Dr. Collington softly told me to wait for him in his consultation room, and at that time, I was in a complete daze. I simply obeyed him without question, floating down the hallway while everyone cheerfully congratulated me, and I remember saying thank you again and again and again, smiling so hard my cheeks ached, and the whole time my mind just...
It refuses to believe what's happening.
I think he was pressured.
The thought circles back as I pass the vending machines on the second floor, and that's when I see it. Third row, far right. The granola bars. The ones with the dark chocolate and sea salt, and just seeing them makes my chest do this awful squeezing thing because I remember the first time I noticed.
It was about six months into my follow-ups. I'd been sitting in my usual window seat in the lobby co-working space, starving because I'd skipped lunch to get here early (four hours early, but who was counting), and when I'd finally been called in for my appointment, there'd been a granola bar on the small table beside the examination chair. The dark chocolate and sea salt kind. My favorite.
I'd assumed a previous patient had left it behind.
But it was there at the next appointment, too. And the one after that. Always the same kind. Always sitting there like it had beenwaiting for me, and I finally asked one of the nurses about it, and she'd just smiled and said, "Dr. Collington leaves those for you."
He knew what kind I liked.
I'd never told him. I'd never mentioned it, not once, and I'd gone over every conversation we'd ever had in my head (yes, I keep a mental log, don't judge me), and there was no possible moment where I could have let it slip. Which meant he'd noticed on his own. Which meant he'd beenpaying attention. Which meant he probably knew all of my favorites, not just the granola bar but my favorite color (green, obviously, because of his scrubs) and my favorite movie (The Notebook, equally obviously) and my favorite book and my favorite season and probably even the exact shampoo I use, because that's the kind of man Dr. Collington is, the kind who quietly memorizes everything about a person while pretending he hasn't noticed a thing, and if that isn't proof that he's secretly obsessed with me then I don't know what is—
I think he was pressured.
I walk past the vending machines and keep going. My legs know the way to his clinic even if my brain is currently on fire.
The thought won't leave me alone.
I'm turning the corner toward the east wing when Emily intercepts me. She comes out of nowhere, practically sprinting, and throws her arms around me so hard that I stumble backward into the wall.
"I knew it! I KNEW IT, I knew it, I told you, didn't I? Didn't I tell you?"
"Emily—"
"I'm so happy I could scream!"
She's squeezing me so tight I can't breathe, and she's bouncing on her feet, and I should be telling her that it's not what she thinks, that he was pressured, that none of this is real, but instead all I can think about is the list.
It was a few months ago. I'd gone to Emily's desk to drop off some paperwork, and Emily had stepped away for a moment, and I hadn't meant to look. I really hadn't. But her desk was right there, and her notebook was open, and at the top of the page, in Emily's aggressive capital letters, was a header that read:ALWAYS TAKE CALLS.
And under it, a numbered list.
1. Kitty McKenna.
Above the department head. Above Konstantin. Above everyone.
And I'd known right then and there what that meant. Emily wouldn't put me at the top of that list on her own. That was an instruction that came from Dr. Collington himself, which meant that when I called, heneededto hear my voice. Needed it the way other people needed air or water or caffeine. It was a biological necessity for him, hearing me say "Hi, Dr. Collington, it's Kitty!" and I bet his whole day was ruined if I didn't call, and I bet he sat at his desk waiting for the phone to ring, and I bet Emily knew this, which was exactly why she had my name at the top, because she was basically the gatekeeper of his happiness and my voice was the key—
I think he was pressured.
"Kitty? Hello? Are you okay?"
Emily is pulling back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders, and her face is so bright and so happy and so sure, and I want to believe her. I want to believe what she believes. But I can't, because—
I think he was pressured.
"I'm fine," I tell her. "I just need to...he told me to wait in his clinic."
"Of course he did," Emily says, and the way she says it, with such total confidence, like this was always going to happen, like it was inevitable, makes me want to cry. "Go, go, go! And Kitty?"
"Yes?"
"I'm so happy for you."
