I hold up a finger. “If I’m cleared to have sex, I’m most definitely cleared to go sit in a classroom.”

  “Ew,” David says with a wrinkled nose, but Greg smirks, taking a sip of his water and avoiding eye contact with me.

  “I’m more concerned about riding on the bus than I am going to class,” I confess.

  That gets Greg’s attention. “Bus?”

  “Her car is totaled,” David clarifies. “I’m working on finding her a new one for the amount her insurance offered her, but…”

  “But it was a twenty-year-old Toyota,” I finish for him. “So, it’s worth roughly the amount of the used couch cushion under my ass, if even.”

  David sighs, his brows folding together, and my heart aches at the burden my son feels for me. It’s the last thing I ever want to be for him or anyone else — a burden — and yet with how badly the house is breaking down, and now my car…

  “You’re going to school?” Greg muses after a long pause of silence, and I can tell by the way he looks at me that he does it to save me from getting too lost in thought.

  Is he really this in tune with me, even after all the time that’s passed?

  “I am,” I say with a smile.

  “For?”

  “Psychology. I… I want to be a therapist.”

  Greg swallows, looking something between impressed and proud. “That’s amazing. Congratulations.”

  I laugh at that. “Well, don’t congratulate me yet. I’m only in my second year.” I shake my head. “Turns out going to college in your forties isn’t easy.”

  “You don’t have to do it,” David tries, but I pin him with a glare.

  “Don’t.”

  He snaps his mouth shut at that, a nod letting me know he won’t try to argue again. We’ve had this conversation far too many times. He thinks the answer is for him and his wife to find a bigger place, one with a mother-in-law suite, so I can live with them rent-free.

  But I’m forty-seven, not eighty-seven.

  I still have a life to live.

  And I don’t want his money, or my ex-husband’s, to live it.

  “Use my car.”

  The glare I’m giving my son softens, and I blink, looking at Greg with my brows tugging inward. “What?”

  “You can use my car,” he reiterates.

  David and I both look at him like he’s crazy.

  “I don’t need it,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I live within biking distance of the hospital. I don’t really go anywhere that’s not downtown. I’ll be fine without it for a while until you get a new one.”

  I blink, staring at him.

  And then I burst out in laughter.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “It’s really not a problem.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t take your car, Greg. What if you need it for something?”

  “I won’t.”

  “What if you do.”

  He shakes his head, shrugging. “Then… I’ll call you. If I really need to run an errand or something that is farther than I can bike, I’ll call you and you can just take me.”

  I laugh again, but then I look at my son, who has this look on his face that tells me he’s already sold on the idea.

  “David,” I try. “I’m fine. I can take the bus for a while. We’ll find a car soon. It’ll all be okay.”

  “Maybe this would make it easier,” he argues. “Just for a little while. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about you.”

  “You don’t need to wor—”

  “Mom,” he says, leveling his gaze.

  I gape at him, looking between him and Greg and feeling like a child.

  I huff. “Is this what it’s all about? Raise a kid only to have him treat you like one when you’re older?”

  “Just wait until I make you wear one of those Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! necklaces.”

  I flick him off.

  “It’s really not a problem,” Greg insists, fishing into his pocket. He pulls out a little key fob. “Truly. I can leave it here tonight, even. That is, if you can give me a ride back to my place?” he asks David, who agrees instantly.

  I sigh. “Well, clearly, my arguments are no good with you two.”

  “Never were,” David says, and then to Greg, “Thank you, man. Really. This helps us out a lot.”

  “It’s no problem at all,” he says, and then his eyes find mine, and I swear there’s a whole lifetime of words inside those warm irises, but he doesn’t speak a single one into existence.

  Instead, he stands, crossing the living room and pressing the fob into my palm. His fingers linger there, brushing along the inside of my knuckles, but he pulls away before I can overanalyze whether he even realized he did it at all or not.

  I stare at the fob for a long moment, breath far too hard to grasp, and then I lift my gaze to his.

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  The corner of his mouth lifts just marginally, and he nods.

  Maybe it’s the pain meds kicking in, but the moment seems to stretch on forever — him looking down at me, me staring up at him, years of time gone by hanging between us like live wires ready to spark and set flame to the whole house.

  “Alright,” David says, standing with a clap of his hands that makes both me and Greg jump a little. “Greg, help me with this hot water heater real quick? I need to get it done and get home to my wife before she divorces me and takes my baby boy with her.”

  “What about me?” I pout. “What can I do?”

  David crosses the living room to me, picking up the remote and turning on the television. He lowers a kiss to my cheek. “You can put your feet up and rest like the queen you are.”

  I narrow my eyes but can’t help the smile as I swat him away. “Brat.”

  “You raised me like this.”

  “Add it to my long list of regrets.”

  David and Greg both chuckle, and then David leads the way toward the back hallway where the hot water heater sits tucked in a closet.

  On his way back, Greg looks over his shoulder at me.

  But the glance is so quick I wonder if it even happened at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GREG

  “I’m heading out,” I tell Stacy, rapping on the frame of her door twice as I pass. “On call this weekend.”

