Broken Dream, page 14
“Angie,” Tabitha says. “That’s great. Just keep going. You’re doing fine.”
I nod again, muttering a quiet “Thanks.”
But as I finish the cut, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze. My stomach twists, and I know before I look that it’s him.
Jason is watching me from across the room, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes tell a different story. They linger on me for just a second too long before he turns back to his students, resuming his explanation as though nothing happened. As though the look wasn’t loaded with the same tension I’ve been trying to bury all week.
I exhale and grip the scalpel tighter as I move to the next layer of tissue.
I can’t afford to think about Jason. Not here, not now. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore the way my body reacts to his presence, the way my heart races every time I catch him looking at me.
This is dangerous, and I know it.
But even as I force myself to make the next cut, I can’t help but wonder how much longer we can keep pretending nothing happened before the tension between us becomes impossible to hide.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jason
I’ve been staying away from Angie and Tabitha’s table as much as I can. I don’t want to seem like I’m hovering.
Plus, I can’t show any favoritism.
Just being in the same room with Angie is difficult. All I want to do is touch her, run my fingers over her flesh, feel her heart beating next to mine.
She’s probably angry with me for leaving late in the night. And rightfully so.
But too much is going on in my life right now. I have a chance to become a surgeon again. To take back some of what life has taken from me.
While I’ll never get Lindsay or Julia back, perhaps I can at least get my livelihood. I was a talented surgeon—quickly becoming one of the best in the field.
And then—
It all came crashing down.
For so long I didn’t care. I never wanted to wield the scalpel again. Because the accident cost me two things I valued more than my ability to cut into human flesh.
The grief never goes away. The loss is always with me.
But it does begin to hurt less.
I didn’t believe anyone at the time. I certainly never believed that idiot psychiatrist who promised me she could help Lindsay.
Day by day, I’ve learned to cope, to exist.
To exist in a world without Julia and Lindsay.
To exist in a world where I can no longer perform surgery.
Of course, that was all it was. Existing.
But now I have hope.
But I have something else as well.
Something I’m not keen to give up.
I’ve met a woman. A woman who speaks to me in ways I never imagined I could hear again.
A woman who is different from Lindsay.
But a woman who almost makes me believe I can feel again.
Because already I’m feeling things. Feelings I’ve never felt before.
It frightens me. Especially since she’s a student.
And that is why I left her in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but…
I’m finding it harder and harder to make excuses for my behavior.
Because quite frankly, I’m not sorry it happened. And while I’ve been focused on the surgery and the hope that it’s given me, just as much of my focus has been on Angie Simpson.
It’s forbidden.
Taboo.
And I’ve given that some thought. Is that why I’m so attracted to her? Because it’s so wrong?
But I’ve been teaching for two years. Four semesters. I’ve taught many beautiful women, but not one of them has affected me like Angie Simpson has.
We finish up lab, and as I give the instructions, I deliberately look away from Angie.
The students did well today. Most of them were excited to start cutting—all of them except for Angie.
But she did it.
She faced her fears, and she made the cut with as much precision as I’ve seen any first-year medical student make.
She has the gift. She may not want to be a surgeon, but she could be.
The other two students in the class who seem to be the most gifted are her lab partner, Tabitha, and Elijah Garrett.
But they all did well.
“Excellent work,” I say as I dismiss the class. “Same time tomorrow, and we’ll continue this exercise.”
Then they applaud.
I’m not sure what they’re applauding. Certainly not my lecture. They’ve heard me lecture before. They must be applauding the fact that they cut today for the first time.
But Angie’s not clapping.
She’s looking down at her cadaver as she covers it. And I see her mouth the words thank you.
She’s something else.
I made it clear in our first lecture what a gift this was, how we should be grateful for these amazing people who gave us the ultimate gift of their bodies to study and learn from.
She took it to heart.
This is a woman who probably thanks the animal before she eats a steak.
In fact I wouldn’t doubt it, since she comes from a family of beef ranchers.
She’s something else, Angie Simpson.
Emotions coil through me—emotions I haven’t felt in so long. Emotions I didn’t think I was capable of feeling any longer.
And some of it…
Some of it’s not familiar.
And because it’s not—because I’m feeling something that I don’t think I ever felt for my wife—guilt overwhelms me.
How can I feel something for another woman that I never felt for Lindsay? I always thought Lindsay and I were soulmates. Perhaps we were. Perhaps you don’t have just one soulmate.
I’m not in love with Angie Simpson. I barely know her.
But I feel a pull. A magnetic attraction that yanks at my chest, twisting my heart in perplexing directions. I feel a connection, an undercurrent of shared understanding that seems to bind us like an invisible thread.
