My jaw falls open. I'm ruining her intern year? Is that really what she's accusing me of? I don't even know what to say. I want to tell her she's full of shit (much like my finger used to be), but the truth is, I feel a little guilty. I hate the idea that I might be making everyone around me unhappy.

"So what are you saying?" I ask her.

"I'm saying you should do your fair share of the work," Connie says, folding her hands across her chest. She's wearing red nail polish, and unlike me, her fingernails aren't bitten to shreds.

"It's not even my decision," I say. "Dr. Westin was the one who made the decision. This is what he wants."

Connie raises her eyebrows at me. "Only because you complained this morning."

I did?

"I talked to Alyssa about it," Connie says. "She said if you agreed, we'd split today's admissions evenly, two each. That would be more fair."

My cheeks burn. If I made a similar request of Alyssa, she'd have given me the glowering of a lifetime. But she could never say no to Connie, naturally.

I know I promised myself I would say no, but I don't want Connie going around telling everyone that I'm not a team player. I am a team player. Also, I'm apparently a pushover. "Fine," I say. "We can split the admissions."

"Fine," Connie says. The bitch doesn't even say thank you.

And somehow, I don't know how, I end up doing two admissions while Connie does one.

Chapter 17.

It's nearly 7 p.m. by the time I leave the hospital. I try not to think about the fact that I've spent 13 straight hours at the hospital, and focus more on which spectacular TV dinner I'm going to eat when I get back to my room. I also fantasize a lot about my bed.

Back in my suite, I shove a package of frozen fettuccine alfredo into the microwave then hit the bathroom to wash the hospital off my hands. Except before I make it into the bathroom, I find something taped to the bathroom door. It's five pages long and I'm pretty sure it's from Julia. I rip it off the wall.

The first page is a schedule of when each of us has to clean the bathroom. Okay, fair enough. It says: Jane-Tuesdays and Saturdays, Julia-Thursdays and Sundays. And then a list of major holidays and who will be cleaning the bathroom during each of these holidays. So... does this mean we're cleaning the bathroom four times a week? Is she kidding me? It's a tiny bathroom and the only people who use it are the two of us. How does it require such frequent cleaning? And when exactly am I supposed to do this cleaning, considering I practically live in the hospital?

The next three pages are detailed instructions on how to clean the bathroom.

The final page is a photocopy of the receipt from a local drug store for cleaning supplies. She spent $89.34 on bathroom cleaning supplies. Why do we need "bleach foamer"? And why are all our cleaning supplies "organic"? It's not like we're going to eat them.

At the bottom of the receipt, Julia has written my share: $44.67. That's seriously more than my food budget for the month. She has got to be kidding me. I make minimum wage. (Although admittedly, minimum wage is somewhat lucrative when you're working like a billion hours a week.) I am not paying for her stupid organic cleaning supplies. No way. No way in hell.

Oh, who am I fooling? I am definitely going to end up paying her.

_____.

At some point, I start watching television in my bedroom and drift off. What ends up waking me is a pounding noise at the door to the suite. Rubbing my eyes, I stumble in the direction of the door and fling it open without even asking who it is. As soon as I see who's standing there, my eyes fly open and I'm instantly awake.

It's Sexy Surgeon.

"Hey," he says. He's wearing his scrubs, which I think is the only outfit I've ever seen him in. Lucky thing he looks so good in them. He squints at my face. "Did I wake you up?"

"A little," I admit.

It occurs to me at that moment that Julia is going to throw a fit if she realizes he's at the door. The fact that she's not complaining at this very moment is evidence that she's not here. But she's probably got hidden cameras installed somewhere. Or at the very least, a spy situated in the hallway. Maybe there's a sniper out here, who's ready to pick Ryan off at any second.

I grab his arm. "Get in here, quick," I say.

He looks at me in surprise, but follows me inside. I don't let go of his arm until we're safely inside my bedroom with the door shut.

"Okay," I say, letting out a breath. "We're safe."

Ryan raises his eyebrows. "We weren't safe out there?"

"My roommate," I explain, waving my finger in a circle to demonstrate Julia's loony behavior.

"Gotcha," Ryan says. He grins at me. "Nice room."

"Thanks."

"I like the skeleton," he says.

"Thanks."

He grins wider. "He's not going to get jealous and start haunting me, is he?"

I roll my eyes. "No."

"Because I know intern year can get pretty lonely so I wouldn't blame you if you and Skelly over there... well, you know..." He winks.

I put my hands on my hips. "Did you come here to make fun of me?"

That wipes the smile off his face. "No," he says. "I didn't."

He bridges the two-foot gap between him and me. He lowers his lips onto mine, and now we're kissing, and there are no pagers to go off, elevator doors to open, or anything to keep this from happening. We fall onto my bed and he gently pushes me down against the pillows, then climbs on top of me.

"You're so sexy, Jane," he breathes in my ear. And I almost believe him.

At first, I'm scared this is going to go further than I want it to (I just met him a week ago!), but he's actually very respectful.

Surprisingly respectful.

What he does with his lips on mine is very intense, but he doesn't make any move to push me further than that. His hands move up and down my chest and my thighs, but he doesn't try to get up my shirt or down my pants. His lips stay mostly on mine, although they make little excursions to my earlobes and that extra-sensitive area at the base of my neck.

