But somewhere under all of that, a voice curls up, whispering that I can’t do it on my own. That needing him is a flaw. It shows how exposed and weak I really am.
Needing him makes me weak.
“There we go. Josie’s fine. Nothing to worry about.” Steven smiles, but his words skewer me like a heated metal rod.
“Worrying about her isn’t nothing,” I murmur pathetically. “I can’t help it sometimes.”
“You’re right.” He tries to pull me close, but I stiffen. “I should’ve phrased it differently. I’m sorry.”
He’s frustrated; I can hear it in his voice. See it in how his lips twist.
“I’m sorry too.” Weight presses behind my eyes, and the image of racing down the hall and out the front door flashes through my mind. “I’m sorry I worry so much. I’m sorry my feelings are a burden.”
“I don’t think that, Emma.” Abruptly he stands, pacing now.
“Cleary it’s a problem, though.” I gesture to his angry shuffling.
“I was just trying to reassure you that Josie was fine. She’s always fine, Emma.” He’s nearly yelling now, which “yelling” for Steven is a cross between a mime pounding his fists against the invisible box and Judge Judy asking for receipts. It’s never loud; it’s just deep and puffy and intimidating in its own way.
“You worry too much, Emma.” Nowthisis not what I need.
“I do not.” I scoff.
He eyes me, half frustrated and half knowing. We both know worrying might as well be stamped on my forehead.Even before having children. I was diagnosed at eleven years old, and no matter how much therapy, medication, or reassurance by the people around me, it’s never gone away. It’s a permanent, unfortunate part of me.
But I’m too prideful to admit he’s right, especially in moments like this. There are better ways he could reach me. He could reassure me that needing help doesn’t mean I’m broken or failing, but strong, resilient,surviving.He used to do that.
Not now. Instead, he focuses on what I should stop doing instead of what I’m getting right.
As if he can read my mind, he continues, pacing and gesturing with his arms to add emphasis to his words. “I know it’s hard on you being away from her. There is no one else who can care for her the way you do. But Emma, baby, it doesn’t help your anxiety to obsess over what you can’t control, and it doesn’t helpus.You get mad at me when I try to be level-headed. All I’m doing is stating a fact.”
“You’re trying to fix me.” I deflate as humiliation sinks into my stomach, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how his patients feel. They come to him with a problem, and he knows the answer, regardless of what they’ve lived through.
He halts, facing the wall of bookshelves in my office. His broad shoulders rise as he inhales slowly. The blue scrub top clings to him, stretching over the curve of muscle beneath.
It’s almost distracting, thinking about what lies beneath the uniform. The rawness of him. The ticklish spot on his ribs, the butterfly tattoo on his arm, the body that could undo me with a single motion—all hidden under a layer of polyester meant to care for the world. Care for me.
But the line between me and the world tends to blur, lumping me in with how he treats everyone else.
He turns to face me, and a tiny wrinkle running down the center of his top catches my eye. It sends an instant blaze of irritation simmering in my gut.
“I should have done laundry.” I grind the words out.
“What?” He blinks at me.
“Your shirt is wrinkled.” I point to the creased fabric in the center of his chest.
He doesn’t look. Wrinkle be damned. “Emma, can we focus—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t set your scrubs out last night.” The words tumble out.
“Emma.” Steven grabs my hands and presses them against his chest. “I don’t give a damn about the wrinkles. So what if you didn’t set my scrubs out last night? Maybe I should man up and set my own clothes out for once.”
I snort reactively. He arches a brow. It’s not that hecan’tset out his clothes; it’s that he never does. He’d treat patients in sweatpants if left to his own devices.
“I can do it.” He points at himself, emphasizing thatheis a man who can do his own laundry regularly.
“Whatever you say.” I force a smile.
