Brain Games

31. Mission Accomplished

Brad's hands wrap tightly around the steering wheel as he rolls through the Friday morning commute. Every now and then, he'll tug at or adjust the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt—the only indication of his nerves.

All week, he's been prepping for the press conference with Dr. Larson about the laser that's today at 10:00 a.m. In the chain of unimaginable events, not only does Brad get to be the first to assist Dr. Larson with the laser after the conference, he gets to go and speak at the conference, Dr. Larson drafting him a three minute speech. He actually carved out a three minute slot in his grand reveal for Brad to have the spotlight instead of him.

I guess I now understand why Brad didn't want to work with him on this project after all. I'd be shitting myself if I had to stand in front of dozens of people as a first year resident, with cameras in my face, everyone hanging on to every word I said about this game changing technology. It's a lot of pressure, but I know getting to observe the laser first hand is all going to be worth it.

At least in my eyes it is. I'm not so sure Brad is convinced yet.

Over the past week, I'm pretty sure Brad has clocked more time in Dr. Larson's office than the OR. It seemed like every time I turned around Dr. Larson was whisking Brad off to his office to prep him for working with the laser and his small speech nestled into Dr. Larson's big one. Brad's been relenting on the speech, insisting he doesn't need a speaking part during the conference, but Dr. Larson insisted harder, seemingly hell bent on Brad being front and center as much as he can—something that's been bothering me a lot.

I don't know if it was his impressive first day, his charm, his technique, or just sheer vibes, but I'm dying to know what has Dr. Larson so drawn to Bradly Gallow. 

Brad anxiously tugs at his cuff for the umpteenth time, and I wrack my brain to fill the car with something other than silence to get his mind off of the conference and my mind off of the constant question why Brad?

I clear my throat to break the silence first. "So this charity thing with your parents in a few weeks—the ball—I was wondering, what's the dress code? You know, so I don't look like a complete idiot," I settle on, his white dress shirt and perfectly tailored charcoal gray pants I've been ogling all morning influencing the topic. While it's not a topic I'm too thrilled about, this whole date-but-not-really-a-date where I'll be seeing his parents again, I know it'll take his mind off things for a while.

His grip loosens around the wheel. "You could never look like an idiot. You could wear a trash bag for all I care and look stunning... But I'm required to wear a tux, if that helps to answer your question," he adds, a small smirk forming on his face.

I throw him a glare, despite his eyes being locked on the road. "No, I know I need to wear a dress of some sorts—one not made out of a trash bag—but is there a theme, a certain color I need to wear?"

Now his mouth pulls into a thoughtful, confused frown. "No?"

"No?" I parrot, not liking that the word is more of a question than a statement.

"I don't think so," he says, still unsure, shrugging a shoulder like a typical clueless male when it comes to these things.

I groan. "Well you better find out."

His lips purse together. "I'll text my mom later and ask," he assures.

I take a breath, remembering this conversation is supposed to help take his mind off of things instead of stress the both of us out, because he already has enough on his plate today.

"So... I get to see you in a tux, huh?" I muse. If he looks as good in a tux as he does in a suit, man am I in trouble.

The corner of his mouth quirks back up. "Why, does that turn you on?"