  She nods, not taking her eyes off the case files on her desk. She’s likely getting a head start on her pre-op notes for Monday. “I’ll light a candle in your honor, willing an actual night off for you into the universe.”

  I chuckle. “I appreciate it, but do it at home, okay? Lighting it here might have the opposite effect of your intention.”

  She smirks, waving me off. “See you Monday.”

  Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I make my way through the hall to the elevator, mumbling my goodnights to those I pass. I noticed Dane working the Emergency Room security checkpoint earlier, so I stop to say goodbye on my way out.

  “Leaving before five o’clock?” Dane asks on a whistle as he checks his watch. “Must be nice, Doctor.”

  “It is, until I get called back here at two in the morning.”

  “I’m sure that doesn’t happen that often.”

  I make a face. “You’d be surprised. How’s it going so far?” I ask, changing the subject with a nod at his badge.

  He looks… different. Focused. Like he actually gives a shit about what he’s doing. And the smile he throws at me when I ask how it’s going further proves my assumption.

  “It’s good, man. Really good. I mean, working down here has been whatever, but I start on the third floor tomorrow.”

  “Psych unit.”

  He grins, waggling his eyebrows like it’s just the challenge he needs.

  “I know we give each other a lot of shit,” he says after a moment. “But… thank you. For this.”

  He clears his throat, greeting a young woman and her small son who just walked through the door. I step behind him so he can check her bag and give them stickers that say they’ve cleared security before telling them where to check in, and then I nudge Dane.

  “That almost killed you, didn’t it?”

  He sniffs. “I’ll never say it again, so I hope you enjoyed that.”

  I chuckle. “I did, actually. You’re welcome,” I add, squeezing his shoulder. “See you later.”

  A tilt of his chin is his only response, and then I’m walking out the doors and toward the bike rack by the staff parking lot.

  I unlock my bike when I reach it, tossing the lock in my bag before I mount it and kick off toward the bridge. It’s an easy fifteen-minute bike ride to my apartment building, and I enjoy the wind on my skin, the view of the Hillsborough River as I ride alongside it. I ignore the honking of cars caught in the downtown traffic as I zip by them, focusing on the sun making its lazy descent over the buildings, instead.

  It’s kind of nice not having a car. I forgot how much I enjoy riding my bike, or getting in a little extra exercise with a long walk to work — although, after the mornings I’ve had running with Dane lately, I don’t need the extra miles. He’s been working through something. I know even though he hasn’t told me what yet, because the man has been running like an outlaw with the police hot on his tail.

  Still, it’s been a refreshing change…

  Except, if I’m being honest, I’ve spent most of my bike rides trying to think of a stupid errand I could use as an excuse to call Amanda.

  She gave me her number when I left her house a few nights ago, making me promise her I’d call if I needed my car for anything. And although I’ve wanted to call every waking moment since, I’ve somehow refrained.

  But now, it’s Friday evening, and even on call for the weekend, I know I’ll have free time. I won’t be able to immerse myself in my routine, in exercising early every morning, or burying myself in my cases all day long before eating dinner, passing out, and waking up to do it all again.

  And without anything to distract me, I can’t help but think about her.

  My stomach tightens at the memory of her on her couch, of how it felt to see her and David both in that house that held such a mix of memories for me. On the one hand, it was one of my escapes from my own family, from the pressure of my father’s pride and expectations for me. It was just a place to hang with my best friend, to watch movies or play video games or sneak a beer on his roof.

  But on the other hand, it was where I was introduced to the ugly side of alcohol, to what a father the polar opposite of my own looked like.

  My hands tighten where I hold the handlebars, and I shake off the memories before they can dig their claws too deep. Parking my bike on the rack outside my apartment, I lock it up and cover it before making my way inside.

  “You’ve got a package here, Dr. Weston,” Abigail says when I walk through the lobby.

  Abigail is one of the staff who works the front desk of my condo, a young girl studying at the University of Tampa. She offers me a flushed smile as I retrieve the padded envelope from her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have a great evening, Dr. Weston. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Her cheeks turn an even brighter red with that, and the way her eyes widen, I can tell she didn’t mean to say it — or at least, not the way she did.

  I smirk. “Will do. Don’t study too hard,” I add, nodding at her open textbook.

  She giggles, plopping down in her chair as I scan my key fob and head toward the elevators.

  I’m dropped off on the twenty-second floor, and I make my way down the long hall to the condo at the end.

  It still feels odd walking into my condo, even as I hang my bag on the same hook I’ve hung it on for the last two years.

  I imagine it should feel familiar by now — the expansive windows showcasing the city and the river, the tall, industrial-like ceiling and cement columns, the art I’ve collected hanging on the walls. It’s my sectional, and my television, and my record player in the corner. It’s my California king bed, and pictures from my white coat ceremony hanging over my desk.

  But even as I strip out of my scrubs and toss them in the hamper before jumping in the shower, it doesn’t feel like home.

  Nothing ever has.

  I grew up in a household where my silence was valued.

