unnerved at the intensity of her stare.

“So,” she said. “Um. You and Santos came in together, huh.”

Whitaker’s grimace was subtle enough that it was difficult to spot. “Yeah. I guess.”

Victoria nodded slowly, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. In fact, he seemed to be plotting an escape route.

“Did you hook up?” she asked bluntly.

“What—?” he hissed, eyes bugging out of his head. “No! What are you talking about?”

Victoria understood his incredulity. It wasn’t like that had been a real question, anyway. Santos drove a Subaru, asked people about their star signs, and one time, she bent over and Victoria saw boxer briefs peeking out from the waistband of her scrubs.

“Then…?” she said. “What, you guys live together now?”

Whitaker hesitated. “I mean, kind of?”

Victoria blinked. “Kind of?”

“Okay. Yes,” Whitaker said helplessly. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I needed a place — a new place. And she had a spare room.”

Victoria stared at Whitaker as he walked away. It was weird, because they weren’t exactly close, but she considered them friends. He was the closest in age to her in the department, anyway, and they spoke sometimes when either of them could find a quiet moment. It wasn’t like Victoria expected that to change, but she couldn’t help feeling twinge of resentment at Santos for outperforming her in yet another aspect of her life.

iii.

Santos looked so different out of scrubs that it took Victoria a second to recognize her from where she stood in the cafe doorway.

Santos was at a little table in the back, leaning her head against the large window that made up much of one wall. Her hair was loose, tucked behind her ears, and her shirt was of some lame dad rock band from the nineties that Victoria only half-recognized. Sunlight fractured through the glass, painting her face in color.

“Hey,” Victoria said, tightly, as she approached the table.

Santos looked up. “Hey, the prodigal daughter returns.”

“What?” Victoria slung her bag over the backrest of the chair, then sat. “Do you mean ‘prodigious’?”

Santos rolled her eyes. “Jesus, it’s a saying.”

“Yeah, one that doesn’t make sense in this context,” Victoria said. “‘Prodigal’ isn’t the adjective form of ‘prodigy.’ ‘Prodigy’ and ‘prodigious’ literally have the same root word.”

“Okay, fine,” Santos said. “I give up.”

“Good,” Victoria said, shortly.

Santos snorted. She dropped something on the table — a packet of sugar, folded and unfolded almost to the point of disintegration — and leaned back in her chair.

“So,” she said.

“So,” Victoria replied.

Santos splayed her hands out in front of her, as if inviting Victoria to speak. Victoria frowned.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing, just…” Santos shrugged. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Victoria blinked. “What? Nothing.”

“So, you just asked your mom to set us up for coffee for the hell of it?” Santos asked.

“No,” Victoria said quickly.

“So you did have a motive,” Santos said, tapping her lip in an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness. She frowned. “This isn’t a date, is it?”

Victoria couldn’t get a word in before a bored-looking waitress appeared at their table. She tried to order as quickly as possible, which Santos apparently found amusing, if the glint in her eye was anything to go by.

“Matcha latte with oat milk?” Santos asked, and Victoria swore she was dragging the words out.

“Could you be any more of a stereotype?” she said, once the waitress was out of earshot. Santos raised her eyebrows. Victoria cringed at herself. “God, sorry. I’m sorry, that was really bad.”

“Yeah, kinda,” Santos said. She adopted a ghoulish sort of tone which suggested she was enjoying Victoria’s discomfort.

“Shut up. I said sorry,” Victoria said. “Also — no, this isn’t a date.”

“Good,” Santos said. “Because if you actually asked your mom to set us up, you’re lamer than I thought was possible.”

“I can get my own dates,” Victoria said, not stopping to reflect upon whether that was entirely true.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Santos said. She leaned forward, putting her weight on her folded arms. “So. What is this about, then?”

“I told you. Nothing,” Victoria said. She picked at the sleeve of her top, staring down at her lap. “I … I didn’t ask my mom to set this up. I didn’t ask her to do anything.”

“Huh.” Santos was silent for a moment. “So you don’t actually want to talk to me.”

“Hard to imagine, right?” Victoria muttered.

Santos snorted. Despite everything, it felt kind of good to amuse her. She got this startled, proud look on her face, like Victoria was managing to defy at least one person’s expectations.

“Look, you can just go home if you want,” Santos offered. “I’ll tell Dr. Shamsi we had a great, productive chat.”

Victoria shook her head. “No. I can’t lie to her like that, she’ll know.”

“You are twenty, right?” Santos asked. “All I did at that age was lie to my mom.”

“Yeah, well, I respect her,” Victoria said. “We have a good relationship.”

“Clearly,” Santos said.

“I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

“Apparently not.”

Eventually, the waitress arrived with their drinks. Victoria thanked her, but didn’t drink straight away. Instead, she swirled her straw around her coffee, watching the ice bob and clink along the surface.

In her peripheral vision, Santos took a sip of her matcha, green-white foam coating her upper lip. Victoria glanced up to watch her lick it off.

“Can I ask you something?” Santos said.

Quickly, Victoria met Santos’ eyes. “Uh, yeah. Shoot.”

Santos set her mug down. “Why would your mom even set this up you didn’t wanna do it?”

“Oh,” Victoria said. She let go of her straw. “Um, my mom wants me to be a surgeon.”

“Right,” Santos said, like that wasn’t explanation enough. Victoria sighed.

“And you’re a surgeon, I guess,” she said. “Or, you know. You will be once you’re all grown up.”

“Funny,” Santos said, though she did it with a small smile that suggested she actually thought it was. “But she probably knows, like, a million surgeons. I mean — not probably, definitely.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then why me?”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “You just want me to stroke your ego.”

“Oh?” Santos said, immediately perking up. “Does the answer involve ego-stroking?”

“No. She just thinks you’re, like. Competent,” Victoria said. “But also, you’re around my age.”

“Uh, I beg to differ.”

“You know what I mean. You’re less than a year out of med school,” Victoria said. “She thinks that if you talk to me, I’ll, like, pledge my allegiance to the whole discipline tomorrow.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Santos said. She jabbed a finger at Victoria. “You don’t wanna go into surgery.”

“I don’t know,” Victoria muttered.

“What, you don’t think you’ll get matched into it?”

“That’s not—”

“Because I’m sure a strongly-worded letter from mommy would fix that.”

“I could get in,” Victoria snapped. “I could get an offer anywhere I want.”

Santos’ mouth shifted like she was holding back a laugh.

“I don’t think it’s a crime not to want to do what you do,” Victoria said. “Hour after hour of every minute being scheduled. Patients not even being people, just bodies. Doesn’t that drive you crazy?”

Santos shrugged. “Yeah, a little.”

Victoria frowned. “What?”

“What, you want me to tell you it’s perfect? It’s obviously not,” Santos said. “That’s half the reason I want to double board in emergency medicine.”

For a moment, Victoria just stared. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Santos said. “What, you think I can’t do it?”

“No,” Victoria said. “Well, yes. I mean, you probably can’t.”

“Jeez, thanks,” Santos said. “You know, your mom likes my ambition.”

“Can we please stop talking about my mom?” Victoria said, exasperated.

Santos smirked. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you,” Victoria muttered.

Santos leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So. No surgery talk either, I guess.”

Victoria shook her head.

