Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Can you leave?” I ask.
“Sure.” He narrows his eyes, studying me. “But can I give you a piece of advice before I do?”
“Will it get you out of here faster?”
The seconds between us grow. The stillness sinks around us, and the silence softens the stress of the conversation. Brooks watches me without judgment or pity, just with patience. The quiet isn’t threatening or awkward. Surprisingly, I feel … safe. And with that sense of safety comes relief.
He grins softly. “Hesitation gets you hit, Doc.”
“What?” I ask, my brows pulling together.
“Boxers who overthink situations hesitate, and hesitation gets them hit.”
My pulse kicks into overdrive. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m just saying that if that list over there is yours, and it’s a list of stuff you want to do, then you should stop thinking about it and do it before it’s too late.” He shrugs. “Life has a way of smashing you in the face if you wait too long. And your nose is too cute to be broken.”
My lips press together, but his words infiltrate my brain anyway. You should stop thinking about it and do it before it’s too late.
This has been the weirdest day. Lunch alone in a new place, my surgical debut, and now discussing my deepest, darkest dreams with Brooks Dempsey? I don’t know how I got here.
But what I do know for sure is that my ribs feel cracked open, and the anxiety and uncertainty building inside me are pouring onto the floor and pooling at my feet. I knew it was time to make a change in my life. Now it feels destined.
“I may be having an existential crisis,” I say before I thoroughly consider sharing it with him.
“Is that a medical issue?”
Laughing softly, I grab the chair in front of me. “It’s more of an identity crisis with a dose of personal philosophical questions for fun.” My smile falters. “That probably sounds crazy.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, not really. I’ve looked around a time or two and wondered if I’m in the right place doing the right thing.”
“If you don’t want to be here, I’d be happy to escort you out.”
He chuckles, pointing a finger at me. “You’re not getting out of this that easy.”
The distinct sound of Hartley’s truck heading up the driveway does the work for me. I sigh, a mixture of disappointment and relief, as it grows louder and effectively ends our conversation. Brooks stands, takes a bandage out of the box, and then squirts some of the cream onto his cut. I bite my lip and turn my head, unable to watch him tend to his wound.
“Thanks for helping me out today,” he says, tossing the tube on the table. He takes our empty glasses, rinses them quickly, and places them in the dishwasher.
“You can’t sue me if you have to get your arm amputated. And please, please get a tetanus shot.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He heads for the door—still shirtless—and seems to ignore my plea. He pauses with his hand on the handle and holds my gaze for a few moments. It’s as if he doesn’t know what to say and is struggling with words … just like me.
Finally, he gives me a smile that feels a lot like a hug that I desperately need. “Later, Doc.”
“Bye, Brooks.”
The door opens and closes before the sound of his boots rattle against the porch. I don’t look out the window like I want to. Instead, I wait by the sink for Hartley’s truck to roar to life. And when it does, I sag against the cabinets.
I have a lot to think about, and I have no idea where to start.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Brooks
“I think it needs to be pushed down a little more.” Mom tilts her head, swiping a lock of hair out of her face. “A little more—there! That’s it. Don’t touch it anymore.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, taking a step away from the peach silk flowers.
Our breath billows from our lips as we stand in silence, looking at the large black stone. Mom designed the artwork herself. An image of her and Dad walking down a path into the forest beneath a full moon is etched into the headstone just above their names. It was the only thing Mom requested when I cashed my first big check. She didn’t want a big house or a fancy car, though I got her both. All she asked for was a nice headstone to replace the small metal sign marking Dad’s grave. I would’ve said no. I don’t want that motherfucker to benefit from me, even in death. But Mom will be buried there someday, and she deserves the world.
The thought of not being able to give her that if my license isn’t renewed is a shot straight into my heart. It hurts so bad I can’t think about it. It would be the ultimate failure.