Page 15 of Clinically Awkward

I stared at that message for a full thirty seconds, trying to process the sheer audacity.

Me: You’re not even going to be on a plane.

Fitz: Not with that attitude, I’m not. They’ve got a layover. I’ve got a plan. I’ve got champagne. I’ve got a hotel room with a mirror on the ceiling. Don’t cockblock me, Wesley.

Me: I don’t think that’s how cockblocking works.

Fitz: Everything is cockblocking if you’re pessimistic enough. I’m choosing optimism. And twins.

Me: You’re going to get arrested.

Fitz: Only if I’m caught. And I won’t be, because I’m a PROFESSIONAL.

Me: A professional what, exactly?

Fitz: A professional LOVER, Quinton. Keep up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go buy condoms in bulk and possibly learn how to say “I respect you both as individuals” in French.

Me: Why French?

Fitz: Because it’s the language of LOVE. Obviously.

Me: They’re flight attendants, not French.

Fitz: Everyone loves French, Quinton. It’s universal. Now stop texting me. I’m trying to set a mood here.

Me: You’re texting me from a CVS parking lot, aren’t you?

Fitz: ... No.

Me: I can see your location.

Fitz: STOP STALKING ME.

Me: You shared it with the group chat!

Fitz: That was for safety purposes. In case I get murdered by jealous husbands. Which is a real risk in my line of work.

Me: Your line of work is OBGYN.

Fitz: Same thing.

Me: It’s absolutely not the same thing.

Fitz: Look, are you going to support my dreams or not?

Me: Your dreams involve potential federal crimes.

Fitz: Only if we’re TECHNICALLY on a plane. Which we won’t be. Loophole, mate. LOOPHOLE. Now wish me luck before I lose my nerve.

Despite Fitz’s plea for encouragement, I couldn’t bring myself to wish him luck. Instead, I silently hoped he would receive a stern lecture from airport security, a brief and inconvenient visit to customs, and maybe even a strongly worded letter from the FAA. But ultimately, that wasn’t the main issue at hand.

The real point was that I was heading to the comedy club alone. And that was perfectly acceptable—at least that was what I told myself. I was a grown man, fully capable of going out solo. Plenty of people did it; there was nothing strange about it. In fact, it could be seen as a sign of maturity, independence, and self-sufficiency. It meant not relying emotionally on a group of friends that, if I was honest, seemed to be unraveling anyway.

Still, it felt pretty depressing.

I tucked my phone away, grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat, and started for the parking lot exit. The comedy club was only fifteen minutes from where I was. I had stopped by the clinic earlier to pick up some files I’d forgotten the day before—a clear sign I’d become the kind of person who worked on Saturdays.

Marriage was beginning to feel like a trap, slowly transforming me into Julien.