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)
“Right,” is all I say. Does she expect me to tell her she’s worth more than she thinks she is? I could, but I don’t know her. My only connection to her is biological. Other than that, she’s a complete stranger.
“I… I don’t know what to ask next.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “You called. I answered. That’s enough for tonight.”
“Can I—” The word sticks. I try again. “Would it be okay if I called again? When my head isn’t… When I’m more myself?”
“Sure, you can call. I’m retired now. I live in a townhome with three other old ladies. We’re the West Coast Golden Girls. Easiest way to live when you’re my age.”
“Okay.”
“And Henry?” Her voice softens until it’s almost a whisper. “If your father and his wife made you into a decent man, let them have the credit.” A beat. “Don’t go trying to fix me, sugar. I am who I am, and my life is what it is.”
I smile before I can help it. “I won’t.”
“Good night, then,” she says.
“Good night.” I end the call and stare at the ceiling.
Zach huffs and presses his weight against my shin. It’s almost as if he disapproves of what I just did.
I scratch his ears. “I know, buddy. But I just had to know.”
I close my eyes and see a woman in sunglasses pouring water into small pots, a dog on a porch, a girl in Boulder with her hands on an instrument tray, choosing herself and maybe not closing the door all the way. My head hurts. My chest hurts worse. But something in me eases anyway.
For once, I don’t dream of beams or blood or gunshots.
I dream of a woman who gave me away.
And another woman who I’m not ready to let go.
Seventeen
Tabitha
A week later…
The suture pops.
A clean little ping that slices straight through my nerves. Blake doesn’t flinch. He just says, “Again,” like a robot, and steps to the next student.
I re-thread. Hands steady. Or pretending to be, anyway. Blake said I have good hands, so what the hell is wrong with me?
The needle holder feels slick, my gloves too tight, the blue drape too bright. I lay the knot, square.
The knot slips.
Heat flares in my cheeks.
“Again,” Blake says, back at my shoulder, his voice even. “Precision. Not speed.”
“I know.” I’m going too fast. I clear my throat. “I know.”
Eli slides a box of practice pads closer to me with his elbow. “Switch pads,” he murmurs. “Yours is tearing.”
I nod and begin with a new pad. The next throw lands, and the next. Surgeons’ knot. Square. Tails short and neat. I don’t breathe until I hear Blake’s low, “Better.”
I let that tiny word settle like a weight. It helps. A little.
“Passes,” Blake calls. “Instruments. Go.”
Eli faces me. “Kelly.”
I place a Kelly clamp in his palm, box lock open, my thumb on the ratchet. “Adson with teeth.”
He hands me the Adson correctly, palm up, like a scrub tech. I take it by the shank. We move through the litany. Crile. Metz. Mayo. The rhythm gets inside my wrists. The room stops tilting.
“Good,” Blake says to the class. “Break in ten.”
I strip off my gloves and lean into the counter.
All that matters is this seminar, this future I’ve dreamed of for as long as I can remember.
Don’t think about Angie’s call.
Don’t think about Henry.
Don’t think about the attack.
The last one is what spears into my head, mostly because of the text that just buzzed through from Lance.
Feel like coffee sometime?
I inhale. Coffee. Maybe. Lance is handsome and sweet, and he was my knight in shining armor. Coffee is harmless.
But I can’t get interested. He’ll just remind me of the attack.
And he’ll remind me that he’s not the man I truly want.
I text back quickly.
Thank you, but I can’t.
The three dots move… And—
No pressure. Coffee will always be there. Maybe sometime soon? Next week? Or I can leave you alone. Your call.
How am I supposed to answer that?
I sigh and write the words as they come to me.
I’m just crazy busy with the surgical seminar. I’ll be in touch.
At break time, I head for the hall. Two students laugh too loud near the water fountain. I drink, swallow, feel the cool slide down my throat.
Back in the lab, the second half moves better. My throws are cleaner, my tension more even.
Eli grins at me. “You got out of your head,” he says.
“For now,” I answer.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “For now’s a win.”
When the timer hits zero, we break down trays, count tips, log instruments.
Blake looks over the class, nodding. “Next week we hit the cadaver lab, guys. Be ready. You’ll be judged by what your hands can do, not what your mouth says they can do.”
Someone snorts. Someone else mutters, “Can’t wait.”
Outside, Boulder is hot, dry, and sunny. The Flatirons are gorgeous against the sky. I tell myself to walk home, clear my head, spend no money, be a responsible human. I scroll my inbox.