Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
“Your plans have excellent posture,” I tell him.
He shoots me a glare.
“I know you didn’t come in here to ogle my staff, doc.”
“That I did not.”
Chuckling, I continue making my way to the treadmills for a quick cardio warmup. Each step on the track helps me leave the day’s events behind me as the tension in my muscles slowly eases. With my body on autopilot, I can let go of my thoughts—at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work. Tonight, it seems that no matter how fast I run, I can’t wipe Natasha’s face from my mind’s eye.
It's been hours since I had her on my table, but she’s like a song stuck on repeat in my head. I can’t stop replaying her appointment, recalling the sound of her voice and the pink flush in her cheeks. Tenderness blooms in my chest at the memory. I rub at my sternum, fighting the sensation as best I can.
Get a fucking grip, Evan. She’s a goddamn patient.
Technically she’s not my patient, but she’s still a patient at the practice where I work. And who knows where she’ll end up after she graduates from college. I’ll probably never see her again, unless she runs into trouble with her IUD or picks up a disease from some unscrupulous frat boy.
Tension creeps back into my muscles at the thought of her fucking someone—hell, anyone.
But specifically, someone who isn’t me…
I stab the treadmill’s touch screen, upping the pace, and force myself to run faster, to push harder. I’m aware that there’s no point in getting jealous over a younger woman I can never have, no matter how mouthwatering she is.
It’s a damn good thing she isn’t my patient. If treating her once has the power to make me lose my mind, imagine what seeing her on a regular basis would do to my sanity.
For God’s sake, she’s practically the same age as my son.
Thinking about Oliver seems to knock the sense back into me. I check the time, mentally calculating how long it should take me to get home, get ready, and drive to the restaurant.
A familiar apprehension fills my stomach. The irony of a doctor who delivers babies having a strained relationship with his own child isn’t lost on me. The sad fact is that I haven’t been a good father to my son in a very long time.
Oliver’s mother and I were barely nineteen when he came along, and while our relationship didn’t last, we made every effort to co-parent our son as friends. It was easy when he was little; all I had to do to get him laughing was blow a raspberry on his stomach. But as he got older, our relationship shifted. We couldn’t be in the same room for more than ten minutes without the conversation turning into an argument.
After a while, I stopped making the effort to see him between holidays. Short vacations became shorter visits, family dinners devolved into quick meals, which withered into even quicker phone calls. I know it’s my fault; I should have tried harder to work through our communication issues. That’s why I decided to move back to Knoxville, for Oliver. For us.
An ache unrelated to my warmup makes me turn off the treadmill anyway. I move to the mat to stretch, but the tightness in my chest remains.
I’ve wasted so much time I could have spent getting to know my son, time that I can’t get back. I wish I could say that I came to the decision to repair our relationship on my own. But in fact, it was the loss of a friend and colleague that set me straight.
I worked alongside Dr. Sam Abernathy at my former OB/GYN practice in Virginia for eight years. He was a good man and a skilled surgeon. He did everything right. Ate healthy, worked out, and never forgot his vitamins. He took care of his family. But none of that mattered in the end; he suffered a fatal heart attack ten days after his fortieth birthday.
I’ll be forty-one in six months.
The shock of Sam’s loss was a wakeup call for me. It jostled my priorities and turned the spotlight on my regrets. Moving back to Tennessee to be closer to Oliver was the logical next step.
I may have missed out on my son’s high school prom, his sports’ games, his first heartbreak…but I’m determined to be present now, assuming he’ll have anything to do with me.
I arrive at the restaurant a few minutes early, encouraged to find Oliver already seated at the table. He’s talking to someone I can’t see from where I’m standing, and I recall that Oliver did mention inviting a friend to join us. I shoot a prayer to the patron saint of polite family discourse that all of us make it out of this meal unscathed.