Page 17 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

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ATHENA

I called in a sick day to recover from the text, yet the next day when I walk into the hospital, I’m already regretting not calling in sick again. I sent Nathan Clarke my apologies, but I’m not sure it’s enough.

I slept badly, my head still aches, and the memory of the text message I accidentally sent sits in the back of my mind like a bomb waiting for someone to notice it.

My scrubs feel slightly wrinkled, my hair refuses to cooperate with the elastic band I forced it into, and I’m fairly sure my dignity stayed on the floor of that bar bathroom where I made the worst decision of my adult life.

Still.

Children are waiting upstairs.

So I clock in.

The pediatric wing wakes slowly in the morning, and I spend the first hour moving between rooms while my brain runs on autopilot.

A little girl in Room 212 is terrified of her IV line, so I sit beside her bed and explain that it’s a superhero straw that gives her extra power. Her mother laughs quietly while I draw a cartoon cape around the IV pump on the whiteboard.

“See?” I say, handing the marker to the girl. “Now the machine is part of your team.”

She studies the drawing carefully then nods with the deep seriousness only children can produce. “Okay,” she says, between two tiny breaths.

Moments like that usually steady me. Today they barely make a dent.

By the time I leave the room, two nurses give me the kind of sympathetic look people reserve for funerals and bad breakups. Apparently the gossip network of Hawthorne Children’s & Trauma Medical Center has been operating at full speed.

Word travels fast when doctors date hospital staff.

Word travels even faster when cheating is involved.

I keep my head down and continue moving through the floor. In Room 215 I help a seven-year-old boy practice breathing exercises before his appendectomy, and in the hallway outside the surgical prep area I pass two residents who immediately stop talking when they see me.

Great.

Exactly what I wanted.

I duck into the staff kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee that tastes like regret and burned beans. The caffeine barely touches the dull pressure behind my eyes.

My phone vibrates in the pocket of my scrubs.

I already know who it is before I pull it out. Veronica Hale, aka my mother. For a moment I consider letting it ring, but years of conditioning kick in before my better judgment can intervene. I swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear while leaning against the counter.

“Hello.”

Her voice arrives instantly, overwhelmingly sweet and perfectly composed. “Athena, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I’m at work.”

“Well obviously,” she replies. “But that doesn’t explain why half the hospital seems to know that your boyfriend left you.”

I close my eyes briefly. This is unsurprising considering she worked at this hospital before and has friends everywhere who report to her. I think she keeps them around just so she can know more about my life.

“It’s handled,” I say.

“That’s not what I heard.”

My fingers curl around the coffee cup while she continues talking in that bright tone she uses when delivering criticism disguised as concern.