Santos tapped her fingers against her upper arm. “Any idea what you do wanna specialize in?”

Victoria groaned. “Don’t.”

“Wow, you’re fun,” Santos said.

“Because I don’t wanna talk about school or family?”

“Well. Shot in the dark, but I’m pretty sure ‘school and family’ are your entire life.”

Victoria shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “No, they’re not.”

“You go to a lot of college parties at fourteen, then?” Santos asked.

“I obviously didn’t,” Victoria said.

Santos pouted. “Aw.”

“Whatever,” Victoria said. She hesitated, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

Santos paused for a moment, then said, “Yeah. Okay.”

Victoria thumbed the rim of her glass. The ice was starting to melt.

“You know that everyone’s going to judge you for double boarding, right?” she asked.

Santos scoffed. “For kicking ass at something basically impossible?”

“No. For compromising your career in surgery for emergency medicine,” Victoria said. “You probably don’t get this, because your parents aren’t doctors, but there’s, like, an in-group. You’re in right now. You shouldn’t fuck it up.”

“How do you know my parents aren’t doctors?”

Victoria looked up. Santos’ expression was unreadable. Victoria blinked.

“I just meant—”

“You don’t know,” Santos said.

“I…” Victoria said. “I guess not.”

Santos nodded. Took another sip of her matcha.

“I don’t want to be ‘in,’” she said. “I mean, it’s nice. But it’s not a priority.”

“Fine,” Victoria said.

Santos tilted her head. “Do you care about being ‘in?’”

“You know who my parents are.”

“So, yes?”

“So, it doesn’t matter.”

“Because you already are ‘in.’”

“Well. Yeah,” Victoria said. Santos was proving unreasonably frustrating to talk to. She would never say anything outright, but she would poke and prod until Victoria’s meaning, which was clear from the start, was laid out in front of her.

“Hm.” Santos unfolded her arms, running a hand casually through her hair. “Would that change if you went into, say, emergency medicine?”

“No,” Victoria said, the moment Santos was finished speaking.

“Okay,” Santos said, and Victoria couldn’t decide if that meant she believed her.

She finally took a sip of her drink. It was a little watery, and she grimaced at the texture. She didn’t even really drink coffee — she had a caffeine addiction, like any self-respecting med student, but that usually meant slamming the Red Bulls that she snuck into her room midway through a study session.

“You should specialize in emergency med,” Santos said, almost out of nowhere.

Victoria swallowed, almost choking. “What? Why?”

She found herself half-expecting a compliment, an insistence that the brief flashes of talent Santos observed of her in her visits to the ED were proof that she had a calling, that she couldn’t possibly do anything else.

Then, Santos smiled a little, and said, “Because it would piss off your mom.”

Victoria glared. “You’re so immature.”

“Oh, come on,” Santos said. She gestured between them. “You’re telling me you want to keep getting ambushed with these weird coffee-shop networking dates?”

Like that wouldn’t just push Eileen to organize more of them.

“Not desperately,” Victoria said, carefully. “But … I mean. It’s not that bad.”

“Really? It’d drive me crazy,” Santos said.

“You agreed to meet me,” Victoria pointed out. “How’s that any different?”

Santos huffed a small laugh. “True. I did it for my own selfish purposes, though.”

“Oh?” Victoria sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Um. What do you mean?”

Santos nodded at her drink. “Your allowance is paying for my six-dollar matcha.”

“What?” Victoria’s shoulders slumped. “No, it’s not. No way.”

“It’s the polite thing to do,” Santos said, pressing her hands together as if she were imparting some great lesson. “Don’t you know how networking works?”

“You’re a resident — you’re higher up than me,” Victoria said indignantly. “If anything, you’re supposed to pay.”

Santos clicked her tongue. “Are you forgetting? I have med school debt. You’re higher up than me in the hierarchy of capitalism.”

“Oh, like you read Marx,” Victoria muttered.

Santos grinned. “Is that a yes?”

Victoria hesitated, then said, “Whatever. It’s not even really my money.”

Santos whistled, then held up her mug as if for a toast. Victoria raised her eyebrows, and Santos just shook her mug a little, violently enough that Victoria worried the liquid might slosh over the sides. Gingerly, she lifted her own, much fuller glass, the cold numbing her fingertips.

“To Eileen Shamsi,” Santos said grandiosely. “May her bank account never run dry.”

Victoria rolled her eyes.

Their glasses clinked.

***

“How was your coffee with Dr. Santos?”

Victoria, a quarter of the way up the stairs, stilled and turned around. Her mom was in the foyer, staring in that way of hers that made Victoria unable to move a muscle.

“Um, good,” she said. “I think.”

Eileen nodded. “What did you two talk about?”

“Oh, you know,” Victoria said. “Work.”

“Did she give you any pointers?”

“Yep,” Victoria said. “Yeah. Just, um, you know. Keep your head down. Uh, work hard.”

Her mom looked at her. Victoria looked back. She could kick herself; it wasn’t like it was hard to embody Santos’ voice. Trust your gut. Don’t take shit. Only do what you want to do.

“Okay,” Eileen said.

Victoria nodded, angling for permission to escape.

“Did you say thank you?” her mom asked.

Victoria huffed. “Yeah, mom, I said thanks.”

“Because she took time out of her day to meet with you.”

“I know,” Victoria said. “I said thanks.”

“Good,” Eileen said. “If you hit it off, maybe she can help you with your next rotations.”

“Mom, you’re acting like she’s the only person who’s ever graduated med school,” Victoria said. “I’m sure there are some rotations she screwed up. Family medicine, for one.”

Eileen gave her a dry look. “Maybe.”

Victoria sighed. “Look, um. If you value her opinion that much…”

“I do.”

Victoria swallowed, a little harshly. She looked down at her feet.

“Yeah. So, she’ll be a point of contact, I guess,” she said. “If I … need any help.”

“That’s all I ask,” Eileen said crisply.

***

That night, Victoria collapsed onto her bed. She stared up at the ceiling where the glow-in-the-dark stars of her childhood still clung, dull plastic where the phosphor had faded.

She wondered if it was even logical to be jealous of someone who probably didn’t think twice about her. Santos had clearly only cared about impressing Eileen for as long as it took to secure her favor, anyway. That box checked, she moved onto Garcia, and now — well, at least her interest in emergency medicine explained why she was trying to get in with Robby.

Victoria rolled onto her stomach. The clock on her nightstand told her it was getting late, a little past midnight. She should probably sleep, but she couldn’t find it in her. The night stretched long and quiet and empty ahead of her. She found herself thinking that she was glad she was scheduled for a shift tomorrow, and then took a moment to really internalize how depressing that was.

Santos probably had plans. She was probably out at a club, or something, and would come into work the next day with eye bags and hickeys and a tired grin, flaunting the fact that she had something to do on a Saturday night.

Impulsively, Victoria reached for her phone and opened Instagram, typing Trinity Santos into the into the search bar. She figured that Santos’ account wouldn’t be attached to her legal name, or that it would be private, but there it was — sitting at the top of the results. They had Whitaker in common; go figure.

Victoria clicked on Santos’ story, and stared.

