Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
I can’t give him that, so I meet him halfway as he shrugs off his jacket. He melts when I snake my arms around his torso, cheek against his chest. We stand idle in our embrace for a long minute or two. I won’t let go. He can do it when he’s ready.
After a few more breaths, his hold on me relaxes, and he steps back, brushing his knuckles over my cheek.
“I made minestrone soup, and it’s not awful. That’s a miracle.”
“You’re the miracle.” Will’s lips replace his knuckles, and he kisses my cheek. “But I need you to leave because I don’t want you to see this.”
I hold my breath as he releases me, brushing past me toward the bedroom. All of my emotions hit at once. Even though I’ve decided to go to Baltimore, I’m not quite ready. My heart feels like it’s being shoved off a cliff instead of voluntarily jumping when it’s ready.
What doesn’t he want me to see?
I use the poker to break up and spread out the remaining embers in the fireplace, and cover them with ash. Then I pad my way along the hardwood floor to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Sitting on the end of the bed, Will has his head bowed, resting in his hands.
“I will feel infinitely weaker,” he murmurs.
My heart turns to dust, incinerated by his vulnerability. Does he have any idea how many times I’ve tried to get my patients to give me even a fraction of what he just did? Vulnerability is a gift. It’s the purest form of trust.
I open my mouth to tell him something I have never told anyone because, for the first time in a long time, I feel safe, like I can trust him with the thing that makes me feel “infinitely weak.” But the words don’t find air. They get tangled in my heartstrings, tugging and tearing at the scars. My grief won’t take away his. It might make him feel responsible for consoling me, and that’s just cruel.
Again, I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I cannot utter a single helpful word because my heart is too invested in this man. I don’t feel like a doctor or an expert.
No mental muscle memory.
No professional reflex.
Not a trace of helpful advice.
“Is your mom with him?” I ask, but I know the answer.
Will lifts his head from his hands, eyes closed, and he nods once. “He had a stro—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, jaw clenched.
“A stroke?”
“Yeah,” Will whispers, dropping his chin and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Um.” He clears his throat and opens his bloodshot eyes. “She told me to come home because she knows I don’t want to witness his last breath.” Again, he swallows hard. “Neither does she, but she won’t leave him. But I don’t think he’s dying tonight,” he says like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true. “I’ll sleep and then get up early to relieve her.”
I nod several times, hands folded in front of me. “I’ll leave in the morning.”
Will’s gaze lands on me. It’s filled with pain and conflict.
“This is a very personal time for your family, and I want to respect your wishes,” I say.
His shoulders sag a little more.
I step in front of him, pressing a hand to his cheek. He leans into my touch, and it feels like the weight of his anguish is suffocating my heart; the heaviness is almost unbearable.
“Are you going to Hopkins?” he murmurs.
I don’t want to leave until after his dad passes, until I know he’s going to be okay. But I can’t say that.
“Yes,” I reply without adding all the conditions I want to attach to my decision.
I’ll go if you’ll visit me.
If you’ll invite me back here to see you.
If it doesn’t mean you’re moving on without me.
“Do something amazing. Cure mental illness. Autism. Alzheimer’s. Win a Nobel Prize.”
I grin, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “And I thought my mom had high expectations.”
Will attempts a smile, but it doesn’t fit his face. The grief won’t accommodate it. “I bet your father has even higher ones. Have you told him you’re taking the job?”
I blink back my emotions. “Not yet. But I will,” I whisper with my heart lodged so tightly in my throat it feels like I could turn blue.
“He’s going to be proud of you.” Will’s calloused hand encircles my wrist, and he kisses my palm. “Moms are hardwired to be proud of their kids no matter what, but dads seem to insist on receipts before they puff out their chests and call you a chip off the old block.”
I laugh and quickly pull my hand away from him to wipe my tears before they escape. “I think you might be right.”
Will drops his gaze. “The doctor gave my dad a day, maybe two.”