I struggled to connect with people. As I’d moved through med school, I’d been able to turn that distance into a positive, as it allowed me to work on bodies and not people. But under Dr. Anderson’s constructive criticism, I felt like that awkward college freshman who didn’t have anyone to sit with in the cafeteria. I’d tried back then, paid attention to social cues and done my best to adjust, all to be dumped by a girl I’d thought I loved because I was “emotionally unavailable.” If I couldn’t do it then, when I tried, I doubted I could do it now.
The sooner I got out of this room, the better.
“Hang on just a moment, Alex. I’m not done.” Dr. Anderson’s voice held the authority of his position, and my feet stopped of their own free will. “To help you figure out how to do this, we are unofficially requiring you to attend counseling session.”
“What!” I cried out indignantly as I spun to face him. Humiliation quickly filled my being.They thought I needed a tutor to make friends. That was embarrassing. “What kind of requirement is that?” I folded my arms. “If it is unofficial, I’m not doing it.”
“This is what I am talking about,” Dr. Anderson said calmly, holding out his hand to indicate my flushed face. “You have to learn to control what you say so your emotions aren’t at the surface. If you don’t know how to talk to people—nurses and patients especially—without offending them, then we need to teach that. If you aren’t willing to comply unofficially, then it will become an official censure and go on your record here at the hospital.”
“Fine,” I snapped. I had to get out of this room before it got any worse. “Can I go now?”
“I know you can’t see it now, but we’re trying to help. I’ll email you the name of the counselor and make sure time is blocked out in your schedule to attend sessions.”
I opened my mouth and slammed it shut again before I said something that would pile up the evidence against me.
“You’re free to go, Alex. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”
I left that room as fast as my feet could carry me. This was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. Unofficially censured for telling the truth!Come on!
My thoughts snapped to the pretty blond nurse who had filed the complaint. Emma. Who did she think she was, second-guessing my diagnosis? That was not her job. My rage at the whole situation directed toward one set of green scrubs and a head of curly hair. From now on, I was going to have to avoid her at all costs. I couldn’t give her any more reasons to report me.
If she confronted me, I’d be lucky not to say something that would bump me past the committee and right to the unemployment line.
Chapter Four
Emma
Isat in my favorite seat at Wrigley Field—the field box between third base and home, of course—eating pink cotton candy and trying to decompress from the week and all the stress of dealing with Dr. Mitchell. Or not dealing with him as he avoided me at all costs.
There wasn’t a better way to unwind than kicking back for nine innings with the Cubs and my best friend.
“I needed this.” I slouched in my seat and kicked my legs up on the empty seat in front of me. The guy who’d been there for the first four innings had to take his kid home. The munchkin was falling asleep sitting up. I had to give the guy props for prioritizing his kid. Had he been single, I might have asked him out. A man who sprang for great seats probably loved baseball as much as I did.
“You deserve this.” Becca also stretched her legs out. “After Dr. Mitchell gave you the silent treatment all week, you need some sweetness in your life.” She plucked off a fluffy mouthful of cotton candy and took a bite.
We paused the conversation to watch a double play that ended the inning. Fans groaned. It wasn’t good when the visiting team took us out like that, and I scowled as our guys switched to defense. “You got this!” I yelled encouragement. One play wasn’t going to break my love for the team. Heck, a decade of bad seasons hadn’t broken it. I was made of tougher stuff than that.
I frowned into my bag of cotton candy, ready to pick up where our conversation dropped off. “I can’t say I blame him. I’m avoiding him as much as he’s avoiding me. Ugh! I hate this tension between us.”
“You had enough of that from Eric.”
“Right!” When my first marriage had ended, Becca had hopped a plane from Montana to Chicago to help me pick up the pieces of my life. She’d seen it all go down, and she’d helped hold me together. I couldn’t ask for a better best friend.
The fact that hearing his name hadn’t sent me into a cloud of depression was a testament to how far I’d come. Thankfully, we didn’t have kids together, so our divorce was clean—well, as far as dividing up assets and such. I’d refused alimony. I didn’t want anything from Eric—except my freedom.
“I went into nursing to help people, not create drama. It makes me feel like I’m walking on sticker bushes all day long. Every time I see Dr. Mitchell duck behind a desk or take the stairs to avoid me feels like a jab into my sensitive soul.”
Becca patted my knee. “Yeah, but look what you did for the McNabbs. They’d be hosting a funeral this week if it wasn’t for you. That’s something you can feel good about.” She’d taken my side the moment she’d heard the news.
“I’m thankful for that.” Mr. McNabb survived his surgery, and after a week in the TICU, he had been transferred to the step-down unit. With any luck, he would be home in another week—though the physical therapist still hadn’t ruled out that he might need to go to a rehab center first. At least he was alive and could see his kids grow up. That was huge and more than his father had been able to do.
Our team took the field, and we cheered.
“I’m so glad we sprang for the good seats.” Becca gave the catcher an appraising look as he took up position behind the plate. “Baseball pants are so much better close up.”
We giggled like high schoolers and spent the next two at bats discussing who looked the best in their uniform and which length of pants we preferred. I liked the knickers and long socks; they spoke of classic baseball.
As the game continued, my mind drifted back to this afternoon when I’d walked in on Dr. Mitchell in the supply closet. The moment our eyes had met, his jaw had tightened and he’d scrambled to leave. I’d pressed myself against the wall to give him room. The scent of his body wash had hit my nose, and I’d been shocked that it smelled so good. Like when I walked past a bakery and the scent of freshly baked bread wrapped its fingers around me and tugged me inside. That kind of tantalizing.
