FLIRTING WITH 40

by K. Bromberg

  “Is it really the best idea for the police to be in there questioning her so soon?” I ask in that same hushed murmur.

  “Shouldn’t that make you happy, Slade? Her answers to their questions are what might get you back in that coat permanently.”

  “Of course that’s important to me, but her well-being is what’s paramount.”

  He nods as he stares at me, those dark eyes of his studying me intently. “By looking at the notes in her chart, she seems to be doing as well as can be expected after being out for a month. She’s apt to be a little fuzzy on some things, stiff muscles, you know the drill”—he waves his hand in my direction—“but she’s young, and her arm still having to be in a cast, her body has healed during the time. For the most part, it seems all signs are hinting that she’s going to make a full recovery.”

  A similar sense of relief to the one I felt when I’d heard she’d woken up floods me. She’s talking, her vitals are strong, and it seems as if there’s no long-term damage. Thank god.

  “That’s great news, sir. The outcome could have been so much worse.” A silence settles between us as a nurse walks by, and he steps backward into a small alcove off the main floor. I follow. “Is there something else?”

  “Ivy is busy telling the police about how her father did this to her. And not just this once, but numerous times. For a little girl, she has quite an incredible memory.”

  My stomach churns, but this isn’t news to me. I knew it in my gut the minute that son of a bitch strolled in here that night with his arrogant attitude, indifference to his own child, and the blood caked on his knuckles.

  I nod. It’s all I can do because it’s taking me a minute to process everything. The bastard father. The sweet, battered little girl. That I was in the right—and sure, I always knew I was in the right, but there were moments in the middle of the night when I wondered if I was wrong. If I had overstepped when I prevented her father from being in the room with her. If I had ruined my career.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I finally murmur and run a hand through my hair. “I’m at a loss.”

  “This isn’t my department,” he says, “but I’m here because of the consequences and how they might affect one of my most talented residents.” He shakes his head with a drawn-out sigh. “She asked for you because she said she remembered you telling her she was safe with you.” When he looks back to me, his eyes have tears welling in them just as mine do. We both blink them away, and he clears his throat. “While I can’t condone what you did and how you went about doing it, I can tell you that it definitely made its mark. That’s something we all strive to do and often fail. Congratulations, Dr. Henderson, not only on being reinstated but also on being the type of doctor we need more of. One who cares about the patient’s well-being more than they do their own self.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I manage to say around the emotion clogging my throat.

  “And let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he adds with a chuckle before patting me on the back. “You’re cleared to go in and see her when the police come out.”

  “What happens next?” I ask, the question broad.

  “The father rots in jail—hopefully, she goes on to live a gloriously happy life, and you become a highly regarded cardiothoracic surgeon.” He shrugs as if it’s without question.

  “Nothing’s ever that easy.”

  “Let’s hope this was your difficult part and from here on out is smooth sailing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me when you’re done and let me know what happens. I have to get back to my patients.”

  “Will do,” I say as I pat my pocket and realize my phone isn’t there. My mind and emotions are on overload, so who knows where I left it.

  And, honestly, who cares? This moment is so much greater than anything I’ve done thus far in my career. I’ve been reinstated. She’s awake.

  As much as it feels as if a huge burden has just been lifted off my shoulders, the weight of the moment is still crushing.

  Ivy is in there, giving the police information to put her dad away for a long time.

  She asked for me. She said I made her feel safe.

  Blowing out a breath, I Iean back against the wall and pat for my phone again. My first instinct is to tell Blakely. Not my parents or John, Prisha, and Leigh . . . but Blakely.

  The door beside me swings open, and a woman walks out. She’s slight in stature, her hair is a light grayish-white and is pulled up in one of those clip-things, and reading glasses are hanging from the V of her shirt.

  Our eyes meet, and she smiles warmly. “Dr. Henderson, I presume?”

  “Yes. How is she?”

  “I’m Felice Philemon, child psychologist. I work with the police department when it comes to minors.”

  “Nice to meet you. Slade Henderson.” We shake hands as her expression softens. “I’m not at liberty to talk about what we discussed, but I think you can imagine what was said considering the lengths at which you went to protect her at the expense of your career.” She shakes her head ever so slightly. “That’s one incredible little girl who I have no doubt will thrive after she’s given some time to heal.”

  “What happens now? I mean if her dad . . .”

  “When and if what happens should happen with her father, she’ll live with family members. Several have stepped forward and offered to be her guardian. CPS will vet them, see who is committed to getting her the counseling she’ll need, and ask her who she feels most comfortable with—that type of thing. She’ll be taken care of.”

  “If you were waiting for her to wake up to press charges, why have people already stepped forward?” I ask. “I mean, that implies you knew all along what had happened and—”

  “I don’t have the answer to that, but from what I gather, her father is well-known in many important circles that have a lot of influence. Perhaps the district attorney wanted to make sure she had all the tools she needed to ensure he couldn’t weasel out of the charges. With Ivy’s statements and my assessments, I think she’ll have all she needs. But, of course, this is all supposition as I’m not at liberty to discuss any of this with anyone.”

