Even if I had all my usual emotionless detachment, all those years of avoiding real connection with people on the other side. Even if the shadowy truth was that I had no idea what I was doing with Whitney, that I was making promises to her I only wished I could deliver on. It all seemed to gather around me and press in from every angle until it felt too strong to overcome. Even if, in the back of my mind, these shadows were morphing into screaming high rock faces of doubt that this wouldn’t last becausenothinglasted.
Somehow I went on believing it wouldn’t be like that.
Fifteen
Whitney
Rule Number Twenty-Nine:
Don’t oversleep. The early bird gets out before it’s awkward.
My entire body hurt.Everything felt tight and overtaxed, like I’d finished a triathlon and then tried my hand at oil wrestling. And I was on the verge of turning into jerky because there was hardly a drop of water left in my body.
I blindly reached to my bedside table, fumbling for a cup or bottle of water. When I found one, I guzzled without concern for the noises I made or the water that missed my mouth and ran down my chin. Pretty wasn’t the point after making it through nearly thirty-six hours of nonstop surgery.
Setting the empty glass down, I grabbed my phone and discovered it was nearly two in the afternoon. I’d slept for—I wasn’t even sure how long. I couldn’t remember when I got home. But, more importantly, my phone was blessedly free of missed calls or urgent pages. Aside from Meri’s stream of consciousness texts and one from Hartshorn telling me to callhim to assist if I got paged this weekend, I had just one other message and it was from Henry.
In one painful breath, last night came rushing back to me. Henry buttoning my coat in my dark office. Henry walking me home while I rambled like an idiot. Henry putting me to bed while I begged him to stay. I whipped my head toward the other side of the bed, half expecting to find him there. But the blankets were smooth and crisp, just like every other morning.
And that was crazy because I remembered him here. I remembered his arms around me and his fingers in my hair. I couldn’t imagine that. I knew because I’d been trying to imagine it for weeks.
I tapped open his message.
Henry
If you really must panic, at least have a muffin first. They’re in the kitchen. Coffee too but don’t hit that until you’ve had some water. Then call me.
I pressed the phone to my chest and let the warmth of his words run through my veins. I smiled up at the ceiling even though a voice in the back of my head was tsking my choices and ranting about professional boundaries. This morning—err, afternoon—I just didn’t care. I knew this wasn’t technically aboveboard, but it also wasn’t an abuse of power. Anyone could see the difference.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, downing another glass of water while I waited for the shower to heat up.
It wasn’t often that I got slammed like this past week, with organs coming in faster than I could transplant them and all the other heart specialists out of the office or busy contaminating scrub rooms with their stomach flu. It was a throwback to my residency and fellowship days, and I didn’t like it.
But Ilovedthat Henry took me home last night. He came here with me and he spent the night, which was commendable since my hair was gross and I smelled like the OR, and chances were good I’d been a pain in the ass after surgery. All these decidedly unsexy things, and he stayed.
Once I was thoroughly washed and dressed, I went in search of those muffins.
I found Brie sitting at the island with her laptop, her lips curled into a knowing grin and her brow arched all the way into her hairline as she stared at me.
“I have a lot of questions for you, but I’ve been instructed to make sure you eat.” She pushed a bakery box toward me and then two cups. “Gaston’s body double brought hot and iced coffees, but at this point they’re both cold so best of luck with that.”
I reached for the iced coffee. “Gaston’s body double?”
“The boy is the size of a barge.”
“Not really.” Okay, a bit, but I wouldn’t run around telling people that.
She closed her laptop and folded her arms over the lid. “So, what’s the story?”
I fetched a plate before attacking the muffins. I liked to cut them into perfect little quarters and make a variety muffin with the different flavors. Same strategy worked beautifully for cupcakes and donuts. “No story.”
“Funny. He said the same thing.”
I worked hard at swallowing my reaction. “Did he?”
“Yep.” She drummed her nails on the laptop lid. “I didn’t buy it from him and I’m not buying it from you. There’s a story.Youbrought a guy home last night.”
I went to work dissecting my muffins, extremely pleased with the flavors Henry selected. “Not much to say.”