It’s different from what I had with Lindsay. Our love was comfortable, solid as the ground beneath our feet. Perhaps it lacked the raw intensity I’m grappling with now, but it had a quiet strength, a resilience that lasted through good times and bad. Until it got too bad for either of us to handle.
With Angie, everything is new and disturbingly intense. There’s an odd familiarity about her that has nothing to do with memories or past experiences. It feels more like a deep-rooted knowledge, as if some part of me recognizes her from other lives lived long ago. And since I don’t believe in that stuff, it’s all the more frightening.
Guilt gnaws at me, making every breath a struggle. Is it fair? Is it right to have such feelings for someone else when my love for Lindsay still lingers?
But then again, isn’t love supposed to be selfless?
Isn’t love supposed to be a celebration of another’s existence, rather than an obligation driven by guilt? Perhaps it’s not my attraction to Angie that belittles my feelings for Lindsay, but the guilt itself. It’s the guilt that makes me question, that breeds self-doubt and regret.
I haven’t told Angie about Lindsay. About Julia.
Every time I look at Angie, I see a different life, one filled with possibilities and happiness. A life where my heart doesn’t feel like it’s made of lead, where guilt doesn’t gnaw incessantly at every moment of joy.
But for that life to exist, do I have to erase Lindsay and Julia from my past?
None of that matters anyway.
Angie is my student.
I need to stop this before it goes so far that neither of us can take it back.
I head out to lunch when my phone buzzes. It’s Louisa.
“Hi there,” I say into the phone.
“Hey, Jason,” she says. “We’ve run into a little snafu with the surgery.”
My heart falls.
Of course. Why should this surprise me at all? It was always too good to be true.
“Fuck. Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were.” She clears her throat. “Gita and I went in front of the hospital medical board yesterday evening. They convened a special session to discuss your surgery. Gita’s presentation was flawless, and we both figured this was just a formality.”
“But…” I prompt.
She sighs. “They have doubts about allowing the surgery because of the potential complications. The nerve graft in your hand is a complicated experimental procedure, and they worry about the potential for permanent damage if it doesn’t go as planned. They want you to understand all the risks before proceeding.”
I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. This surgery was supposed to be my second chance, a new beginning away from all the guilt and pain.
“I do understand,” I reply, willing myself to stay calm. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
“Jason, it’s not that simple,” she replies. “They want you to meet with the board before making a final decision. They want you to understand clearly what could happen and make sure you can cope with every possible outcome.”
The news crashes into me like a tidal wave. My mind is a whirl of thoughts and fears. More delays, more uncertainty, more waiting. I’m a surgeon, for fuck’s sake. I understand complications. I understand what could happen. I’m not a damned moron.
The board just wants to be free of any liability if something goes wrong. And they’re going to do everything they can to convince me not to undertake this challenge.
“And…” she says.
“And what?”
She pauses. “They’re concerned about your…mental health. What you’ve been through with the loss of your wife and child and your ability to perform surgery. They’re concerned that without a proper support system, you might not be able to handle the potential stress and complications, should any arise. It’s not just about the physical risk, Jason. It’s about your emotional well-being too.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “They think I’m unstable?”
“It’s more about your ability to cope under such stressful circumstances. Surgery can take a toll on anyone, Jason, even those who haven’t experienced the kind of trauma you have.”
I push away from the wall, anger surging through me. My personal life is my own damned business. How dare they pry into it like this? They wouldn’t do it if I were a normal patient. They just happen to have this extra information on me. Information I wouldn’t dare let them know if I were going into the hospital as a normal patient.
“I have a support system,” I argue weakly.
It’s not entirely untrue. There are people who care about me, but since Lindsay’s death, I’ve pushed them away.
But if I really needed them, I could reach out.
“Gita and I tried,” Louisa says, “but the board is adamant.”
“Fine,” I say, my voice clipped. “When is this meeting?”
“We’ll schedule it as soon as possible,” she says.
I end the call abruptly without saying goodbye.
Yeah, that was rude as hell. This isn’t Louisa’s fault.
But I know what’s coming. If I want this surgery in this hospital, they’re going to make me go to therapy.
Fucking therapy.
Therapy cost me my wife.
And God damn it, it won’t cost me my hand as well.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Angie
When I reach anatomy lab on Friday, the sign is there again.
Anatomy Lab Canceled
I’m relieved.
And also disappointed.
I don’t have to cut again, but I also won’t see Jason.
“Are you kidding me?” Eli walks up and bangs his hand on the door. “He’s canceling again?”
“I know, right?” I answer, trying to sound upset. I am upset, but not for the right reasons. “We’re never going to learn at this rate.”
Eli runs a hand through his black hair. “This is unprofessional.”