We make out like the ship is going down, like we can't get enough of each other, but after an hour or so, the kisses become less hungry and more gentle, and we're cuddling more than kissing. I wouldn't have taken Sexy Surgeon for a cuddler. He just seems too busy. But it's nice to lie in his arms like we have all the time in the world, feeling the warmth and comfort of his body against mine. I could lie here forever.

"I've got to go," he says, as if on cue.

"Now?"

"I'm on call, actually," he says. He fishes into his pocket and retrieves his pager, which he's apparently been concealing from me.

I stare at him. "Seriously?"

He shrugs. "I've got an intern. He's handling most of it. But I told him I'd meet him in the ER..." He checks his watch. "About fifteen minutes ago."

"Seriously?"

He shrugs again. "Let him wait. He's just an intern."

"Thanks a lot."

Ryan grins, then he pulls away from me and adjusts the drawstring on his scrubs. "I'm going to hit the bathroom, then I'll leave."

My breath catches in my throat. "No! You can't."

"I can't leave?"

"No, I mean, you can't use the bathroom."

Ryan stares at me like I've lost my mind.

I blush. "My roommate is super weird about the bathroom. Can't you just use it at the hospital?"

He rolls his eyes. "Come on, Jane. Just let me go pee."

I'd like to let him-I really would. But the consequences of that could be dire. I show him Julia's Bathroom Manifesto. "Look what she put on the door!"

He takes the pages from me, and laughs as he flips through. "Whoa, you weren't kidding. She's nuts."

"See?"

"I'm still going to use the bathroom though," he says. He cuts off my protests with a kiss. "We're going to live dangerously for a change."

Our compromise is that he goes to the bathroom and I stand guard outside. He insists I'm being just as crazy as Julia, but I swear, he hasn't seen that evil glint in her eyes. If I'm going to be sleeping in the same apartment as her, I need to protect myself.

Chapter 18.

Call #3 My first admission of the day is pregnant.

On the Medicine service, we're not supposed to admit pregnant patients. They're supposed to go to OB/GYN. But this one is okay. Mostly because it's a man. And he's pregnant not with a fetus but with a lot of fluid that can't get through his liver because his liver is hard as a rock thanks to years of drinking.

He really looks pregnant though.

His name is Jorge Sanchez and his belly is tense with fluid. His belly button has gone from innie to outie. His testicles are huge-I'm talking elephant testicles here. The plan is for me and Alyssa to drain the fluid in his belly then make sure it isn't infected. I'm supposed to be telling him about this.

Except like every other patient at County Hospital, he speaks no English.

So I'm standing in Mr. Sanchez's room, waiting for the translator phone to come through for me with someone who speaks Spanish. The phone is sitting on Mr. Sanchez's night table, the speakerphone filling the room with the music of Taylor Swift, the same song over and over. I am starting to believe that we are never, ever, ever going to get that translator on the phone. I have literally been waiting for ten minutes, just standing here and twiddling my thumbs.

Every once in a while, I try to ask Mr. Sanchez a question. I did, after all, take four years of Spanish in high school. Someone told me that Spanish would be a useful language to know, which it definitely would be, if I could actually remember more than a handful of words.

"Uno momento mas," I say to Mr. Sanchez.

"No me importa esperar," he says.

"Huh?" I say.

This translator better come through soon. Alyssa is supposed to meet me here in five minutes to do a paracentesis with me, meaning we'll remove his belly fluid. If I don't have consent from him by then, I don't know what she'll do to me and I'm scared to find out. I'm sure Connie would have had the translator on the phone five minutes ago. Connie probably would have taught Mr. Sanchez English by now.

"Puedo tener un vaso de agua?" Mr. Sanchez asks.

"Huh?" I say. How do you say "slower" in Spanish?

He tries saying it slower but I still have no idea what he's saying. How do you say "this totally blows" in Spanish?

A heavily-accented voice comes out of the speakerphone: "Hello?"

"Hello!" I say. "Are you the translator?"

"Yes, I am," the voice confirms.

I lunge forward excitedly, in an attempt to get closer to the phone. Unfortunately, in my eagerness, I trip over a wire. The phone goes crashing to the ground. I stare at it for a horrified second before scooping it up off the floor. "Hello? Hello?" I cry into the receiver.

I lost the connection.

This is one of those moments where you can do one of two things: 1. Burst into tears, shaking fist at the heavens, and yell out, "Nooooooo!!!!!!!"

2. Laugh.

Somehow, against all odds, I start to laugh. I cover my mouth with my hand so that Mr. Sanchez doesn't see and I attempt to stifle my snickers. It's not funny. But I guess it sort of is. In a really horrible kind of way.

At that moment, Alyssa pokes her head into the room. "Jane," she says. "Did you get the consent done yet?"

Screw this. I don't need a translator to get consent. "Give me a minute," I say.

I take the consent out of my pocket and put it down in front of Mr. Sanchez. "Es una consenta," I explain. "Necesita... um, sign. Sign-a." I make a motion like I'm signing a form. "Necesita put una needle in su estomago. Por la agua in su estomago." I pantomime fluid gushing out of the stomach. "Um, comprende?"

Mr. Sanchez looks up at me, then down at the paper. I have no idea if he had any clue what I just said, but he signs the consent anyway. Thank you, Mr. Sanchez!