“You, too.” I wave as he slips out of the room.
“Great.My injury facilitates a meet-cute between my sister and the new head of emergency medicine.”
“Hardly. He’s just being polite.”
“Your sister isn’t available,” Garrett says briskly.
“Unavailable?Please, tell me you’re not with Mr. Semicolon,” Anker groans. “It’s been a shitty enough morning.”
“No. I’m not with Miles.” Eyes narrow, I aim the full force of my glower on Garrett.
ClearlyMr. We Get into Each Other’s Shitis sharing mine with my brother. I’ll tell Anker about my romantic sabbatical—at least the CliffsNotes version—but while he’s sitting busted up in the ED doesn’t seem the right place to get into it.
“I’m taking a break from dating, but we have more important things to discuss at the moment.” I look over my shouldertowards Garrett. “Hey, Dr. No Boundaries, how long will he be down for?”
“Again, I’m right here,” Anker mutters.
“I have boundaries.”
Garrett’s tone paints the image of an indignant pout puckering his face. If I weren’t a little annoyed with him for mentioning my break from dating, speeding up a conversation with my brother about it, I’d think it was adorable.
“The ribs will take a few weeks, but the ankle… Six months or so.”
“Which means bye-bye New York.” Anker sighs.
Mouth dragged down, I turn back to my brother. “I’m sorry about the race, Anker.”
The journey to the New York City marathon has been almost two years in the making. Besides his general marathon training, he’s had to run key races in the last year to qualify for a spot in the race. Unlike the Seal Beach marathon each October, you can’t just fill out a registration form and pay a fee to run it.
“Me too.” His entire essence resembles a crushed soda can.
“How did this happen anyway?”
“Fucking corgis.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
Anker is more surly than normal, which is to be expected. He’s likely both in physical pain and frustrated that this derails his intention to run the marathon on Sunday.
“What does that mean?” I scrunch my nose.
“It means Mr. Sloan’s horde of stumpy-legged wannabe watchdogs got out of his backyard this morning and directly into the path of a guy on a bike who swerved to miss them and slammed into me as I rounded the corner on my morning jog.”
“Are they okay?” I place my hand on my chest.
“The furry terrorists are fine. When I came to, after hitting my head in the fall, Mr. Sloan was there with his—now leashed—demon dogs and the bicyclist.”
“I don’t think the corgis were gunning for you,” Garrett says.
“Their motivation aside, my ankle is broken, and the last sixteen months of work are flushed down the drain.”
“I’m sorry, Anker.” I squeeze his forearm. “I know how hard you’ve worked.”
“Yeah… All for nothing.” He shakes his head.
A sharp twinge radiates in my chest at this. It’s not like my brother to be so forlorn. He’s the endless sunny days of people. No matter the issue or misstep, he’s the reassuring one. Each time I tripped or saw my vision slip further away, he’d reassure me.
“Six months.” I look between Anker and Garrett. “The ankle will take six months to heal, and then he can train again. Right?”
“Six months or so.” He looks at the tablet. “Even if ortho recommends surgery, which I doubt, it shouldn’t be more than that with the shape your brother is in.”