  “Of course. Strictly supposition,” I say. “I don’t understand why she asked for me.” It isn’t what I’d planned on saying, but it’s out and I can’t take it back.

  “When you’re suffering in the dark, it’s amazing how much you cling to the one person who brings you a glimmer of light.” She pats my arm and lifts her chin toward the door. “You should go in.”

  I stare at her for a beat longer before looking at the door I need to walk through. Nerves rattle with an anxious anticipation and hesitation.

  Taking a deep breath, I push it open and enter.

  I haven’t seen Ivy in weeks. Not without her head wrapped, bruises marring her olive complexion, or without machines attached and monitoring her vital signs.

  Her eyes meet mine. They’re a jarring blue, the color of sapphires, and I realize I didn’t remember that. Possibly because the subconjunctival hemorrhages in both eyes made it impossible for me to see her eye color.

  But now they’re blue and they’re staring right at me as if she’s memorizing every single thing about me.

  I stare, too, because she’s tiny. The hospital bed that dwarfs her little body, the sheets tucked under her arms, and the two braids her sandy blonde hair has been put in for manageability rest over her shoulders.

  Her smile is timid, tentative, as it should be for a little girl who is waking up to an all new world for herself.

  “Hi,” I say softly as I look back at Felice, who’s stepped into the room behind me, before taking a few cautious steps toward the side of the bed opposite Ivy’s casted arm. “I’m Dr. Henderson.”

  “You’re him. Your voice. You’re the one from that night.”

  My chest constricts as I fight back the emotion that those simple words evoke in me. “I am.” I nod. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet you, Ivy.�
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  “Sorry. I forgot my manners. I’m Ivy.”

  “I know.” I chuckle and marvel at her all at the same time. “I heard you wanted to see me.”

  She nods, her eyes flickering over to Felice before coming back to mine. “Is it okay—can you just sit and hold my hand for a little bit like you did that night?”

  I blink back my tears, the ones I’m not supposed to show as a doctor, but fuck, I’m human. How can I not be overwhelmed in the moment by this incredible little girl?

  “Of course.” I pull the chair toward the side of the bed and take a seat as I slide her tiny little hand into mine. Someone painted her fingernails pink while she’d been unconscious. I’m not sure why that gets to me, but it does. Such a tiny gesture that says she is loved by someone. “I can sit here all night if you want me to,” I murmur.

  She smiles again, but I can see the exhaustion in the smudges beneath her eyes and in the way her eyelids are so slow to lift back up when she blinks. “Thank you.” Another heavy-lidded blink. “Just thank you.”

  Blakely

  “I’m sorry for tonight.” Slade’s voice is a deep rumble that I’m not actually certain I want to hear. “I can explain.”

  “Don’t bother.” The woman’s laugh echoes in my ear. The bottle-plus-some-more of wine I drank doesn’t help to dampen the stubborn hurt that has festered inside of me with every ticking minute of the night that had passed. “It doesn’t matter.” I try to sound nonchalant but the bite to my tone says I’m hurt.

  “Blakely—”

  “No. Really. I get it. You had more important things to do—”

  “That isn’t what happ—”

  “Do you know how much I wanted to see you? Do you even understand—”

  “Iv—”

  “I have to go.”

  “Iv—”

  I end the call with his last word unfinished and clutch the damn phone in my hand as I try to fight back the ridiculous amount of hurt radiating in my chest. Hurt? Maybe it’s more like dying hope.

  I told myself I’d never let a man treat me how Paul did, and I’m sticking to it.

  My cell rings again and I push the call to voicemail.

  This is for the better. It’s too soon to get involved with a man. I need to just be me for a while. I need to settle in these new shoes. What was I thinking when I thought Slade was into me?

  This is for the better.

  At least that’s what I repeat to myself as I shove the tears off my cheeks determined to remain unfazed.

  Or to want to call him back.

  Within seconds the phone dings an alert.

  Don’t look.

  Don’t look.

  I look.

  And my heart falls to my feet.

  Slade: Ivy woke tonight. I was called to the hospital STAT. I accidentally left my phone in my locker so I couldn’t reply to your text. This whole ordeal is over. I’ve been reinstated, but more importantly, she asked to see me. She wanted me to sit with her and hold her hand. That’s where I’ve been. Do you really think I would have canceled for something that wasn’t important?

  I reread the text a dozen times as dread and embarrassment filters through every fiber of my being. My hands start to tremble as the gamut of emotions I’ve been through this evening take their toll. The most prominent one being shame.

  Here I am, the whole night thinking about me, me, me. Not once did I stop to consider that Slade wasn’t screwing me over. Not a single time did I think that maybe Ivy had woken or there was some kind of emergency he had to tend to.

  All I could focus on was the woman’s laugh and him canceling on me.

  Talk about being a selfish bitch.

  I’m still staring at his text, wondering how exactly I should answer when his next text comes through.

