Page 10

I hold him closer. I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life. Things I’m not proud of. My son won’t be a casualty of my baddecisions, and I need to stop allowing the wounds of my past to bleed all over him.

“I just need a bit more time, and then I will.”

4

Have you ever wondered whotheyare? You know, the assholes who came up with those stupid sayings likegood things come to those who waitorlaughter is the best medicineorwhen it rains it poursoryou can’t please everyoneoryou only get what you can take. So who are these mysticalthey,because I’d really like to find them and kick their condescending asses.

Once again my carefully organized and meticulously put-together life has been thrown into total upheaval. This is where playing it safe gets you. Nowhere good.

“It’s a non-displaced fracture of your triquetrum and hamate bones along with your fifth metacarpal, Keegan. A pretty nasty one at that,” my uncle Carter, who is also my boss and the chief of the OB-GYN department, says in his no-bullshit tone. “You won’t require surgery, which is the good news, but the bad news is we have to put you on medical leave for a minimum of four to six weeks.”

Clearly, it’s been a hell of a week, and this broken wrist is the coup de grâce.

By the time I got home last night after forcing myself to go to the grocery store, my wrist and hand had blown up faster than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man fromGhostbustersand were so painful I had difficulty moving them. When Kenna came home and saw it, she freaked and called our aunt, Layla, who is more like a big sister to us since she was raised by our mother, who is a lot older than her, and had her meet us in the ER where she works as an attending physician so she could X-ray me.

I didn’t have it in me to argue too much. Not only was I still reeling from seeing Loomis with his son—hello, mind fuck there—but I was also still worked up over my encounter with Alden and getting a publishing deal. A publishing deal that this wrist and hand fracture seriously fucks up. I’m not in a cast because I refused, but the brace they gave me is almost as restrictive.

“Four to six weeks,” I repeat, trying not to shift in my chair, but it’s difficult because it feels like my chest is caving in.

“Yes. Minimum. We’ll have to see how well you heal.”

He frowns, misreading my look of despair, and gives me a sympathetic one in return. He thinks I’m upset about missing that time from work and my residency, and I know I should be. I’m almost at the finish line, and being derailed like this isn’t on my bingo card. That said, I’ve already clocked more hours than any resident in the program, so I’m not terribly worried about the missed time.

It’s weird, though, and I can’t figure it out. I’m not lamenting being kept out of the OR, which any surgical resident would be. No, it’s how I feel knowing I have to take this time off and that I won’t be able to type that has an edginess rising within me.

Which is… confusing for me.

I mean, I’ve dedicated my life to medicine, to delivering babies, and to women’s health in general, and while I love what I do and I’m sad I won’t be able to do it, I’m devastated over the notion that I won’t be able to write for a month and a halfand the possibility that the publishing house might rescind their offer.

“I’m sorry, but that’s how it has to be,” he continues. “You have to have full dexterity of your wrist and hand to operate and deliver babies.”

“I know. Believe me, I understand.”

He picks up a pen from his desk and rolls it between his hands as he leans back in his chair. “You can do OB or GYN consults, but you’ll have trouble doing anything more since it’s your dominant hand. That can make teaching difficult as well.”

“It’s fine, Uncle Carter,” I say absently, trying to keep my game face intact. “I’ll take the time off to heal as I should. I can do consults remotely, and I’ll start with PT when I’m able.”

“I think that’s a good plan.” He tilts his head as if he’s just had a thought. “You could also take the time off completely through FMLA, or you can use this as vacation time. You’re entitled to twenty-eight days annually, and you’ve hardly taken any of that time since you’ve started your residency. As your boss, I could work something out to have some of last year’s rolled over for you,” he offers, his tone soft now. It’s his uncle voice instead of his attending physician’s one, and him being gentle with me right now might throw me over the edge.

“I could do that,” I reply, shaky and unsteady. I can’t handle the emotions that are already spiraling through me, and trying to sit here when it feels like everything is coming together and being torn apart at the same time is taking all my strength. “Honestly, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

And how is that even possible? I’m thirty-one years old. We’re supposed to know ourselves by this point. We’re supposed to have it all figured out and be on course, which is what I was. Until yesterday.

“No more ice skating, that’s for sure.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Very funny.” I stand and grab my purse from the ground. “I’ll talk to you later, Carter.”

“You’re not the first doctor to be sidelined by an injury. Don’t let it take your mental health down. You’ll be back here and in the OR, kicking ass as you always do, in no time.”

I offer him a wan smile and leave because I don’t know what to say to that. It’s been a motherfucker of a week, and my head and heart are a mess. One thing is for sure—I need to do some serious soul-searching.

For now, I go back to the grocery store to pick up more ibuprofen and acetaminophen since we’re officially out at home and I declined harder pain meds. The checkout counter looms ahead, and I shuffle in line, balancing two pill bottles, one of each type of medicine, with my good hand, determined to be as independent as I can be.

“I heard he’s back here in Boston,” one of the women in the far too long checkout line says to her friend, who is also eyeing the same magazine she is. Both are sporting designer yoga pants and tops with their cute, flare-colored puffy coats open and their blonde ponytails swinging. It’s not even noon, and I can’t remember the last time I went for morning yoga followed by a salad bar run with a friend.

Yoga aside, maybe some time off will be good for me. Not that any of my friends can take the time off. They all work equally long hours as I do.

Then there’s the guy they’re ogling on the cover of the magazine with the clickbait headline.