This space was mine.
Now, even that was gone.
My phone buzzed.
Easton:
Are there reporters at the clinic?
Me:
Two news vans. How did you know?
Easton:
Because there are three at the rink. They're following both of us now. I'm calling my publicist to see what we can do.
Me:
Can they do this? Just camp outside my business?
Easton:
If they're on public property, yeah. I'm sorry, Palisade.
I looked out the window at the vans, at the reporters clearly visible with their cameras and microphones, waiting for me to do something interesting.
"We can put up privacy film on the windows," Monique suggested. "And maybe a 'No Media' sign?"
"Will that help?"
Her expression said it all.
My first appointment was with Mr. Kuzusawa and his elderly beagle, Buddy. He'd been coming to the clinic for three years, always patient, always kind.
When he arrived, he had to push past two reporters shouting questions at him.
"Dr. Honors, I'm so sorry," he said immediately, Buddy trembling in his arms. "They asked me if I knew you. If I'd seen Easton Henley here. Buddy got scared of all the noise."
I took Buddy gently, my heart breaking for the old dog's anxiety. "I'm the one who should apologize, Mr. Kuzusawa. This is completely unacceptable."
"It's not your fault." But his hands shook as he signed the intake form.
By noon, we'd had three more cancellations. By three PM, Mrs. Whitmore called to say she was transferring her five cats to another clinic.
"I just can't deal with the spectacle, Dr. Honors. I hope you understand."
I understood. That was the worst part.
I was updating patient files when Monique knocked on my office door.
"You have a visitor. He won't leave until you see him."
Easton stood in the waiting room, still in his practice gear, jaw tight. He'd seen the news vans. Of course, he had.
"How bad?" he asked.
I looked at my empty schedule, at the messages from worried clients, at the life I'd built that was crumbling around me.