She didn’t know how to feel about the fact that she was right — this photo was clearly taken in the mirror of a club bathroom. It was dimly-lit, the walls and stall doors laden with stickers and scrawled messages in sharpie. Santos stood with one hand in her pocket, the other on her phone. Her hair was stringy with sweat, the bright flash highlighting the way her face flushed red. The buttons of her shirt were low enough to show part of her bra, the slit sort of sitting at the base of her ribcage, and there were silver rings on her fingers.

Victoria put her thumb between her teeth, biting down enough to leave indents in her skin. She stared at the photo until it timed out, sending her back to Santos’ page, and it felt way too pathetic to click on it again.

She scrolled through Santos’ posts instead. She had a lot of them, going back a few years, and they weren’t especially curated or anything. Victoria saw a photo she must’ve posted the morning before her first shift. The date lined up, and she was wearing the same graphic tee under her scrubs, and the caption was stomach-twistingly hopeful. Victoria scrolled back up quickly, unable to look at it for long.

Santos’ most recent post was a photo dump. Victoria flicked through it slowly. A blurry picture of some gig at a bar. The CD shelves at a thrift store. Whitaker shoving a handful of popcorn into his face, curled up on a couch, Grey’s Anatomy inexplicably on the TV.

Santos had a life. Like, an actual life, shopping and partying and cooking dinner with her roommate, watching TV with someone other than her mom on her living room couch. Victoria was struck by how unbelievably unfair it all was. Santos could have all that and be ambitious, serious, talented.

Victoria exited Santos’ feed, feeling a little heavier for it. She shut off her phone, laying it on her nightstand, and rolled onto her back again, staring up into the faint green glow of the stickers on her ceiling.

iv.

Victoria liked dressing up. She didn’t get many excuses to do it, and so she took advantage of them when they came along.

She took her time with her make-up, layering expensive primers and bronzers and setting powders that each contributed a negligible effect, but combined into something untouchable. She wore her hair in a claw-clip, and pulled out the dress her mom bought her for her college graduation, the fabric a soft warm pink.

It was more fun if she pretended she was doing this entirely for herself. Of course, when her parents hosted, she was kind of duty-bound to look good, in the same way she had to keep up to date on the New England Journal of Medicine and make polite conversation with her parents’ coworkers.

Victoria took the studs out of her first lobe piercings and replaced them with a set of hanging glass teardrops, the same color as her dress. She was examining herself in her mirror when her mom appeared over her shoulder, standing in the doorway.

“Guests are arriving soon,” Eileen said. “Come downstairs when you can.”

“Okay,” Victoria said. “I’ll just be a sec.”

Eileen made like she was going to leave, then paused for a second, hand on the doorframe. “You look beautiful, Victoria.”

Victoria smiled a little. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

It was always weird to wear shoes in the house. Her mom was normally anal about going barefoot, but the rule was waived when it came to cocktail parties. Victoria wasn’t used to it, in the same way her feet weren’t used to heels. They were already aching in several places, pressure at the toes and cutting at the heels and tension at the overstretched arches.

Victoria couldn’t wait until she was twenty-one. She was pretty sure that being able to drink the white wine would make these evenings a lot more bearable. As it was, she hovered awkwardly in one corner, sipping on a bright Shirley Temple and waiting to be summoned.

The lights were low, faint instrumental music sounding over the stereo. This was Victoria’s first party since she started her rotation at the PTMC, and it was weird to recognize some of the attendees from a context other than her parents’ introductions. They were mostly surgeons, which Victoria was distantly grateful for, unsure what she would do if her attending walked through the door. She recognized a few of them from her first shift: Dr. Walsh, for one, was looking intensely disdainful in a green cocktail dress, gripping a glass of whiskey hard enough that Victoria feared it might shatter.

The doorbell sounded. Victoria watched her mom excuse herself and disappear into the foyer. The door unlatched, followed by muffled voices exchanging greetings. Victoria sipped her drink as the voices grew louder, accompanied by footsteps, and her eyes widened as her mom reentered the room with a guest.

Flushed, smiling, and standing in the entrance to Victoria’s living room was Trinity Santos in a black blazer.

Victoria quickly made an attempt to hide her face in her glass, folding her spare arm over her stomach as if she could become so small she turned invisible.

Eileen guided Santos over to the bar cart. Santos talked and talked while her drink was mixed, her nose in the air and her hands jammed in the pockets of her slacks. She accepted the drink Eileen pressed into her hand, some variation of a martini with a sprig of a herb floating in the clear liquid. She clinked her glass against Eileen’s glass of wine, and Eileen looked at her with a dry smile that might’ve even edged on fondness. Victoria felt sick.

She felt sicker when her mom excused herself and Santos scanned the room for someone to approach. Instead of joining any of the groups made up of her mingling coworkers, her eyes zeroed in on Victoria hiding in the corner. She lifted two fingers in a wave.

Resignedly, Victoria lowered her glass from her face, and waved back. Her heart kicked as Santos apparently took that as an invitation come stand by her side. 

“Good to see you, Bambi,” Santos said. “I gotta say, I didn’t expect you. Figured you’d have something better to do on a Friday.”

Victoria wrinkled her nose. “Bambi?”

“What, you don’t like it?” Santos said, pouting dramatically.

“Uh, it’s weird,” Victoria replied.

Santos sighed heavily. “Well, I need to call you something.”

“How about Victoria?”

“I don’t know,” Santos said. “I don’t think we’re on a first-name basis.”

“Well, we’re not on a nickname basis either,” Victoria muttered. “What are you even doing here?”

“I don’t know. Networking, I think,” Santos said. She glanced around the room. “By the way, do you know if I’m the only junior resident at this thing?”

“What?” Victoria said. “How would I know?”

“It’d be pretty cool if I am, right?” Santos said, grinning. “VIP status.”

“Oh my god,” Victoria said.

“Just saying.”

“‘Just say’ it to someone else,” Victoria said. She tapped the side of her glass then asked, casually as possible, “Isn’t there anyone else you know here? Like, Garcia, or something?”

Santos’ grin settled a little, teeth disappearing behind the knowing curve of her lips.

“No, she couldn’t make it,” she said, shaking her head minutely. “Family stuff, I think.”

“Oh,” Victoria said. Her stomach twisted. “Walsh, then.”

“Why are you trying to get rid of me?” Santos said.

Victoria blinked. “I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.” Santos took a sip of her martini, then grimaced. “Jesus. I swear, fancy cocktails are just about finding creative ways to make gin taste even more bitter.”

“You should’ve asked for…” Victoria panicked a little, wracking her brain for the name of a single sweet cocktail. “I don’t know. Something fruity.”

“No way. Pretty sure you have to drink serious drinks for serious people at things like these,” Santos said. “That’s how you get people to respect you.”

“Right,” Victoria said, trying to sound derisive, but feeling a little self-conscious of her Shirley Temple. “Because you can make someone like you if you get drunk off the right liquor.”

“That’s the spirit,” Santos said. She tapped the base of her martini glass against the rim of Victoria’s. She checked out Victoria’s outfit while she did it, her eyes dragging a prickly trail of heat along Victoria’s skin. “Cute dress, by the way.”

“…Thanks,” Victoria said, not entirely sure whether that was a real compliment. She glanced at Santos’ clavicle, the top button of her shirt undone to expose it. “No tie?”

