Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
A woman in scrubs pours herself a cup of coffee. I read her medical badge: Twila Vandersloot, M.D. “Who’s this?” she asks the receptionist, but her eyes are on me.
“Dr. Fisher’s kid.” The receptionist motions to the chair for me to sit. I slowly sink down. Careful not to make any noise. Break anything. Be too much of a problem. I don’t want anything to get me kicked out.
Twila’s brows furrow. “Siggy?”
“No, from his first marriage.”
Her eyes bug. “Ohhhh.”
Great, great. That sound totally means they’ve discussed my dad’s first marriage, or maybe there’s some horrible rumor about how my dad knocked up his young receptionist in Pittsburgh and married her a year later.
Twila’s phone beeps and she leaves hastily without any formal introductions or even a quick goodbye. The receptionist exits the room right behind her in just as abrupt fashion.
For a moment, I felt like I belonged. That quickly vanished.
But my dad wants to talk. He didn’t immediately dismiss my request to speak to him, so that’s the positive spot I land on.
Twenty minutes pass with doctors dipping in and out of the lounge. Some ask who I am. Most just grab a coffee or an energy drink and scroll on their phone for ten minutes before returning to work.
The thirty-minute mark nears when the door bangs open again. No one else is in the room, so I’m preparing to either blend into the chair like an invisible dust bunny or explain my name and relation to the trauma surgeon on duty.
I have to do neither because I’m face to face with the trauma surgeon. It dawns on me that I haven’t seen him in person since I was eight years old, and I doubt he could find me on social media when Fanaticon internet sleuths still haven’t.
His stunned expression mirrors mine as I rapidly soak in his features. His deep brown hair is void of gray except for a few patches on his chin. The mustache and full scruff along his jaw is neatly groomed. So unlike his clean-shaven appearance I remember as a kid. Even in his fifties, his charming demeanor resembles television doctors. Like the ones on Grey’s.
I wobble to my feet, grateful that I chose to wear my khakis and a white blouse tonight and not my leather jacket.
“You’re blonde,” is the first thing he says. His eyes narrow. He shakes his head like it’s hard to put the pieces together. “You’re eighteen now?”
“Nineteen. Last month.”
“Right…right…” He nods slowly. “Sit, sit.” He gestures me to the chair while he scrapes over one from the wall. Just so it can face me. He keeps perusing my features as if he’s documenting each change. “You look so much like your mother.”
My gut drops. I don’t take it as a compliment, and I’m not sure he’s giving it as one.
I swallow hard, words trapping in my esophagus, but I manage to say, “I haven’t seen her in three years. I wouldn’t know.”
It takes him aback. “Three years?” He shakes his head, confused.
That hurts. Because the worst day of my life didn’t even register enough to form a memory for him. “The last time I called you. My sixteenth birthday. I told you she was kicking me out.”
He rubs a palm along his jaw, processing. “Right…right…” He drops his hand, his brows knitted together. “So I’m guessing the child support I was paying her never made it to you.”
I nod once. I never thought about the child support—but I guess he’s right.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me. “You and your Aunt Helena, did you get by?”
My throat nearly closes. “Yeah,” I squeak out the lie.
He scans me. More confusion creases his forehead. “So then what are you doing here, Harriet? Do you need money?”
Bile rises at the insinuation I’m going to ask for cash. I’m not. But is asking for a shadowing position any better? It’s the first time I’ve seen him in eleven fucking years. I should be here to try and form a father-daughter relationship with him before trying to get something from him.
God…I’m a user.
A taker.
I wouldn’t mind transforming into dust particles this very instant.
“I, um…I…” I blink a couple times and take a breath. “I’m going to Manhattan Valley University. I’m a sophomore. Pre-med.”
His brows vault in surprise. “So you’re still doing well in school then?”
“Yeah.” I restrain myself from listing out every course I’m taking, all the clubs, the volunteering and research. I don’t want to bombard him with my life—even if I ache to have him know all the details. Every single one. “The plan is to get into medical school, then into a general surgery residency, then a trauma fellowship.” Like you.
He gives me a warm smile. “That’s tough.”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s the life goal.” It’s going well. I think I just need to take my shot. “I have all that I need on my resume. Perfect grades and extracurriculars. But I haven’t had luck getting a shadowing position with any doctors.”