  Dad was a hedge fund advisor, and mom was the perfect wife at his side, and the house was always ready to entertain at a moment’s notice. All that meant for me was that other than a few family photos hanging in our sitting room, you couldn’t tell I actually lived there. I never left my books or toys or any belongings out in common areas, and even my bedroom didn’t feel like mine, with a comforter I didn’t pick out, and not an ounce of my personality shown through posters or trophies or anything of the sort. Mom always wanted it ready for guests, should that be necessary, and so I was to keep it tidy and neutral at all times.

  When I moved out, it was straight into a college dorm with Dane, a shared space that felt more like a hotel than anything else. The same was true when I was in med school, and again when I was doing my residency in Chicago.

  Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve felt like a tenant passing through, like a nomad with nothing to really unpack when I arrived, or pack with me when I left.

  When I got the job at Bayside, I took it as permission to finally set up roots.

  The problem is… I’m not exactly sure how to.

  It looks like something my mother would approve of — a tidy space with artwork pleasing to just about anyone, and little to no proof that someone lives here at all.

  My neck and shoulders ache as I wash away the day, the week, the hours of operation and casework. My phone sits on the bathroom counter, ringer turned all the way up just in case. I could be called back into the hospital at any moment, and I know eventually my phone will ring. I’ve yet to have a night or weekend on call where it didn’t.

  I take it with me once I’m done with my shower, setting it on my bed as I dry off and change into dark gray sweatpants and a light blue Buck Mason shirt. I flop down on my bed then, eyes on the ceiling.

  “Don’t do it. Don’t call her,” I mutter to myself, but my fingers are already reaching for my phone, already pulling up her contact in my address book.

  I stare at the numbers, at the letters that make up her name.

  Then, my eyes drift to an empty pot in the corner of my room — a gift from my mom that I’d never found a plant for. Truthfully, I hadn’t even tried, mostly because I was ninety-nine percent sure I’d kill whatever I did decide to buy and bring home with me.

  My heart kicks with an idea, and before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers are flying across the keyboard on my phone.

  Me: Any chance you’re free this evening to pick me up for a quick errand? Shouldn’t take long.

  I use my towel to dry my hair a bit before hanging it back up in the bathroom, and my phone pings with an incoming text, making my pulse spike as I swipe it off the bed.

  Amanda: Not a problem at all. What’s the address?

  I try to tamp down the excitement I shouldn’t be feeling, sending her my location.

  And then, I make a list.

  * * *

  “What about this one?”

  I hold up an exotic-looking plant, the leaves glossy and white-veined. There’s a golden bloom in the center, and I run a finger over it before looking to Amanda.

  She wrinkles her nose. “Zebra plant. It’s beautiful, but… unless you plan to devote your home environment to making sure that bad boy is comfy, I’d skip it.”

  I put the plant back next to the others, frowning. “Why do I have a feeling I’ll kill whatever I bring home with me, no matter what I do?”

  Amanda chuckles, folding her arms over her chest and nodding to an aisle across from us. “Come on. They’re not all that bad.”

  She leads the way, and I follow with the bright orange cart, doing my best to focus on where it says Home Depot instead of on how her jeans hug her ass in a way that should be illegal for public viewing. I caught a glimpse of the way the pockets rounded, the hem of them gapping at the small of her back when she hopped out of my car in the parking lot.

  That was enough for me to know it wasn’t safe to take a second glance.

  “Thanks again for coming with me,” I say behind her, eyeing the plants we pass. “I could have dropped you off at home and just brought the car back after, but… I won’t lie — I feel a little less clueless with you here.”

  She scans a shelf of brightly colored flowers as we pass, and I catch a profile view of her smile. “Please, anything to get me out of the house on a Friday night.”

  “No hot date?” I tease, hoping like hell the way I have to swallow the cotton ball in my mouth after doesn’t give away how I feel asking that question.

  She snorts, arching a brow at me. “Yeah. They’re just lining up out the door and around the corner these days.”

  “You say that like it’d be hard to believe.”

  “My dating life is about as dry as this cactus,” she says as we pass an end cap with succulents. “And a whole lot less cute to look at.”

  I chuckle. “Because you don’t want to date right now, or because the men who have tried so far have been idiots?”

  She cracks her neck, pulling to a stop in front of a shelf with plants that look like they have ribbons for leaves. “Because I don’t know how to date,” she confesses quietly, her eyes skirting to mine for only a split second before they’re back on the plants. “This one.”

  She taps the black pot holding one of the plants, and I sidle up next to her, reading the label.

  “Snake plant.” I make a face. “Sounds like it’ll attract the wrong kind of roommate.”

  “It’s not called that because snakes like to hide in it,” Amanda says with a smile. “It’s because of the way the leaves look.”

  I pick one of them up, inspecting it from all sides. “And you think I could keep it alive?”

  “It thrives on being left alone. Very little maintenance.”

  I arch a brow, but carefully set it in the cart. “Worth a shot. What else?”

  Amanda guides us down the rest of the aisle, and then around the corner to another, adding an aloe plant and a Chinese evergreen to the cart. After picking up some soil for repotting and a watering tin, we checkout and head back out to the car.

 

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