Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Angie smiles then, and it’s a beautiful smile. “Then you will love this, I promise you. Come on in.”
I follow her inside. “So is your mom a chef?”
She frowns. “Yes and no. She’s had culinary training, and she’s as good as any chef at any restaurant, but no, she doesn’t work outside the home.”
Right. She’s a Steel. She probably doesn’t have to work.
But damn it, I am not going to let the fact that Angie Simpson was born with a silver spoon in her mouth—or that she’s my student—bring me down tonight.
“Do you like wine?” I ask.
“Oh, love it.” She opens her back door and puts the dog down on her back porch. She closes the door and looks back at me. “My uncle and my cousin make some of the best wine in—” She stops abruptly.
“It’s all right. I know all about your vineyards. I’m afraid this isn’t Steel wine. It’s”—I quickly read the label—“a classic red from some vineyard in California.”
“I’m sure it’s great.”
“I don’t know anything about wine. I’m not even sure where this bottle came from. Someone must’ve brought it to me, and I stuck it in a cupboard.”
Which means I’ve had this bottle of wine since…
Since before.
I shake the thought out of my head.
Angie takes the bottle from me and walks into her kitchen. I follow. She grabs a corkscrew out of a drawer and expertly removes the cork. Then she grabs two goblets, places something on top of the wine bottle, and pours the wine through it.
“What’s that?” I ask her.
“It’s an aerator,” she says. “It negates the need for decanting. It breathes the wine for you.”
I cock my head. “Breathes the wine?”
She nods. “Gives it a little more body. Lets the flavors bloom.”
I didn’t even know wine should breathe. Tells you how much I know.
Lindsay didn’t drink. She was severely allergic to the histamines in red wine, and other than that, she just didn’t like what alcohol did to her. So when I wanted to have a bourbon, I would go out with the guys.
The guys don’t exist anymore.
“So you want to tell me about your good news?” Angie asks, handing me a glass.
I open my mouth to speak, but then I close it again.
What was I thinking?
Yes, I got some amazing news today. But if I tell Angie what it is, I’ll have to tell her the whole story.
I’m not ready to tell her that.
It’s not something I like to think about.
Even though sometimes all I do is think about it.
“Earth to Jason?” she says.
“Sorry about that.” I frown, grabbing my wineglass. “I just… I suppose you may wonder why I teach.”
“Because you like teaching?”
I’m sure she’s read my bio on the med school website. I’m a board-certified general surgeon and a fellow. So why wouldn’t I be cutting instead of teaching?
“Sure, teaching is okay,” I say, “but what I really love is performing surgery.”
“So why aren’t you doing it?”
“Kind of like the old adage, I guess,” I say. “Those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.”
She drops her jaw.
I hold up a hand. “I’m not saying I’m not good enough. Well, I guess I’m not now.” I take a sip of wine. “But I was good, Angie. I was amazing.”
I should be embarrassed at tooting my own horn like that, but I’m not. Because I’m not lying. I was on the fast track to being something great. Being an award winner, being a person who came up with new ways to save lives.
“What I mean is, I injured my hand three years ago. My right hand, my dominant hand. Without two steady hands, as you know, a physician can’t cut people open.”
She gasps. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Of course. The question I knew she’d ask. Everyone does.
So I say my rehearsed answer. “I was in an automobile accident.”
“Oh no. And there’s nothing they can do?”
I gesture to the bottle of wine. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Today I got some good news. From two of my colleagues. My neurologist and a bright young neurosurgeon. Dr. Patel—she’s the neurosurgeon—has this new technique with nerve grafting, and she thinks I’m a great candidate.”
Angie’s eyes go wide. “Really? That’s wonderful.”
“There are no guarantees, of course. But it’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. And I felt like celebrating with someone.”
“Why me?” she asks.
Why her indeed?
Because I have no other friends.
Because she’s the hottest thing walking.
Because all I can think about is getting her into bed.
Which would get me fired, of course.
“Because you’re my neighbor,” I say, hating the lie. “I can drink myself into oblivion here and not have to drive home.”
God, what a crock. I can drink myself into oblivion anywhere and call an Uber or cab.
Besides the fact that I don’t even drink much. Even all those years, going through the loss and the pain, it never occurred to me to take a drink.