“And the issue?”
“It’s basically a grenade in his plans, life, and upcoming residency,” he said humorlessly. “The brachial plexus is a network of nerves that runs from the neck, across the shoulders, and down into the hand. It controls fine motor precision, grip strength, and finger isolation. Even sensation in the fingertips. All of which…”
Her heart dropped. “Matter very much to a dentist.”
“Bingo.” He winced as it seemed to hit him all over again. “Connor calls it ‘millimeter work’ and knows that he cannot afford even an occasional misfire in a patient’s mouth.” He shook his head. “And he admitted to me that his grip fades in fifteen minutes and his fingers ‘buzz’ at night. And if ignores it, the nerve injury could be permanent.”
“Oof.” She dropped her head back, knowing that would ruin all his years of education and training before he ever became a dentist. “Can it be fixed? Surgery or rehabilitation?”
“Probably—not definitely, but it will require eight to twelve weeks of specialized hand therapy, which can’t even start until he’s healed.”
“Oh, no. What does that mean for dental school and his residency?”
“He’s figuring that out. Defer the residency? Figure out if insurance covers therapy? Run away from his overbearing mother and deal with the guilt for going to a gathering that might have cost him everything?”
“Oh, Peter!” She reached for him. “Poor Connor. He can’t feel guilty—he was on the wrong road at the wrong time. It could have happened to anyone. And this isn’t the end of his career—it’s a roadblock. You’ll help him.”
Peter rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He wants to power through.”
“Not a good idea,” she said.
“No kidding. You wouldn’t know it from a casual conversation but he’s a hard worker, an overachiever. Dr. Dunne warned him in no uncertain terms that if he forces use without therapy and healing, he could turn this into something permanent. He’s already practicing with his left hand but that won’t cut it as a dentist.”
He stared out at the water and she waited, sensing he had more to share.
“And then there’s Holly,” he said.
The overbearing mother, Vivien thought, but stayed silent.
“She’s smothering him and I don’t know if he loves it or hates it.”
“I can’t imagine a twenty-eight-year-old young man wanting to be smothered.”
Peter looked dubious. “He did say having us all together makes him feel better. Holly was all over that—practically planning our next family vacation.”
“And you…” she ventured. “How do you feel having her there?”
He lifted a shoulder. “There’s no…acrimony. That’s good. I’ve always wanted that.”
“I know.”
He turned and looked at her for the longest time. He didn’t speak, but she saw something in his eyes—their connection, their history, their relationship.
She reached for his hand on the railing, resting her fingers on top of his.
He looked down at their hands, then sighed. “I better get home and see how he’s doing,” he said. “I’m sorry I sent you on a wild goose chase tonight.”
The rejection stung.
“It’s fine,” she said quickly—much too quickly. “I’m going to contact that Natalie person, if that doesn’t overstep law enforcement privacy.”
“You can contact her. Her complaint is public, just not how he got around it. Can I walk you to your car, Viv?”
The ending of the evening felt abrupt and forced. Did he know what she was thinking and not want to hear it? Did henotknow? Maybe he thought he’d overstepped the bounds of their undefined and increasingly complicated friendship?
“Yeah, I’m not far. Thanks.”
They walked in silence and she realized just how awkward and strained this moment had become. She hated that.
