And I might not have had the balls to tell him the truth that night, or two weeks ago, but I have a chance to do it now, and I’m not going to waste it.
I slide my pajamas off and toss them to the floor. As I’m reaching for a casual, but professional, pair of dark slacks, Piper’s next message comes through.
Piper: Don’t be a putz. He’s waiting for you. I’ll send a pin for my location.
Not ten seconds later, a pin is dropped. I zoom in, fingers pinching and moving the screen on my phone until I make out the name of a tiny town more than an hour outside of the city.
I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth, worrying it back and forth as I debate this. I’m already halfway dressed with my mind telling me to go, but my stomach churns as my anxiety tries to talk me out of it. I’m going to feel like an absolute moron driving out to the country to crash a family dinner.
I know I wouldn’t do this for any patient. But the man I met on the street that night didn’t have to spare me a second glance. He certainly didn’t have to buy me a cup of coffee and delicately dry the slush from my scrubs. He didn’t have to work to make me laugh or bring me one second of relief on that terrible day.
I blow out a heavy breath and reach for my short-sleeved silk button-up. I slip one arm in, and then the other, leaving it unbuttoned as I head to the bathroom to touch up my makeup.
If he’s waiting, I guessI’m on my way.
***
An hour and twenty minutes later, I’m creeping my car down a narrow gravel road. The directions Piper sent had me taking the freeway out of town. Six lanes eventually turned into four, which turned into two. I took an exit for Copper Ridge and drove through a sleepy little town that’s already shut down for the night. A few miles out of town, I turned onto Hart Road, which is adorable and nostalgic all on its own. Soon after I left the main road, the blacktop turned to gravel, and I slowed my car to a snail’s pace, cursing every time I heard a ding hit the frame.
A few hundred yards down Hart Road, I notice a small driveway to my right. After craning my neck to peer down, all I can see is overgrown grass where two single tracks once were. The trees hang over like a canopy; some broken, discarded branches telling me no one has been down that road in quite some time.
I spot another driveway to my left, one that looks used, well taken care of. As I pass, I can make out the frame of a log-style home peeking out between the thick pines. With the sun low in the sky, the last trickle of golden rays weave their way through the branches. They reflect off the burgundy roof, and I let out a low audible wow at how gorgeous the property looks.
But I keep moving on, heading toward the main house that should be at the very end of this road, according toPiper. The red pin that had seemed so far away an hour and a half ago is now just a few hundred yards in front of me. I toss my phone into the passenger seat, letting myself soak in the farmstead that stretches ahead.
Tall circular structures, silos, if I remember right, line the sides of the biggest barn I have ever seen. I follow the line of the fence as it stretches along the road, circling around in front of a forest filled with evergreens that lead away from the barn further than the eye can see.
Black spots are visible way out in the distance, hundreds of them, and through my squinted eyes I can make out that they must be cows. I hold a hand over my brow as the sun’s orange rays nearly blind me, and when I turn back to the road in front of me, I blink away the sun’s aura and slam on the brakes, bringing my car to an obnoxious halt as I yelp.
The goat that’s standing in the middle of the road is oblivious to the fact that I almost just ran him right over. Or her, maybe. Either way, a fluffy gray goat stands dead center in the road with its red, white, and blue patriotic bandana blowing in the soft breeze. I honk my horn, and the lazy animal doesn’t even flinch as it continues to leisurely munch on a mouthful of grass. I open my window, waving a hand in its direction. “Shoo!” I whisper-shout as a blush flushes my face at how this must look.
I’m about to open my door to step out onto the gravel, but it’s then I realize that I don’t know how friendly goats are to strangers, and I don’t want to wobble into the Hart family home and have my first meeting with Grayson's family be an emergency hospital visit.
I let my car slowly roll forward, and when I’m within a few inches of the goat, I honk once again. It startles and its feet scatter along the rocks as it finally realizes that I’m there.
After the initial jump scare wears off, the goat finally ambles to the side of the road to meet the others, letting me pass on my way. My eyes spot the end of the road, and my mouth drops open.
In front of me is a house straight out of a country living magazine. The two-story blue-gray home looks older, but it is obviously well cared for. White trim lines the home, matching the white shutters flanking each window. Pink and white flowers peer out from stained window boxes, and I admire the effort the upkeep must take.
A wraparound porch hugs the base of the house, and I awe at its size. I suddenly picture myself living out here, having a place to sit each morning, drinking my coffee on the worn porch swing to watch the sun come up over thebarn, and a cold drink to watch the same sun set after a hard day’s work.
The walls of this home likely sheltered generations of Harts over the years. If the front steps could talk, I bet they’d name every member that ambled up and down those stairs after a weary day, only to open the door and hear the joyful chorus of family ready to gather around the dining table.
I pull into an empty spot, briefly counting the array of cars and trucks filling the circle drive. My palms begin to sweat, and I rub them absentmindedly on the tops of my thighs.He asked for you, I remind myself. I’m a doctor and he’s a patient. He needs my help, simple as that.
With a shaky exhale, I push open the car door. The humidity still clings to the air even though the sun has almost disappeared beyond the horizon. It’s been an unseasonably warm June from what I gather. I hadn’t paid attention to the finicky Iowa weather too much over the last few years, but with my recent sabbatical and desperate attempt to fill my schedule with something other than therapy appointments and staring at the same beige walls of my rental, I found myself spending more time outdoors.
My version of outdoors might have been the city streets of Des Moines, but I was subject to early morning rain followed by intense afternoon heat waves just the same.
With my traveling physician’s kit in tow, I slam my car door, then press the key fob twice to lock the doors. A habit, of course, having only lived in a city my entire life. The second the fob beeps, my shoulders pinch up. Only a fool would lock their doors at a home like this. I slowly spin from where I stand, soaking in the miles and miles of vast green farmland that surrounds the home.
My body is torn between fearing the unfamiliar and feeling a sense of calmness in the serenity this setting has to offer.
Pushing out another breath, I make my way up the worn stone path and past the garden beds teeming with various wild flowers. Reds, greens, oranges, and yellows blend together in a mosaic of color that could have only been inspired by a magazine. Some are large, towering over the hedges, as others sprawl out and cover the ground. Each flower is different, yet somehow they blend perfectly together.
With light steps, I cautiously climb the worn stairs of the home. When I reach the top, a laugh leaks out of an open window next to the front door, followed by the shriek of a young girl. I smile, wanting to take a momentto stand and listen to the family clamor as they unwind from their day.
All of a sudden, a cough sounds from somewhere behind me and I spin abruptly, seeing a farmhand meander in the opposite direction of where I stand toward a large red building. The ends of his hair stick out from underneath his dusty ball cap, and I squint, noticing it’s nearly gray. His hair may indicate he’s much older, but the ripple of muscle under his thin tee and the tattoos that line his arms scream that he has the body of a thirty-something. With one hand and the flex of his bicep, he slides a large metal door to the side and disappears into the darkness.