“Tonight’s not worth choking for,” Santos said.

“Suffocating,” Victoria corrected.

Santos stuck her tongue out. “Whatever. God, you’re annoying.”

“I just feel like if you’re gonna do the suit thing, you should commit,” Victoria said. She gestured at the groups of attendees. “Everyone else has one.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not trying to look like a man, I’m trying to look like a dyke,” Santos said. She spun around in place. “What, you don’t think it’s working?”

There wasn’t really a good answer to that question. Luckily, Victoria was saved from having to come up with one.

“Dr. Santos. Victoria,” Eileen said as she approached, looking between them carefully. “Good to see you two talking.”

“Oh, your daughter is just a delight,” Santos said, clapping Victoria’s shoulder with the flat of her palm. Victoria’s fingers tensed around her glass. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, huh?”

Victoria had to try really, really hard not to roll her eyes.

“How’s the party going, mom?” she said, smiling tightly. “Everyone show up?”

“Yes,” Eileen said. “Except — well, I think Michael might be stuck in traffic.”

Victoria shot Santos a wide-eyed look that she prayed was subtle. Santos shook her head in response, mouthing: urology.

“Anyway. I was about to put out the first round of appetizers,” Eileen said. “Actually, they’re on a tray in the kitchen. Should be near the oven. Could you get them, Victoria?”

“Oh.” Victoria’s brow furrowed. “Um, okay?”

“Excellent,” her mom said. “Dr. Santos, would you come with me? There are some people I want to introduce you to.”

Victoria stared. Santos appeared a little taken aback, but quickly gathered herself.

“Okay,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Yeah, sure.”

She let Eileen lead her away towards a group of older doctors. They were colleagues of Eileen’s not from the PTMC, who Victoria vaguely recognized but whose names eluded her. They smiled at Santos, and each took a turn shaking her hand, and they were close enough that Victoria would probably hear what they were saying where it not for the static in her ears.

She swallowed harshly around the lump in the back of her throat and made for the kitchen.

The room was empty. Ceramic trays of finger-food covered every surface, canapés covered with a cling wrap film. Victoria walked towards the oven where the tray her mom had asked her to get was sitting, under the shadow of the overhead cabinets.

She couldn’t explain to herself why she felt so — something. Her muscles were tight, her jaw hurt, and she was blinking too much, and she didn’t even like when her parents showed her off but she’d never expected them to stop doing it.

She dropped the tray back on the counter halfway through picking it up. She was suddenly desperate to do something that her parents would hate. It wasn’t like she was adept at rebellion, but the bar was high enough for her that she’d stumbled into it accidentally from time to time. It still was weird to walk straight into it. To snatch the most expensive bottle of wine she could find out of the cupboard and make for the stairs.

The bathroom was the only room in the house with a lock, apart from her parents’ studies, so that was where she went. She switched on the light, squinting at the onslaught of white, and leaned back against the sink.

It was only when Victoria looked down at the wine in her hands that she realized that it was shut with a cork rather than a screw-cap. She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling restless now that she no longer had a task ahead of her. She held the bottle by the neck and let the body of it rest in the valley made by her knees.

She could hear the party continuing beneath her, and with each passing minute it made her feel stupider. She’d been gone long enough that someone would’ve noticed her absence, and she had no good excuse to make once she got back. I was peeing for fifteen minutes, dad. She shut her eyes, resigning herself to hiding until she couldn’t possibly hide any longer.

Her eyes were startled open again by a knock at the door.

“Uh, occupied,” she called.

“Yeah, I know. It’s me, weirdo. Open the door.”

At the very least, the annoyance Victoria felt at the sound of Santos’ voice dispelled some of the anxiety. She reached over and unlocked the door.

“It’s open,” she said.

The door slid open silently, and in walked Santos. She had a teasing glint in her eye as she looked over the space — the tiling, the tub, the medicine cabinet — as if Victoria’s presence was only incidental.

“What,” Victoria said, flatly.

“Nothing,” Santos said. “Your mom sent me to check on you.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“No,” Santos scoffed. She nodded at the bottle of wine. “Watcha got there?”

Victoria frowned, wishing she’d thought to put it to the side before unlocking the door. Hidden it in the linen closet, or something.

“Nothing,” she said. “I was just…”

Santos took the bottle from her hands, but she didn’t put up much of a fight.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, half-laughing as she read the labels over. “This is worth, like, a full three hours out of my workday.”

“Good thing you didn’t buy it,” Victoria said.

“You didn’t buy it either,” Santos said. She met Victoria’s eye. “But you were gonna drink it.”

Victoria’s face went hot. “Shut up.”

“All by yourself? Don’t you know that’s a sign of alcoholism?”

“I don’t even drink,” Victoria said, before she could think. “I — can’t.”

“Right,” Santos said. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “I forgot.”

“Yeah, sure,” Victoria muttered.

“So,” Santos said, “no corkscrew, huh?”

“Obviously,” Victoria said. “Otherwise, I would’ve…”

She trailed off when Santos reached into the left-side pocket of her blazer and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. She flicked open the corkscrew and ground it down into the cork. The sleeves of her blazer were rolled up to her elbows, now, and Victoria could see the subtle musculature in her forearm work. She thought back to that open dislocation in the Pitt, Santos with her veins prominent and her ligaments straining, and her throat went a little dry.

The cork gave, and Santos let the tension in her body out with a breath.

“Here,” she said, holding out the bottle.

Victoria accepted it numbly while Santos worked the cork back off the spiral, tossing it in the trashcan beside the toilet. Then, Santos leaned her weight against the door, watching Victoria as if she was expecting something.

Belatedly realizing what she was supposed to do, Victoria put the bottle of wine to her lips. She tried to control the flow of liquid, but the bottle was heavy, and a mouthful spilled past her lips before she could stop it. It was bitter, sharp, a little fruity. She immediately wanted to cough it up into the sink, but instead she swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Lip-gloss smeared across her thumb.

“Good?” Santos asked, like she could tell it wasn’t.

“I think it’s supposed to be a developed taste,” Victoria said.

Santos laughed, reaching out and taking the bottle back. She took a shallow swig, then left it sitting on the rim of the bathtub.

Victoria nodded at the Swiss Army knife that was still in her hand, being spun idly between her fingers. “What’s with that?”

“Hm?” Santos looked down, as if she’d forgotten she’d been holding it. “Oh. Uh, gift from Huckleberry. He has, like, three of them.”

“Huh,” Victoria said. She paused, then added, “I don’t get him.”

“You and me both, sister,” Santos said, slipping the knife back into her pocket. She glanced at Victoria, gesturing at the room around them. “So, you just had the urge to sit on a toilet and get drunk in the worst way possible, or…?”

Victoria crossed her arms. “I just wanted to be alone.”

“Ah,” Santos said. “I’m harshing your vibe.”

“Kind of,” Victoria admitted.

Santos snorted. “Sorry, I guess.”

“You don’t sound sorry,” Victoria said.

“Should I be?” Santos replied.

Victoria pinched the fabric of her dress over her knee, watching it slip between her fingertips.

“I don’t know,” she said. “No.”

“Good,” Santos said. “Because when you ran off to hide right after I went to talk to someone else, it kind of seemed like you wanted me to follow you.”

