Page 28

I do a double take and mimic Claire’s squinting. “I don’t know. Maybe. There are a lot of blondes in this town, you know.”

Lilly and Georgia walk up, reach for the drinks Claire ordered and then pull on our arms to join them on the dancefloor. Why not? Maybe if we tire them out, they’ll be ready to go home and crawl into bed like the rest of us old-timers.

“Promiscuous” starts to play, and I have to wonder if someone requested Sam’s theme song. The thought has me throwing my head back laughing as we all dance together. Occasionally, men edge closer to where our little group is located, but so far, no one has attempted to intrude on our girl happy. After about an hour of dancing and drinking, I’m already beat.

“Hey, guys. I’m exhausted. I started the day making hospital rounds at 6:30. My carriage will turn into a pumpkin in…” I gaze down at my watch for effect. “About thirty minutes. So I’m going to head home.”

“Awe. You sure you can’t stay a little longer?” Lilly pleads.

“No. You two put a dent in Daddy Weston’s black Amex and then get home safely.” I lean in to kiss and hug the three of them goodbye. I turn to Claire. “You make good choices, young lady.”

“Hell with that. I can make good choices at home. I want to do something bad,” she croons. While the words are not the exact lyrics to Taylor’s song, she belts out her version in a singsong voice to the tune of our music idol’s similarly titled track. Claire giggles, continuing to sing about feeling good and having the time of her life. I snort at my silly friend’s rendition. She has completely changed the words to fit her intoxicated mood.

“And we’ll do it over and over and over…” we all chime in, laughing so hard no one else would have a clue what we’re singing. Heck, any Swiftie worth her weight in Taylor trivia would know we’ve completely mangled the lines of her hit song. Yet our little group can still communicate via our own Swiftie speak. The language of girl power.

I shake my head. “Be careful heading back home, Claire.”

“I will.”

I’ve almost made it to the exit when suddenly a hand darts out, grabbing my arm.

“Hey!” I snap, but stop once I realize it’s Sam. Is he drunk?

He immediately lets go of my arm and raises his hands in the air as if surrendering to the enemy. “I’m sorry, Lex. I just wanted to apologize for the other night. Well… and the time before that. All the times I’ve hurt you, actually.”

My mouth falls slack-jawed. My mind immediately races somewhere bad. “What’s wrong? Are you sick or something?” This isn’t likely. He looks perfectly healthy to me. When he doesn’t answer right away, I cross my arms over my chest and give him the stink eye.

“No. I’m fine. I mean… well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you.”

“Feel better now?” My question is more of an accusation. Where is all of this coming from? And what would make him think he could simply say ‘Sorry’ and I’d just forget the last twenty years of hateful behavior?

“No. But it’s the truth. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know.” He runs his hand through his dark, wavy locks. The usual glint in his playful blue eyes is gone, and there’s something pained in its place. But before I can come up with a witty retort, he spins on his heel and heads for the door.

The weekend went by in a flash. As usual, Monday morning greets me with a stack of patient charts on my desk. They’re mostly women dealing with recurrent infections or incontinence. I’m fully trained to handle every urological case that comes through these doors, but in a specialty where many of the male patients feel more comfortable discussing their erectile dysfunction or having prostate exams performed by men, I’m often relegated to kidney stones and pelvic floor rehabilitation.

A shadow falls across my doorway. I don’t even have to look up to know it’s Dr. Bradley Howell. He’s one of the senior partners who treats this practice like a locker room and me like a cheerleader who wandered into the wrong building. “Still working on those interstitial cystitis cases, Alexis?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe. He never calls me Dr. Patterson. None of them do. Couldn’t be bothered to treat me as an equal. “Must be nice to have a light load. Some of us actually have a line out the door. Guess that’s the perk of having your grandfather’s name on the building.”

I feel the heat crawl up my neck, but I channel my grandfather’s voice in my head. Keep a stiff upper lip, Lex. Don’t give jealous men the satisfaction of seeing you react.

“My ‘light load’ involves three complex stents and a radical prostatectomy this week, Brad,” I say, finally meeting his gaze with a level stare. “But I suppose if you spent less time monitoring my schedule and more time on your own, your patients wouldn’t be waiting an hour in the lobby.”

He scoffs, pushing off the doorframe. “Careful. You’re starting to sound a little high-strung. Maybe you need another girls’ weekend to Cabo. Or a hobby since you have no one waiting for you at home. My wife attends a book club. Maybe I can ask her when the next one is meeting.” He saunters off, and I let out a groan, hoping no one else in the office can hear the effect he has on me.

Heck, the effect most of the men here have on me.

Ugh. There’s another one I wouldn’t mind letting go for his attitude alone. Like that asshat knows a thing about me. I’ve never taken a girls’ weekend to Cabo. Only to Hurricane, North Carolina. If nothing more than to be close enough to get back to the practice if something went wrong. And I bet my book club is better than his wife’s. She probably reads memoirs of the rich and famous. The last time I met her, she wouldn’t stop peppering me with questions about my social life and offering to share her recipes. I don’t trust anyone who’s that overly friendly. Especially if they’re married to Brad.

Cheese and Rice. If years of putting up with Samuel Lee and his entourage of mean girls in high school didn’t prepare me for this, what could?

I lean back, my mind drifting as it always does when I’m tested. To the other night when I was stood up at Luigi’s. And Sam had a ringside seat. My dating life is an abysmal cycle of self-sabotage. My girlfriends say my dates are probably just intimidated. The feedback from the matchmakers and dating apps is always the same.

She seems approachable, but guarded.

It’s ridiculous, really. I’m friendly. Kind. I’ve never had a difficult time carrying on a conversation with a stranger. I’m empathetic and engaging. But I’m also driven and passionate about my work.

In my attempts to hold myself back from appearing intimidating, I’ve tried to be more cautious about what I disclose. This makes sharing myself with a potential love interest complicated, as my life is a landmine. Between losing both of my parents when I was a teen, to feeling bullied by the alpha male urologists in my work life, I don’t want to project a victim mentality.

But deep down, I know the truth. I can’t have the man I’ve wanted since I was sixteen, so I subconsciously ruin every chance with anyone else. I haven’t gotten over my first love. And as infuriating as it is, I’m not sure I ever will.