  Slade: I love that you’re being the new, strong Blakely, but can’t you cut a guy some slack? I promise to make it up to you.

  I should be the one saying that. I should be the one texting frantically to ask for his forgiveness because I’d assumed the worst when I should have given him the benefit of the doubt.

  Slade: I can give you proof that I was where I said I was if that’s what you need.

  And that statement is like a dagger in my chest. It solidifies my chickenshit train of thought that I’m not ready for a relationship. At least not one with a man as deserving as Slade Henderson. I’m nowhere near where I need to be emotionally to do this. I’m the one who’s almost forty. I’m supposed to be the mature one. And here he is, looking after my needs and assuming I need proof because of what Paul did to me.

  I’m the jealous psycho, and he’s the freaking saint.

  He deserves so much better than that. Than me.

  I struggle with what to text back. With what to say.

  An apology would be what he deserves, but how do I tell him I’m sorry for assuming he was with another woman when there isn’t even an us to begin with? How do I explain that I’m obviously not one hundred percent over the hurt Paul caused when I clearly thought I was? How do I say that I’m not exactly sure how I’d go about accepting all of the date nights, special events, and family moments in our lives that he would undoubtedly miss time and again because of someone else’s medical emergency? I’d never want him to be feel like he has to choose between his love for his work and upsetting me or letting me down.

  On top of all that, when one of those medical emergencies happened, would I be left wondering if he is in fact telling the truth?

  Didn’t I just prove I can’t handle it?

  Didn’t I just validate how much I need to work on me so that I don’t bring others down?

  I type and delete and type and delete a million things but none of them express any of the jumbled and confused emotions owning me.

  So, I don’t type an apology. I don’t even address the issue. Who’s the mature one now?

  Not me.

  Me: Congratulations on both fronts. I’m glad she is awake.

  Slade: When can I make it up to you?

  Me: No need to. You deserve so much better than me. Thank you for everything.

  Slade: What is that supposed to mean?

  Me: Congratulations again.

  I turn my phone on do not disturb and toss it on my dresser before falling face down onto my bed, knowing I just pushed the best thing that ever happened to me away because I’m not the best thing that could ever be for him.

  And I want to be. God how I want to be.

  But my reaction tonight tells me I don’t deserve him or his kindness and huge heart.

  I need some time to think.

  To sort my own emotions out.

  To figure out if I can be the woman he deserves when I full well know he deserves the whole freaking world.

  Slade

  “You on again tonight, man?”

  I look up from the chart I’m reviewing at the nurse’s station and over to John. I’m so exhausted my bones are tired. “This is my second thirty-hour shift in a row,” I murmur before taking a sip of scalding hot coffee. “So, yes. The answer would be yes.”

  “Ahh, your body forgot what it was like to be pulling these kinds of hours, didn’t it?”

  “You could say that.” I scrub a hand over my face and stifle a yawn.

  “What’s up with What’s-Her-Face? Blakely. How was dinner?”

  I give a partial chuckle. “We didn’t go. It was the night Ivy came to.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Oh shit,” he repeats with a smart-ass grin.

  “Funny.”

  “You going to make it up to her?” he asks just as a nurse from across the floor calls his name. He takes a step back. “I mean, if you don’t fall asleep during the middle of it.”

  I flip him off but shake my head.

  That’s the big question, isn’t it? Am I going to make it up to her?

  How can I when I can’t get her to answer my calls or texts?


  If I knew where she lived, I’d try to get her to answer the door, but I don’t. So, short of sitting outside of Glam like a stalker to get her to talk to me, I’m not sure what to do.

  God do I fucking miss her, but hell if I have a goddamn clue what happened.

  Work. Residency. Getting matched to the right hospital. That’s what matters. The right here and the right now and not fucking up after everything that has happened.

  That’s what I need to be focusing on, not a new relationship when I’m diving head-first back into work.

  Relationship?

  Did I really just use the R-word? When did I start thinking of Blakely in those terms? And how is that even possible when we haven’t seen each other since the parking lot at the lodge?

  I need to keep my head straight.

  Then why do I keep looking at my phone every chance I get, hoping she’s called or texted?

  It’s the exhaustion.

  It has to be.

  Blakely

  “You doing all right?”

  I look up to see Gemma standing with her shoulder leaning against the doorjamb. “Yeah. Sure. Why?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Just checking.” She moves into my office and perches her ass on the edge of one of my chairs. “Tom said he’s been texting with Slade. He asked maybe if we could all go out for drinks, but Slade said you’ve been so busy he’s not sure if you’d be able to go.”

  The pang that hits me is real and raw, and I nod to buy time to find my words to respond. “He’s right. I’ve just been trying to catch up to speed on everything,” I lie.

  Don’t say too much.

  Don’t look her in the eye.

  She’ll see right through you.

  “You sure everything is okay with you two? You know I’m here if you need to talk.”

  I plaster a smile on my lips and look up to meet her eyes and away from today’s daily text Slade left me. The one asking if we could talk.

  “Yes. Of course. I’m fine. We’re fine.”