Slowly, Victoria lifted her head. “What?”

Santos shrugged. “Hey, just saying.”

“You think I just, like, went into withdrawal without your presence?” Victoria said.

“No, I thought maybe it was, like, a save-me signal,” Santos said. “Like we were gonna climb out your bedroom window and disappear into the night.”

“Are you living in a John Green novel?” Victoria said incredulously. “What are you even talking about? I obviously ran out because I didn’t want to watch you sucking up to Dr. Who-gives-a-shit.”

“Jesus,” Santos said, grinning. “You’re funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Victoria said, heart thumping like a jackhammer against her ribcage. “Hey, give me that.”

She pointed at the bottle of wine. Santos raised her eyebrows, but handed it over.

“Bad girl alert,” she said.

“Shut up,” Victoria replied.

She took another drink. It was still gross, and she’d probably collectively had less than a quarter of a glass, but it felt kind of good to waste something expensive. She set it down on the toilet lid with a clink.

“You do get how unfair it is, right?” she said, crossing her arms.

Santos looked at her oddly. “What?”

“All the fucking leniency you’re given,” Victoria said. “I couldn’t get away with half the stuff you get away with.”

Santos was silent for a long, tense moment. “Really.”

“Yes,” Victoria insisted. “You have no idea what kind of standards my mom holds me to. You don’t meet any of them.”

“Well.” Santos tapped her toe absently against the tile. “I’m not her daughter.”

“And she’s still, like, parading you around,” Victoria said. “It’s insane.”

“It’s insane?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Santos shook her head, not looking at Victoria. “God, I can’t believe you’re all butthurt because mommy paid attention to someone else for once. Is that seriously why you came up here?”

Victoria frowned. “Yes.”

“To sulk and cry about how you’re not the belle of the ball,” Santos said.

“No,” Victoria said, pushing off the bathroom sink and coming to stand in front of Santos. “That’s not — you’re twisting my words.”

“Well, that’s how it looks from where I’m standing,” Santos said. Her hair was falling in her face, thin strands cutting lines across her soft features. She shook it out of her eyes. “Do you have a different take?”

“It’s…” Victoria’s mouth twisted. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just…”

Santos groaned. “God, don’t be boring, Javadi.”

“Screw you,” Victoria snapped. “I have real problems, you know. They’re not some soap you can tune into whenever you feel like it.”

“Pretty sure I’m not tuning in,” Santos said. “I’m getting yelled at.”

“I’m not yelling!”

Santos raised her eyebrows. Victoria cringed at herself a little.

“God, whatever,” she said, trying her best to play off her embarrassment. “If you don’t care, I don’t get why you came after me. No one made you.”

Santos snorted. “Yeah, because a screaming match was what I had in mind when I followed you.”

She was standing so close — her back was to the door, her head lolling against it, her hips kind of pushed out so that her body made a diagonal line to the floor. Victoria only realized now that she was standing between Santos’ spread feet.

“You had something in mind?” Victoria asked, before she could think better of it. 

“Duh.”

Victoria swallowed. “What?”

“Jesus, what do you think?” Santos asked, like it was obvious. Her head tipped forward and she looked Victoria dead in the eye, pinning her to the spot.

“I don’t know,” Victoria said. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, her thumbs running over her fingernails. “I’m … I’m not a mind reader.”

Santos rolled her eyes. “Literally what do two people do in a locked bathroom at a party besides—”

Victoria lurched forward and kissed her. She was pretty sure this was what Santos was alluding to — or at least, she hoped it was.

Caught mid-sentence, Santos’ mouth was open, which was probably a weird way to start a first kiss but by now there was no going back. Victoria pushed her lower lip between Santos’, her hands flying to Santos’ collar and gripping it tightly. She moved in the way she figured she was supposed to, applying her experience from nights where she would practice on the seam of her fingers, before she turned fourteen and figured she should stop doing that.

“Really?” Santos gasped out, which made it kind of hard to kiss her, but she sounded so surprised and pleased that Victoria couldn’t be annoyed.

“Yeah,” she said instead, her slack lips sliding along Santos’. “Yeah, shut up.”

“You sure?” Santos mumbled. “You don’t wanna keep going with your meltdown over not being the smartest person in the room?”

“Fuck. You,” Victoria said. “I am the smartest person in the room.”

Santos laughed a small, breathy, incredulous laugh, then leaned in to kiss Victoria again. This time, it was a real kiss — Victoria’s head spun in her effort to to keep up. One of Santos’ hands came up to cup her face while the other slid around to palm the small of her back, pulling her in. Victoria stumbled a little as Santos pressed their bodies together, her heels catching awkwardly against the tile.

Her hands loosened in Santos’ collar, sliding down the front of her chest, before freezing. Victoria hadn’t really factored in the fact that she was with a girl. It was probably uncool to grope someone’s boobs thirty seconds into making out. She tried to push her hands back up to Santos’ shoulders, but Santos caught her wrist.

“Touch wherever you want,” she said. “Blanket permission.”

“Oh,” Victoria said. “Really?”

“Yeah, I don’t give a shit,” Santos said. She pulled Victoria back in.

“Me too,” Victoria tried to say, just as Santos licked the inside of her upper lip, and it sort of got mangled into an undignified noise. She tried again, “Um, me too.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Santos said, and her hands gripped Victoria’s waist tightly enough that Victoria could feel the crescent-moons of her fingernails through the fabric.

Victoria took that as her cue to stop talking.

This was just like the wine, she told herself, a little hysterically. The open bottle of wine sitting on the shut lid of a toilet. She could uncork it, taste it, spit in it, ruin it. An expensive toy, a status symbol, something of her mother’s that Victoria could destroy and reconstruct with her mark embedded inside it.

Santos pushed a knee between Victoria’s thighs, pulling her hips down at the same time. Victoria bit back a choked noise.

“Don’t — don’t do that,” she said. “You’ll ruin my dress.”

“Come on, you can’t be that wet,” Santos deadpanned.

“I meant you’d stretch it,” Victoria said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re so gross.”

Santos laughed a little, but complied, pulling her knee away if only to walk Victoria backwards and push her against the sink. The edge of the counter dug into Victoria’s lower back in a harsh line. This was definitely much better than a two-hundred-dollar bottle.

“That hurts,” Victoria said, even though it didn’t really.

“Baby,” Santos said, in such a tone that made it clear it wasn’t a pet name, and tried to lean in again. Victoria dodged, and her mouth landed on Victoria’s neck instead. Santos let out an indignant whine, kissing her way back up Victoria’s jaw.

“Could you lift me?” Victoria asked. She tapped the edge of the counter.

Santos paused. “What, you can’t get up on your own?”

“I didn’t say that,” Victoria said. “I asked if you could lift me.”

Santos hesitated. Victoria took the opportunity to paw at the lapel of her blazer until Santos got the hint, spreading her arms so Victoria could push it off her body. It landed in a heap on the floor, and in twenty minutes it’d probably be wrinkled, but Victoria wasn’t about to tell Santos to fold it.

“Any chance you can roll your sleeves up more?” Victoria asked.

“Only if you want to cut off circulation,” Santos said, bracing her hands on either side of Victoria’s hips. “Why?”

“Just want to see what you’re working with,” Victoria said.

