I can do this.
Even if it terrifies me.
The only person who can help me is the one man I've been trying to forget for six years.
Well. One of four men.
God help me.
5
PEDRO
Ihate this time of year. Nearly Christmas and everyone either drinks too much, eats too much, or just goes outside like wearing a shirt and shorts as if it’s summer and forgets it's winter. Food poisoning, flu, alcohol, or broken heart. Either way they end up at my clinic which means no lunch, coffee breaks, and at times I skip out on dinner, so I just end up being ten times grumpier than normal.
"Dr. Negrorio, your two o'clock is here," Patricia shouts. She catches my attention as I pass by her desk. I just need caffeine and it is this time of year due to stress that I try and avoid the temptation to smoke. Bad habits. I'm a doctor but I'm human too and just as well the wedding was canceled because my patients need me. Was I kinda glad that Jessica never made it? Maybe. Most likely. Yes.
I don't look up from the chart I'm reviewing. Mrs. Jones's bloodwork is concerning. Elevated cortisol. Low iron. Classic signs of chronic stress, which makes sense given her husband's gambling problem and her daughter's recent divorce. Small towns are hell on the body. Everyone's trauma becomes everyone else's business.
"Name?" I ask.
"Jessica Delacroix."
My pen stops moving. Just stops, mid-stroke, leaving an ink blot on Mrs. Jones's chart that I'll have to explain later.
Jessica.
Here.
Now.
"Dr. Negrorio?" Patricia repeats. This time she's by my side, waving her hand in front of my face. "Hazel, call Dr. Peterson. I think Dr. Negrorio's having his withdrawal symptoms from not smoking again."
"What?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. Try again. "I'm fine."
"Eh, he," she says as she pats her afro and walks back to the reception. Why does she always do that? Does she think the afro will fly away if she doesn't pat it every five minutes? I want to ask, but then I know when to keep my mouth shut unlike Sergio who is like an uncontrollable force when it comes to tact and just says whatever is on his mind.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the desk, willing them to stop.
Six years. I've been thinking about her for six years. And now she's here.
"Put her in exam room two," I say to Patricia's retreating back. My voice sounds almost normal. Almost. "I'll be there in five minutes."
She waves a hand over her shoulder without turning around. "Got it, boss."
The clinic is small. Three exam rooms, a reception area with faded blue chairs that need replacing, my office, and a break room that's really just a closet with a coffee machine and a mini fridge that Hazel keeps stocking with yogurt nobody eats. We're sandwiched between the pharmacy and Cristina's Florist on Rio Way, which means every time someone comes in sick, they leavewith antibiotics and the overwhelming scent of roses whether they want it or not. Largo Waters is nothing if not efficient in its small-town charm.
Right now the waiting room has four people in it. Old Mr. Garrett with his chronic back pain that's really just an excuse to get out of the house and away from his wife's constant nagging about his diet. Teenage Molly Whitfield with what I'm guessing is strep throat based on the way she's wincing every time she swallows and the panicked look her mother keeps shooting at her phone. Betty Crawford, seventy-three, here for her regular blood pressure check, knitting something aggressively pink and eavesdropping on everyone else's conversations.
And Jessica.
I can see her through the window that separates the hallway from reception. She's sitting in the corner chair, the one farthest from everyone else, the one with the wobbly leg that I keep meaning to fix.
Her head is down. Blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun that's barely holding on, loose strands falling forward to hide her face. She's tucking them behind her ear with fingers that won't stop shaking, and that small nervous gesture hits me like a fist to the chest because I remember it. I remember everything about her.
She's wearing clothes that don't fit right. Jeans too loose at the waist, cinched with a belt on its tightest notch. A gray sweater that stretches across her chest and hips, clearly borrowed from someone smaller. Her mother, probably. Dorothy Delacroix has always been a wisp of a woman, nothing like her daughter's soft curves.
The sweater pulls tight across her breasts. I shouldn't be noticing. I'm a doctor. I'm professional.
