Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
We sit by the window. He talks about suture materials and the difference between a surgeon’s knot and an instrument tie and how he’s going to shadow a cardiothoracic fellow next week if he can swing it. I listen. I don’t ask how he’s going to shadow a surgeon when we’ll be in class and labs all day. Not because I don’t care, but because I can’t find the energy to say the words.
Halfway through the sandwich, my phone buzzes on the tray.
A number I don’t know.
For a beat, my heart hammers. Please be him and please don’t crash into each other in my chest.
I let it go to voicemail and take another bite.
“Want me to quiz you later?” Eli asks. “On instruments?”
“Please.” I force a smile. “I need to redeem myself after the polypropylene debacle today.”
“You nailed it,” he says. “And you were late by like sixty seconds. Blake’s a tool.”
“He’s the TA,” I say. “Besides, tools can be useful.”
Eli barks out a laugh and almost spills his coffee. “I’ve missed you.”
I’m about to say same when my phone buzzes again.
New voicemail.
I can’t not know. I wipe my hands on a napkin and stand. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Eli says.
In the hallway off the dining room, I press play.
“Tabitha, it’s Marjorie again.” A breath. I picture her in a hospital hallway, her hands clasped together, worry etched over her gorgeous features. “I told Henry you sent your love. He smiled. He’s resting. If you change your mind later tonight or tomorrow, we’ll be here. No pressure. Just… Thank you for calling back.”
He smiled.
I lean my head against the cinderblock wall and close my eyes. The image is too vivid.
He smiled.
I don’t believe it. Henry doesn’t smile a lot.
For a hot second, I imagine racing to my car, ignoring every red light between Boulder and the hospital in Grand Junction, bursting into his room, and… What? We weren’t anything. We were almost. We were maybe. We were a kiss that tasted like a future he said he couldn’t hold.
My pulse steadies as the decision settles into me like a stone.
I open a new text thread to Marjorie. I don’t have Henry’s number. It’s ridiculous that we never exchanged them, but we didn’t. That feels like its own kind of omen.
I type to Marjorie instead.
Thank you for letting me know. I’m thinking of Henry. Please tell him I’m so happy he’s okay. I’m cheering for him.
A moment later, the little Delivered status pops up.
When I return to the table, Eli has already spread out a set of instrument cards and laid his phone between us as a timer. He pushes a card toward me. “Name it.”
“Scalpel,” I say. “No. Blade handle.”
“Be specific.”
“Number-three handle,” I say.
He flips to the next. “This one?”
“Kelly clamp.”
He shakes his head. “Crile. Kelly’s bigger.”
Right. I knew that. Focus, Tabitha.
We move through twenty in five minutes. Sweat prickles under my shirt. On the last card, my phone buzzes again. I pick it up and glance down.
It’s a reply from Marjorie.
He says to tell you Zach sends his love.
A moment later…
And thank you.
I laugh, an ugly sound that’s half a sob. Zach. His dog. The hero who ran to the ranch when the beam fell and saved Henry’s life. That gorgeous dog who lay on the barn floor while Henry and I—
“Everything okay?” Eli asks.
“Mrs. Simpson says he’s smiling.”
Eli watches me for a beat. “And you’re staying.”
I hesitate. Then, “I’m staying.”
He nods like he understands all the math I’m not explaining. “Okay. Then we make sure we both know all this shit inside out and make those third- and fourth-years look like morons. Got it?”
I smile weakly and nod.
Ten
Henry
One more day down, and morning comes again.
My head aches in a pulsing but manageable way. Every once in a while, my scalp tightens where the stitches are. In those moments, I imagine I can feel the exact outline of where the surgeon opened me.
Mom slips in with a paper cup and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she says. “Ice?”
I nod.
She tips a chip into my mouth, and for a second, I’m five years old again, burning up with a fever while she whispers stories about outlaw cowboys who rode into storms and back out again. I swallow carefully. It hurts less than yesterday.
She settles in the chair by my bed. Last I heard, she’d left a voicemail for Tabitha. I don’t know if Tabitha ever called her back.
I watch her for a moment and then force out, “Any word from Tabitha?”
She doesn’t look surprised by the question. “I spoke to her,” she says gently. “Yesterday. Twice.”
The ache behind my eyes tightens. I picture Tabitha’s honey hair and piercing amber eyes. I called her amber the last time we were together.
Does she think about that time?