Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Fine,” I mutter, and we move to a side table where a neat row of instruments waits.
He picks up a scalpel handle and offers it to me with the practiced flourish of a scrub nurse. “Scalpel, Doctor.”
I can’t help it. I smile. “Thank you, nurse.”
We switch, trade, correct each other. My fingers fumble once, and I curse under my breath.
Eli just smirks. “Relax, Tab. You’re gripping it like you’re about to stab someone.”
“I might,” I shoot back.
He laughs. “Now that’s the Tabitha I know. Did you end up talking to Henry?”
Way to get me back in the dumps, Eli. I don’t say it, though. I only shake my head, hoping he takes the hint.
He does.
We continue the exercise. Pick up. Pass. Receive. Lay down. Again. Again. The repetition drowns out the noise in my head until all I can hear is the clink of metal and Eli’s steady voice.
When Blake calls time, my palms are damp, but my mind is clearer. This is where I belong. I can’t let anything shake that. Not even Henry.
Especially not Henry.
By the end of the session, we’ve practiced with clamps, scissors, forceps. We’ve tied a dozen knots. Blake critiques each pair with clinical detachment. When he passes me, he only says “Good” before moving on.
I gather my things slowly, giving myself time to steady my breath. Eli lingers, leaning against the desk.
“You did great,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“You’re thinking about him, though.”
I stiffen. “About whom?” I ask, as if there’s any question.
“Henry,” he says softly. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I swallow. My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. “He told me we had no future,” I say again.
“And you believed him?”
“I had to,” I whisper. “Because if I didn’t, I’d be there right now instead of here.”
Eli studies me for a moment. Then he nods. “Then be here. All the way. This isn’t a half measure.”
The words settle in my chest like a weight and a relief at once. This isn’t a half measure.
This is your life. Your chosen career.
This isn’t a half measure.
When I step outside, the heat hits me like a wall. I sling my backpack higher on my shoulder and walk toward the library instead of toward my place. Work, I tell myself. Read. Review. Learn the names, the uses, the knots until they’re muscle memory.
Because if I let myself think too long about Henry, I’ll break.
And I can’t break. Not now.
Not when I’ve chosen.
I keep walking.
Twelve
Henry
A week later…
I’m back in my old room.
The rest of the week passed in pieces. Hours stitched together by pills, ice packs, check-ins from the doctor, and my mother’s hovering. I’m not supposed to bend, lift, or push anything. No ranch work. No projects at my half-finished house. No driving. No work at the foundation.
Just rest.
Shelves lining the wall still hold my baseball trophies. I trace a finger over the tallest one, the state championship. My name is etched on a little brass plate at the bottom.
Henry Simpson, MVP
Once upon a time, that meant something.
Now I’m standing here with a scar on my scalp and orders not to exert myself.
I ease down onto the bed, and Zach snuggles next to me.
And all I can think about is her.
Tabitha.
The memory of her is so fresh it aches. The weight of her body against mine, her breath warm at my ear, the way she whispered my name, the way her face looked in the throes of passion. Her hair spilling across my pillow, her nails leaving faint red trails down my back.
We made love in here. On this bed. A week ago, while the house was full of wedding guests and laughter, we stole hours that felt like a lifetime.
We made love again in her guest room, drawn out and perfect that time.
And then it ended.
I told her we had no future. I left her to wake up alone.
And she left.
What did I expect?
I lean back, staring up at the ceiling. Why did I let her go? Why did I tell her we had no future when every cell in my body screams that she’s mine?
The answer’s obvious.
Because I’m broken.
Because I’m the man who killed someone, the man who can’t shake the weight of it, the man who nearly let a house beam split his skull because he was careless and didn’t bother putting on a hard hat.
Just when I’d decided to go after her…
I close my eyes. For a moment, I can almost feel her here again. Hear her soft laughter, feel her hand brushing across my chest, her kiss pulling me back to life.
But when I open them, it’s just me.
Me, the trophies, and the ghost of Tabitha.
And Zach, of course.
Good old Zach.
“Love you, boy.” I caress his soft head.
This dog quite literally saved my fucking life. My life.
I have a second chance, and I can’t blow it.