“You won’t even touch the water.”
“The ocean and the beach arenotthe same thing.”
Yeah, yeah. I learned early that Joss’s bone-deep fear of the ocean and the danger it represents is an immutable portion of her personality—one she pretends isn’t a key factor in why she lives her life like everything is tenuous and will ultimately be taken from her. Flying her to a sandbar jutting out from the ass crack of the United States, surrounded by nothing but water, just so she can shield me from gossip, is selfish. Borderline mean.
I’m being obnoxious.
Man up, Asher.
Jocelyn’s fierce loyalty is her best quality. She’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but her devotion to her friends—that’s the prettiest thing about her.
Someone should protect her from herself.
“I don’t need a fake date,” I say. “I need a real one or a way to get out of it.”
She shrugs. “Then get a real date. You don’t need me, you know. Anyone would go with you.”
I snort. Not true. But okay. “I can’t invite a stranger on a weekend getaway.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right. Then do what we all do when we mess up. Fake a seizure.”
Laughing again, I scrub my face, willing away the sleepy.
“Listen, Ash.” Her tiny hand lands on my shoulder. “Ihave to go to sleep or I will be a grumpy, hollow-eyed hag in the morning. We don’t have to figure this out tonight, but if you want to go, I’ll go with you. And if the ocean tries to get me, I’m counting on you to Prince Eric my ass back to safety.”
I pat her cold fingers where they squeeze my shoulder. “All right. Deal. I’ll tame the sea witch, and you can show up the bride.”
“It’s settled, then,” she says. “Can I go get sleep now?”
“Sure. See you bright and early.” She stands to leave, but I grab her hand. “Hey, Joss?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for this. Seriously.”
She pinches my cheek like she’s a grandma. “Anything for my little snookums.”
“All right.” I roll my eyes. “I see we’re done with the serious portion of the evening.”
“Good night,” she singsongs as she flutters out the door.
Jocelyn
Grief isn’t linear. It’s a circle.
—My Therapist
Early mornings after a rough call make me want to murder things.
Well, early morningsperiodmake me want to murder things, but as an anesthesiologist, I sort of brought this upon myself. Surgeries start early, and therefore, so must I. At least it’s June, so it’s not pitch-black outside.
My day is always better when Asher is operating. I’ve bullied myself into covering his cases enough times that my colleagues no longer try to assign me elsewhere. Best friends unite, yo. If Dr. Foley is operating, then Dr. Mattox is his anesthesiologist.
I sip my life-giving espresso on the OR physician loungecouch, then begin peeling my breakfast orange when Asher enters, deep circles beneath his eyes.
“Hey, sugar duckling,” he says with a yawn, falling onto the couch next to me.
“Your nicknames are getting perpetually weirder, Ash.”