Santos was muscular enough, but not tossing-girls-around muscular. Victoria felt that was a reasonable distinction to make.

“Wow, you’re an asshole,” said Santos, who didn’t seem to agree.

She got her hands under Victoria’s thighs and tried to lift. She strained a little, but Victoria helped, hefting her weight onto her hand behind her and sliding onto the meager space next to the sink.

“Gold star,” Victoria said.

“Dick,” Santos replied.

She leaned down and licked Victoria’s clavicle. Victoria arched her chest up instinctively, pushing her hips towards Santos’ so that her thighs were bracketing them.

“If you bite me I’ll tell my mom who did it,” Victoria said as Santos scraped her teeth along the outline of the bone.

Santos groaned. “Oh my god, do not talk about your mom right now.”

“So this isn’t about her?” Victoria asked, a little tentatively.

“Don’t you dare project your weird Freudian issues on me,” Santos said. “This is about the fact that you’re in a dress and your hair is up and you’re hot — fuck, can I take it out?”

It took Victoria a moment to move past Santos calling her hot to realize that she was asking about the claw clip in her hair. She nodded — it was starting to hurt a little anyway, pressing against the mirror — and reached back to remove it herself, letting her hair tumble around her shoulder. It was creased awkwardly from being folded into a haphazard bun, but if Santos noticed, she showed no indication of caring.

She slipped her hand into Victoria’s hair, nails trailing along the scalp. Victoria shivered. Now that Santos had pulled back a little, no longer overwhelming her space, she had a good view of everything that was happening. Her dress was pushed up to her knees, and Santos was standing between them, a deep red flush coloring her from her cheeks to her chest. The scene made Victoria squirm. She reached up and tugged on Santos’ collar again.

“Come back here,” she said.

Santos shook her head a little, still staring at Victoria’s face. “You’re, like, really fucking pretty, you know.”

Victoria grimaced. “Don’t do that.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s weird coming from you,” Victoria said.

“You have so many rules,” Santos complained.

“Does it matter?” Victoria said. “You never follow them.”

Santos went when she pulled her in this time. They kissed, hot and wet. Victoria slid her hands into Santos’ hair, too, partly because she had a suspicion that it wouldn’t bounce back after being roughed up and she wanted Santos to look like a mess when she walked back downstairs. She clenched her fist, tugging lightly at the root, and Santos pressed into her so hard that her head collided with the mirror.

Santos pulled away from Victoria’s mouth, kissing down her jaw and around to her earlobe. “Has anyone ever eaten you out?”

“What?” Victoria’s hand tightened further in Santos’ hair. “What do you even want me to say to that?”

“I don’t know. The truth.”

Victoria shifted nervously. “The truth is, none of your business.”

“Ha,” Santos said. “Thought so.”

Victoria felt heat flood her cheeks. She was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to actively make fun of someone for being inexperienced when you were hooking up with them, especially not in the manner of a fourteen-year-old boy ribbing a thirteen-year-old boy. She thought about voicing this opinion, but stopped caring when Santos slid her mouth from Victoria’s neck to her shoulder to just-above the hem of her dress, then dropped to her knees.

“God,” Victoria gasped, kind of thoughtlessly. She tried to sit up, feeling suddenly vulnerable with her ass almost hanging off the counter beneath her, but Santos gripped under her knees and pulled her forward again.

“How do you think I’m gonna do this if you’re all the way back there?” Santos said, pulling her hair into a ponytail. The gesture made Victoria’s throat feel a little tacky. “I’m not a fucking giraffe. Or — I don’t know, an ostrich.”

“We seriously have to stop talking so loud,” Victoria warned, if only to stop the animal comparisons before Santos got on a roll. “Half your colleagues are downstairs.”

“Yeah, I know that, loser,” Santos said, her hands dropping to her knees. Some strands of hair around her forehead slipped out of her ponytail, and she blew them away with an annoyed huff. “It’s called a calculated risk.”

Victoria tried her best not to squirm as Santos’ hands slid up her skirt. Her fingers flexed where they gripped the sink in her effort to keep still. Santos gripped the elastic of Victoria’s underwear and pulled them down her legs, glancing over them briefly before tossing them aside.

“You do know it’s a Friday, right?” Santos said, pushing Victoria’s dress further up so it draped around the tops of her thighs.

“Shut — shut up,” Victoria said. “They were clean. And I didn’t know anyone else would be seeing them.”

“Hm. Still doesn’t explain why you own day-of-the-week underwear,” Santos said. “Do you usually go commando by accident?”

“No,” Victoria said hotly. “And even if I did, how would that help? I mean, if I was theoretically using them according to the day of the week it actually was, I’d only realize the day after that I forgot to — oh my god.”

Santos had rolled her eyes deeply before pushing Victoria’s knees apart and ducking underneath her skirt. She wasn’t doing much yet, but just her breath trickling over Victoria’s skin and the vulnerability of having someone’s face pressed between her thighs had Victoria’s chest heaving.

“Oh my god,” Victoria repeated, her hand anchoring itself on Santos’ shoulder. She was pretty sure Santos huffed out a laugh — she could feel it — and then a tongue was swiping over her and her eyes were struggling to stay open.

Santos didn’t waste any time. It wasn’t like they had time to waste, but Victoria hadn’t expected Santos to recognize that. Of course, the more intoxicating thought was that she didn’t recognize it; that rather than being economical, she was being eager, desperate more than anything to taste Victoria, to drink her in.

Victoria’s head tipped back against the mirror with a thunk and she swallowed, hard. She started idly scratching Santos’ shoulder in much the same way as she’d drag her foot repeatedly against her bedsheets while she touched herself: trying to distract, to stave off pleasure. If she came forty-five seconds after Santos started touching her, she’d probably never hear the end of it.

Then Santos’ lips wrapped around her clit, and all conscious thought left her mind.

She stared hazily at the wall opposite her. It was kind of ridiculous, blinking through bright light at her mom’s sleek interior design, clean white tile and expensive soaps and a glass shower door. She’d never done anything like this before. Never defiled her parents’ home or her party dress, let alone a pretty girl’s face.

Santos hooked her thumbs under Victoria’s knees, urging her to slip her legs over her shoulders. Victoria obeyed lazily, shivering a little at the change in angle. Santos was able to press in deeper this way, tease the tip of a finger at Victoria’s entrance in a way that had her spine arching and her thighs squeezing around Santos’ head.

Victoria only worried about whether she hurt Santos for a moment, because almost as soon as her muscles tensed, Santos was letting out a quiet noise too strung-out to be a moan — a whine, maybe. Her movements grew harsher, sloppier, and Victoria forced back a gasp.

“Shut up,” she hissed, digging her nails into Santos’ shoulder.

Santos whined again in response, petulant and a little throaty, then thankfully fell silent.

Victoria bit her lip harshly, feeling halfway out of her mind. She realized deliriously that her kitten heels were resting against Santos’ back, and that they must’ve been painful. Impulsively, instead of drawing away, she dug them in harder. Definitely enough to leave indents. Maybe even enough to bruise.

Santos’ tongue stuttered in its rhythm, her spare hand flexing over the underside of Victoria’s thigh. Victoria’s eyelashes fluttered. She dragged the heel of one shoe up a little, following the line of Santos’ spine.

