Two days, I’ve gone without seeing her.
In my head, I’ve repeatedly replayed the way she watched me when we stood at her front door. Like she was seeing me for the first time. And in a way, she was.
There’s a knock on my door, and I call out for them to come in. “What poor posture you have, Dr. Pearson.” Staci struts in with an iPad clutched to her chest like she’s hiding her diary pages. “How you don’t have back problems from sitting like that is beyond me.”
“Chiropractor twice a month does the trick.” I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “What’s up?”
“It’s this patient.” She shifts, and her playfulness falls. “We found a tumor in his brain last week, and he was in today to discuss his options.” She gulps, facing me, but I know she can’t see me. She’s far away, probably thinking about a time when we were in our first year of medical school. A time when we focused mostly on studying and tests and making sure we always had enough coffee and energy drinks for all-nighters.
We mostly dealt with diagrams of the human body, not real people.
Not people who are sick and on their death beds.
Not people who die on our watch.
I stand from my seat and wait for the rest.
“He was calm, almost like he was at peace with his very bleak prognosis. I mean, we only gave him three months to live, and he patted me on the arm, smiling.” She laughs humorlessly, her eyes teary. “Said he’ll go fishing with his son as much as he can, before he forgets who he is. Before his son sees him wither away.”
Clenching my jaw, I step toward her, afraid to break her trance. She needs a minute to collect herself. It happens to all of us.
The days when things go well—they lift us up. But these kind of days, the ones that force us to confront our mortality, they’re devastating.
We both jump when there’s a knock on the door. Brooks stands there, his mouth open, but he doesn’t move or say anything. His attention is on Staci.
She wipes the smudge of what little mascara she’s wearing from underneath her eyes, then shakes herself out of it.
“What happened?” Brooks asks, reaching for Staci’s arm.
“I needed to unload for a second.” She nods, then moves toward the door.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Brooks stops her. He whispers in her ear, then kisses the side of her head, and most of his head is lost in her untamed hair.
That’s the thing about this job. We might bicker like Brooks and Staci, but when it comes down to do it, we’re here for each other. We offer support in any way we can, even if it’s an inappropriate joke.
It’s the only way we survive, especially for people like Brooks, Staci, and me who have no escape. No family to go home to. We’re each other’s family.
We talk for a few more minutes, and when Staci and Brooks are called away, I stare out the window like it’s a window to the past.
I think about sitting in my own dad’s office once upon a time—another lifetime ago. It’s like it wasn’t even me, but I remember like they’re my own memories.
I’d ask my dad to use the “toy” hammer to bring my knee to life. No matter how many times I asked, he always obliged like he had nowhere else to be.
My dad was a pediatrician. He was busy and stressed, but he always came home to us with a cheery disposition. He said it was because of us that he could smile, even on the worst days.
For the next couple hours, I catch up on calls that Tinsley typed for me, responding with assessments for her to call patients back, after which I study a few new medical articles. Once exhaustion sets in, I stretch my arms out and sigh. The night sky is sprinkled with a few stars like twinkling lights above a crib. My eyelids are heavy, my shoulders even more so, like I’m carrying a mountain on my back.
It’s almost eight o’clock.
Eyeing the couch—the metal hay one—I consider my options of going home or staying here.
Nights like these, I often wonder what it would be like if my parents were still around. I imagine I’d crash at their place. Eat my mom’s pot roast. Talk with my dad about my difficult cases and ask for advice.
I’d have a whiskey with him—it was his favorite drink. He’d only have a glass or two a week, and as a kid, I always dreamed of sharing one with him when I was old enough.
But I never got the chance.
A small knock makes me jump in my seat.
“Come in,” I call, logging out of my computer.
“Hey, boss.” Tinsley comes in, pushing her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “I got your assessments, and I’ll follow up with those patients tomorrow. You need anything else right now?”
“No. Thank you.” I stand, shaking the soreness from my legs. “I’m about to head out too. Thanks for your help.”
“What would you do without me?”
“Let’s not find out, okay?” I chuckle, gathering my things. “Tell Marcus I said hello.”
“Will do. See you tomorrow.”
I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, looking after the door where Tinsley just left. She left to go to a real home. With her husband. To have dinner with someone who asks about her day.
“Not like I have a family to go home to.”
That’s what I said to Clara when she first moved here. But what would it be like if I did? If I did have a family to go home to, one to make me feel loved and whole and sane?
On the drive home, my fists open and close around the steering wheel. The radio’s on, but it might as well be static—I don’t hear any of it. My mind races, tormenting me with ways to get through to Clara. I can’t be too pushy, but I can’t stand by until she meets someone else.
Again.
How will I convince her we’re meant to be together?
Twenty-Two
Clara
I square my shoulders, feeling confident and self-assured. I haven’t felt this way in a while, but it’s time I confront my feelings.
And Dax.
Since the party, the things he said to me have swirled in my head like my favorite ice cream sundae. Enticing but dangerous if eaten too quickly.
I can’t go on with this strain between us, especially after my talk with Willow over the weekend. I couldn’t stop thinking about him after he left the party. I would’ve come sooner had I not been busy with work and Jacob. Had Dax not been busy, but then I remembered he mentioned today being his day off.
I knock on his door but don’t have to wait long. Within seconds, he’s standing before me, freshly showered, his hair still damp on the ends.
In silence, I walk inside, reaching the living room, and Dax follows. I toss my purse onto his couch and turn to face him, steeling myself. Without warning, I say, “You should’ve told me. About your feelings. About everything. You should’ve told me, Dax.”
He watches me, brief surprise crossing his features. Pacing in front of me, he remains silent, working his jaw back and forth, until he finally stops and faces me.
“How? When?” His lips twist. “When we kissed at prom, I wanted to tell you everything. That I’d been dreaming of kissing you for years. That I wanted to keep kissing you for years to come. But that night”—he blows out a frustrated breath, wearing a frown so sad it breaks my heart—“I got the call about the accident. Those few days were the best and worst of my life. Even though I was angry for what those days took from me, I focused on what I did have. I was grateful for Willow. That I still had part of my family. And I had you. Even though I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, I was fucking glad you were there.”