I shrug, though really I want to agree with him. But I don’t want to seem too eager or too invested. Plus, Jason probably has another appointment about his surgery.
Eli looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Something wrong, Angie?”
“No,” I lie quickly. “Just tired, I guess.”
He nods and doesn’t press me further. We stand there awkwardly for a moment before he smacks the door one more time and then walks away, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I lean against the door, staring at the sign as if it might change if I look hard enough. But it remains stubbornly the same.
Anatomy Lab Canceled
Another day without Jason. Another day without the excitement that his presence brings, without the sparks that fly whenever our eyes meet. The hallways seem gray and lifeless.
Is he avoiding me?
I can’t blame him, of course. I’m his student, and what happened with us…
But no. He’s not avoiding me. He wouldn’t punish his other students like that.
“You’re still here?” A voice startles me from my thoughts. It’s Tabitha.
I shrug. “I guess I was hoping the sign would change.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It won’t,” she says, setting her books on the floor and then leaning against the wall beside me. “But that’s surprising, coming from you.”
“I made a perfect cut yesterday,” I say.
“You did.” She smirks. “After much prodding. You sure you want to stick with psychiatry?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, we’ve got over three years of med school before we have to decide on our internship rotations.” She gently punches my shoulder. “You may change your mind yet.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I already know I won’t. The study of the mind has always fascinated me. It’s a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel. And it doesn’t involve any cutting.
Not physically, at least.
Tabitha nudges me with her shoulder. “You never know. You might just find yourself falling in love with some other field. Maybe even surgery.”
I give her a small laugh. “Yeah, maybe if they invent bloodless surgery.”
Tabitha laughs along with me and picks up her books from the floor. “I’d better head to the library. I’m going to grab some snacks first and then get some studying done.”
As Tabitha fades down the hall, I reach for my own bag and start to turn away when a familiar figure catches my eye. Jason. He rounds the corner, looking harried. His eyes meet mine, but he quickly looks away.
He’s close enough now that I can hear his labored breathing, see the troubled tenseness in his jaw. Something is wrong.
“Jason?” I call out.
He stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn to face me.
“Are you okay?”
For a moment, I’m not sure he’s going to respond. Until finally—
He turns. “I’m fine.”
“Really?” I ask. “Because you canceled class. And you kind of look like shit.”
He winces at my bluntness but doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans against the wall, his breath still ragged.
“You canceled lab,” I repeat, “so why are you here?”
“I have a meeting, and I forgot my notes in the lab yesterday.” He unlocks the door to the classroom.
I follow him in without being invited.
The cadavers sit, covered, at our lab tables. The scent of formaldehyde greets us, familiar and nauseating all at once. Jason moves toward his desk at the front of the room, riffling through scattered papers.
“You look awful, Jason,” I say again as I walk up to his desk. “And you’re not acting like yourself.”
He stops and looks at me then, really looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot and tired. “What do you want from me, Angie?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh heavily and glance around the room. The stillness of it echoes my own confusion.
Jason turns back to his papers without responding. His shoulders are slumped. A silence grows between us, thick with words unspoken and feelings unexpressed.
“You should go,” he says as he picks up a few papers.
A sudden surge of anger hits me. “Well, if you’re going to be like that,” I snap, “then maybe I will.”
It’s an empty threat, and we both know it. But I also know that this isn’t the place or the time to push him. Jason needs something, but right now, he’s not willing to accept any help.
I turn and—
He yanks me back, my body slamming against his chest.
The faint smell of liquor emanates from his breath.
“Are you drunk?” I demand.
He scowls. “Of course not.”
“Then what do I smell?”
He looks down. “The remnants of my bender last night.”
Bender? He told me he doesn’t drink much. Or did he say that? Hell, I don’t remember. I was too enamored with him being at my home, wine in tow, looking like a dark god with piercing green eyes.
“Why?” I ask.
“None of your damned business.”
Then his mouth comes down on mine.
It’s a ruthless kiss, a desperate one, full of pent-up frustration and hurt. He pulls me closer, tangling his hand in my ponytail. He rips out the band, and my hair falls down my back. I can taste the bitterness of alcohol on his tongue.
His lips move against mine with an urgency that leaves me breathless. I push against him, trying to create some semblance of distance, but he’s relentless. He tightens his grip and pulls me closer until there’s no space left between us.
I should resist him. I should push him away. But I don’t. Instead, I kiss him back and clutch at his shirt.
When we finally break apart, we’re both panting. He doesn’t let go of me. Instead, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath drifting over my lips.
“I’m sorry.” He steps backward.
There’s a wild desperation in his eyes that frightens me. He looks lost, tortured even. And I realize then just how little I actually know about this man.