It was a nice image. The lines of her calves cutting through the expanse of Santos’ shoulderblades. Her pink heels creasing the fabric of Santos’ crisp dress shirt.

This was exactly the kind of thing Victoria had imagined Santos doing on a night out with some faceless girl, obscenely jealous that Santos could be uncouth and free as well as rack up accolades. Victoria kind of wanted proof that she could do this, too; wanted to take a picture of the scene beneath her and plaster it over the internet. Another night in, she’d write. Trinity Santos on her knees for me.

Santos lapped over Victoria’s clit, then wrapped her lips around it and sucked, and Victoria was gone. Her eyes squeezed shut, sending sparks dancing across her obscured vision. She gripped Santos’ shoulder and crossed her legs behind Santos’ head. Her breath came in careful, ragged pants, spasms rocking through her body, though she couldn’t stifle the whimper on each exhale.

Victoria’s muscles went lax. Her legs uncrossed. The lower half of her body felt numb, calves sliding limply off of Santos’ shoulders, and when Santos drew back, Victoria’s gut twisted at the fact that her pale eyes were almost swallowed by black.

Santos stumbled in her effort to get back to her feet. Her hands slammed on the counter on either side of Victoria’s hips, supporting her weight, and she kissed Victoria bitingly. Victoria felt a little lightheaded at the slickness of Santos’ lips, at the dull taste of salt on her tongue.

“You fucked up my back,” Santos mumbled against Victoria’s mouth.

“Oh,” Victoria said, coming back to herself a little. She gripped Santos’ upper arms. “Um. Sorry.”

“God, like I care,” Santos said. “That was, like, the third hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Victoria stopped herself from asking what the first two things were, because she knew Santos was baiting her. Instead, she decided to give as good as she got. She pushed off the sink and tried to stand.

She maintained that it wasn’t her knees that gave out. It was her ankles, her shoes having landed awkwardly on the tile. That didn’t erase the embarrassing implication behind stumbling so badly that Santos had to catch her by the arms.

Santos laughed. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t,” Victoria said, blushing furiously, straightening her dress so it fell around her knees again. “Don’t even start.”

“Hey, it’s a privacy issue more than anything,” Santos said. “What would happen if you just went, like, crashing to the floor? Everyone would come running up here and I’d look like some weirdo who tried to whack you in the bathroom.”

“‘Whack?’” Victoria said, frowning as she crowded Santos against the wall. Santos’ eyes flickered down to her lips. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Yeah,” Santos said, sounding a little more distracted than she had before. “Uh. Like, mafia slang. Um. Assassinate. Maim. Whatever.”

“Right. ‘Whatever,’” Victoria said. Her nose brushed Santos’. She thought about kissing her — the idea was tempting — but instead, glanced down pointedly at the waistband of Santos’ slacks. Reached for it with a hesitant hand. “Um. Can I…?”

Santos smacked Victoria’s hand away, and Victoria’s heart leaped into her throat. She swallowed it back down, though, when Santos started working furiously on the button and zip of her pants. It was an awkward design, one of those adjustable arrows of fabric with multiple buttons, and Santos’ fingers fumbled a little in their efforts.

Victoria figured laughing probably wouldn’t do her any favors, but she did it anyway.

“Shut up. Loser,” Santos grumbled as she finally pulled the fabric free.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Santos took Victoria’s hand and slid it down the front of her briefs.

As Victoria’s fingers brushed through damp curls, and then further down where Santos was wet — actually, like, unbelievably wet — her mind whited out. She had to remind herself that she had touched a vulva before and that theoretically, she knew what she was doing.

“Just fucking touch me,” Santos said, wrapping her arms around Victoria’s neck. “What, are you waiting for written permission?”

Victoria gave Santos a withering look. Ironically, though, the goading kind of worked. She now felt more annoyed than she had ever felt embarrassed, and she was inspired to push forward and pinch Santos’ clit lightly between her knuckles, just to prove she could.

“Shit,” Santos breathed, her head tipping forward onto Victoria’s shoulder. “Yeah, more of that.”

“Duh,” Victoria said.

She took in Santos’ scent, a faint earthy perfume coating the exposed skin pressed to her nose. Her eyes closed against the overwhelmingly sharp light. Her fingers ground in a slow, deep circle, and Santos’ damp breath splashed across her neck.

Victoria kissed Santos’ jaw while she touched her. It seemed like the right thing to do, but Victoria also just wanted to. Santos was pale and flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and she tasted good — like a living, beating thing, submitting to Victoria’s touch.

She bit meanly at Santos’ clavicle. Santos ground her forehead into the hollow of Victoria’s neck, their sweat-slick skin dragging together. Victoria had never given a hickey before, but she was pretty sure this was how it was done: she sealed her lips over the bite mark she’d made and sucked.

Maybe a little too hard. “Fucking ow,” Santos said.

Victoria pulled her mouth away. Santos made a disapproving noise, then wound her hand into Victoria’s hair and pushed her back into place.

Santos was growing wet and swollen enough under Victoria’s fingers that it was getting hard to keep her rhythm. She kept losing friction, precision, working twice as hard to make sure what she was doing felt halfway okay. If it was bad, Santos gave no indication that it was — she nuzzled behind Victoria’s ear, scraped her teeth along Victoria’s jaw.

“Don’t even think about it,” Victoria warned. “I already told you.”

“Hypocrite,” Santos muttered. She kissed Victoria’s jaw lightly, a gesture that was so confusingly tender that Victoria squirmed away from the contact.

“Your shirt has a collar,” Victoria said. “You can … hide.”

“You can put a sweater on,” Santos said. Then, her hands traced around Victoria’s ribcage, coming to settle on her chest. She thumbed Victoria’s nipples lightly through two layers of fabric. “Actually, nevermind.”

“Perv,” Victoria muttered.

“Oh, yeah,” Santos gasped. “Talk dirty to me, baby.”

Victoria shoved Santos harder against the wall.

Sex, when described stiltedly by her parents or rapturously by her classmates, had never seemed like it was done with human beings, but performed on isolated aspects of the body. It was technique, precision, proficiency — experienced hands expertly manipulating genitalia, abstracted.

Getting Santos off in a bathroom above a party full of surgeons threw all of that out the window. Santos was grinding forward against Victoria’s fingers, the movements small enough to be subconscious. Every other exhale was strangled. Her breath was damp and hot. Usually smug and proud and in control, Victoria found that Santos became meek like this. Victoria had to support half her weight to keep her standing.

The reality of sex with Santos was that Victoria could never hope to forget exactly who she was touching. She knew already she would never touch anyone the same again.

Santos started to come when Victoria sucked a mark on her neck above the collar of her shirt. Victoria wasn’t sure she was reading the signs right at first — the twitching against her fingers, the trembling of the body against hers — but all became clear when Santos muttered a litany of fuck fuck shit fuck into Victoria’s ear, and went limp.

When Victoria was sure she’d wrung the aftershocks from Santos’ body, she pulled her hand awkwardly free. Her fingers were coated in viscous clear liquid. She glanced around the room to find something to wipe them with, then realized where she was.

She bent over the sink and turned on the tap. Santos’ breathing began to even out underneath the sound of running water. Victoria lathered her hands with floral soap, making sure to clean underneath her nails, and rinsed them off carefully. Then washed them again for good measure.

