Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I think I’ve misheard her. She’s a perfect stranger. She can’t possibly be asking me to share my innermost thoughts with her while she makes my cappuccino, can she?
“I’m a writer,” she says. “I like listening to people’s stories.”
I’m going to have to find a new coffee shop.
I force a smile.
“Honestly, a problem solved is a problem shared,” she says.
“A problem shared is a problem halved,” I correct her.
She shrugs like she was almost right rather than completely wrong. “Is it a breakup?” she guesses. “Or an unrequited crush on your boss?”
I open my mouth to speak but find I don’t know what to say. Dr. Cove is attractive but I don’t have a crush on him exactly. Well, I guess it depends on how you define “crush.” If we were at a bar and he asked to buy me a drink, I’d let him. I’d be a fool not to. But it’s not like I’m behind my desk imagining him naked—well, apart from when he started to eat my burrito—not a euphemism.
“Or maybe you’re already sleeping with your boss and he’s just called it off.”
“I’m not sleeping with my boss.” I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one I know has joined the queue. “Can I get my coffee?”
Coffee shop girl smiles. “It’s coming. I figure I’ve either got to have the life experience to write about things or I’ve got to listen to other people’s life experiences.”
“Ever thought about using your imagination?” I ask.
She laughs. “You’re funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
She slides two cups across the counter. “Good luck with your boss. I hope he’s not married.”
Okay, I’m definitely finding a new coffee shop. I take the two cups and head out. Hopefully, the mid-morning snack I have in my bag will restore Dr. Cove’s faith in me after my outburst.
Nine
Zach
I’ve written a book. The words ring in my ears as I head to the wards for rounds.
I’ve written a book.
Okay, so no one but me has read it, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t type “The End” on my manuscript last night—one day before my two-week deadline. Mrs. Fletcher told me that finishing a book was hard, but it wasn’t for me. I couldn’t have stopped the words from hitting the paper, even if I’d tried.
Being back in the hospital after a week off writing doesn’t seem so bad today, because I’ve written a book. The high is better than any drug ever invented.
“Hey, Dr. Cove. Nice to see you,” Nicola, the A&E nurse in charge, says as I get to the nurses’ station. I don’t often get called down to A&E, but whenever I do, Nicola is on shift. “You seem…happy.”
I exhale, thinking about what she said. I am happy. Really happy. I have a sense of achievement I haven’t experienced in—maybe ever. Not when I graduated medical school or saved my first patient.
I feel free.
“I’m always happy, Nicola,” I say in a flat tone. “Why am I here?”
“A patient of yours, Mrs. Fletcher, was admitted in the early hours. She’s demanding to see you. If you can discharge her, we’ll all be happy.”
Guilt slices through me. I wouldn’t have sent Mrs. Fletcher my manuscript last night if I’d known she was feeling poorly. I may not like being a doctor, but that’s no excuse for letting my patient care lapse. Before I can spiral too far down this mental rabbit hole, I grab her chart. Apparently, Mrs. Fletcher was readmitted last night for severe dehydration. “I’ll go and see her now.”
I round the curtain of her bay and Mrs. Fletcher looks up from her iPad, beaming at me like I’m a long-lost friend. “Dr. Cove, you’re back. And you used your time off wisely, I see. Thank you for your email.”
My stomach lifts and dives. She’s the only person to have sight of my book, and for some reason, it makes me a little unsure of myself. “You should be resting,” I reply. “I never expected you back here, or I wouldn’t have sent it through to you.”
“Well, I’m hoping I’ll be gone now I’ve seen you, so I can go back to my life. It was my daughter-in-law’s pizza that I ate. She said it was gluten-free, but let me tell you, it wasn’t. I need to get out of here. I can’t very well call publishers to try to sell your book while I’m in here, can I?”
My heart tightens in my chest like every part of my body has to be as still as possible in case the slightest movement changes what Mrs. Fletcher just said.
“You have to read it first.” My words are cautious. She’s joking, right? She’s not seriously saying she’s going to take me on as a client. A little online research revealed that Mrs. Fletcher is a rock-star agent—a legend of the literary world who’s repped every one of my favorite thriller writers other than Harlan Coben and Stephen King. News of her impending retirement was announced in every industry news outlet I came across, and it’s fair to say publishing is devastated by the loss.