Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
And I can’t help stiffening at his questions.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
He stops in his tracks at the edge of the quad underneath a blooming cherry tree. “Sarah?”
I shrug, then nod towards the little shop. “Let’s get coffee. I need a caffeine fix.” I paste on a smile and then tug him across the road as the walk sign starts to flash a countdown.
He lets it go and we go get our coffees. He orders me a white mocha macchiato, my favorite drink when I’m disregarding calories. Which apparently I am today. I don’t mind because frankly, I won’t deny I’m in need of comfort food. I don’t balk at the blueberry scone he buys me either, but only because he gets one for himself too.
It’s only after we’re out of the coffeeshop and walking down the sidewalk sipping our drinks that Dominick starts up again. “So? Spill.”
“What?” I try to deflect, using a stir stick to eat some of the whip cream off the top of my macchiato. Dominick’s holding the bag with the scones. I get all the cream and then pop the top back on to drink the rest of the coffee. God, that hits the spot.
He lets me avoid his questions a little longer, leading the way to a small park another block and a half down. Then we settle underneath a big tree. I’m not sure what kind, but it has a huge trunk and root system that sticks out of the ground. Dominick takes off his bag and settles himself on one of the roots, back against the trunk. He pats his lap for me to sit.
It’s a spring day. Flowers are in bloom. The sun shines bright and happy. The most handsome man I can possibly imagine is gesturing for me to sit with him under a shaded tree with sweet treats awaiting me in a pastry bag.
…And all I feel like doing is curling up against him and crying.
Damn it, what is wrong with me?
I bite back the tears as I sit on his knee, set down my coffee on the ground, and snuggle against him.
“Um, you’re not allowed to be this perfect,” I whisper against his chest, wiping at a stray tear that manages to escape my eye.
He winces underneath me. “God, don’t say that.” His voice is dark. Full of…self-loathing? I look up at him in confusion.
But his facial features match what I thought I heard in his voice. His mouth is clenched and eyes cast down as he looks away from me.
“Dom? What’s wrong.”
When he looks up at me, his eyebrows are dropped low. Sorrowful. “Sarah, have you ever stopped to think that maybe my dad isn’t the best guy in the world?”
I sit up straighter and look at him. Really look at him.
“But…” I shake my head. “The two of you are so close. I don’t understand. I thought you looked up to him. It’s why you went into medicine.”
He breathes out hard and looks away again. “Things between me and Dad are complicated. I hated him for a long time growing up. I thought he was a monster. That he drove Mom away. But then things changed.”
He takes a long drink of his coffee—straight espresso, naturally—before putting down his cup beside mine.
“How? What happened?”
His expression goes dark again. Brow furrowed, dark eyes stormy. He shrugs. “Some stuff went down. I don’t really want to get into it. I got really competitive with him. I did some things I’m not proud of. Anyway, all of it convinced me that maybe we weren’t that different after all. Like father, like son, ya know?”
His eyes lift briefly to meet mine before he drops them again. “So I thought, who am I to judge him? Maybe this is just how all people are? Good and bad. Light and dark. We’re all just a little screwed up. I sort of accepted it.”
He looks up at me again, and this time his eyes are earnest. “So yeah, at first going into medicine was part of the competitive thing. I was going to be a doctor, but be better than he ever was. I would be a surgeon and do a specialty far more impressive than his. I would be one of the best in the country.”
He reaches out and grasps my hand again. Like he’s desperate for even more of a connection with me than our bodies touching where I sit on his lap. “But I swear it became more than that. It wasn’t until I started my residency about a year ago. But when I started interacting with real patients. Seeing the impact of medicine on human lives. Families. Seeing how loved ones rallied around the sick person. Celebrated.” Pain knits his brow. “And how they grieved when we lost someone. It all became real. Even if I hadn’t started out with the right intentions, I knew that now this was why I was going to be in it for the long haul. The patients.”