She could feel Santos’ eyes on her. If not through the back of her head, through the mirror, where Santos was still splayed against the wall — her slacks hanging open, her shirttails untucked, and her eyes half-lidded. Her chest was rising and falling showily with each deep breath.

Victoria steeled herself, then turned around. Santos’ gaze was even more impenetrable without a layer of glass to mediate it.

“What?” Victoria said, a little waspishly, immediately cringing at herself. She crossed her arms.

The corner of Santos’ lip twitched, so at least she was amused rather than offended. Slowly, she pushed off the wall. She took one step forward, then another. Victoria’s eyes flickered from her face to the blooming marks on her neck, exposed by her chicly-unbuttoned collar.

Santos bent over to pick up Victoria’s underwear, then held it out to her.

Victoria stared for a moment. Then, she snatched her underwear from Santos’ hand and tucked it under her arm. It wasn’t like she could put it back on — its dampness had started to cool and congeal, and Victoria shuddered at the idea of that sensation against her skin.

“I’ll go down first,” Victoria said. Almost as an afterthought, she picked up the open bottle of wine. It seemed so small a defiance now. “You can, um, wait a minute or two, then follow. Just tell people you were waiting for the bathroom if they ask.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna be bombarded with questions on my peeing habits,” Santos said. She pulled the elastic out of her hair and it fell around her ears. “Also, there’s a pretty obvious problem with that plan.”

Actually, Victoria could think of several. “Yeah? What?”

Santos shrugged. “Technically, I went down first.”

It took a moment for it to click. Then, Victoria wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, grow up,” Santos said. “One sex joke won’t kill you.”

“It’s not even the innuendo,” Victoria said. “It was just … a really bad joke.”

“Whatever, your highness,” Santos said, her eyes sparkling. “Get out of here. I should … wash my face, or something.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Victoria said. She bit back a smile. “You should, uh. Probably button your collar up the rest of the way, too, though.”

She didn’t wait for that to sink in. She opened the door and slipped out into the hall, leaving the haze of the bathroom behind. Slowly, the chatter of the party downstairs faded back into her consciousness.

She ducked quickly into her room. Then, she threw her soiled underwear into her hamper and left the open bottle of wine at the back of her walk-in closet to deal with later. She straightened her hair as best she could in the mirror, hoping nobody would think anything of the fact that she’d taken it down while she was gone.

Her mom swept her back into conversation the moment she reentered the room. If she thought anything of Victoria’s absence, she didn’t yet show it, though Victoria didn’t let herself be fooled. It would no doubt be brought up later, away from prying eyes.

For now, Eileen guided her towards a group of older men and women, some of whom Victoria recognized, and some of whom must have arrived while she was upstairs. They greeted her with political smiles, told her they’d heard a lot about her. Eileen rattled off the familiar list of Victoria’s accomplishments; they oohed and ahed.

This felt more like what Victoria was used to. Settling back into her lifelong rhythm, she began to remember how stifling it was. She shifted under the scrutiny of several pairs of shrewd, evaluating eyes.

Her knees knocked together. She felt startlingly naked with nothing underneath her dress — like everyone could tell. It didn’t feel sexy in the way she’d had vague notions of when deciding to go commando upstairs, just kind of vulnerable, but at least it was something to hold onto. Some proof that while she could play her usual role convincingly enough — smile, nod, subtly boast — there was something different about her now. Something that meant she now chafed against the limits of her life.

She’d borrowed her mom’s time to do something her mom would never approve of. She was a little more like Santos, now, and maybe that was the key — that if she couldn’t make Santos more like her, more worthy of the admiration she’d inexplicably secured from Eileen Shamsi, then she could make herself more like Santos. Reckless and selfish and young, as well as her parents’ only daughter.

Santos returned downstairs a few minutes later looking worse for wear. Her hair was awkwardly ruffled, her blazer creased, and her shirt was buttoned up high enough that it was surely uncomfortable as well as ugly.

Victoria smiled into her mocktail, her heart beating double-time.

“Dr. Santos should be wearing a tie,” Eileen muttered to her, almost absently. “I told her it was cocktail dress.”

“I tried to tell her, mom,” Victoria said, trying her best to school her face into neutrality. “She just doesn’t listen.”

Eileen pursed her lips. Victoria bit back a laugh, then looked over her shoulder at Santos again, who happened this time to be looking back.

Subtly, Victoria raised her glass. Santos, looking thoroughly annoyed, tugged at the collar of her shirt, then stuck out her tongue.

bonus

Victoria noticed Santos first, but pretended firmly that she hadn’t.

She’d been updating her patient’s chart when she glanced up and saw Santos leaving a trauma room with Garcia, smiling and toying with the ends of her stethoscope. It was such a familiar scene that Victoria was just frustrated with herself when she felt her face go hot, her stomach twist. She looked back down and stared determinedly at her screen, even as the words blurred out of focus.

It wasn’t like it mattered that Santos was there. Whitaker was nowhere nearby, and she never stopped to say hi if it was just Victoria. She hardly even acknowledged her when they worked on traumas together. It was just how she operated — she enjoyed the attention of higher-ups, and Whitaker was some weird, inexplicable exception.

The only other exception, apparently, was Victoria when she was wearing low-cut cocktail dresses. She was wearing scrubs now, though, and her usual stud earrings, and shoes with no heel. She was back to her position of zero-notoriety in Santos’ weird hierarchical world.

“Hey, Crash.”

Victoria jumped. Santos was leaning over the counter, her arms folded, wearing an easy grin. Victoria glanced around, but there was definitely no one else she could be looking at.

“Me?” she asked, pointing at herself.

Santos rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you.”

Victoria stared at her warily. “So, you’re calling me ‘Crash’ now.”

“Yep,” Santos said, popping the ‘p.’

“I can’t believe you’ve already hit the bottom of the barrel,” Victoria said. “That one doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Santos said with showy nonchalance. “What else do you call someone who almost falls over when they’re getting off the bathroom sink?”

Victoria’s ears flooded with static. “No.”

“Hm,” Santos said, tapping her chin. “Yes.”

Victoria stood. “No.”

“Ooh, I already like this one,” Santos said. “Look how pissed you are.”

“I’m not—” Victoria huffed. “What are you gonna say if someone asks…? You know.”

“God, who gives a shit,” Santos said. “I’ll tell them it’s our dirty little secret.”

“What?” Victoria spluttered. “That’s worse than the truth.”

Santos shrugged. “Okay, then I’ll tell them the truth.”

“You suck,” Victoria said, “so. Bad.”

“Yeah, well. It’s honest work,” Santos said.

She stretched her shoulders out, tucking her arms behind her head. Victoria’s eyes flickered down to the spot where her scrubs lifted to show a strip of skin.

“I should probably head back,” Santos said, yawning a little. “I mean, technically, I should already have left, but you looked lonely over here.”

“It’s called charting,” Victoria said, sitting back down.

“Really,” Santos deadpanned. Then, she actually saluted goodbye, a gesture that was so dorky and lame that it was almost endearing. Victoria pressed her lips together. “See you around, Crash.”

Victoria shook her head. “I’m never, ever going to respond to that.”

“I don’t know,” Santos said. “I think you just did.”