Page 48 of Broken Dream

Lindsay didn’t drink. She was severely allergic to the histamines in red wine, and other than that, she just didn’t like what alcohol did to her. So when I wanted to have a bourbon, I would go out with the guys.

The guys don’t exist anymore.

“So you want to tell me about your good news?” Angie asks, handing me a glass.

I open my mouth to speak, but then I close it again.

What was I thinking?

Yes, I got some amazing news today. But if I tell Angie what it is, I’ll have to tell her the whole story.

I’m not ready to tell her that.

It’s not something I like to think about.

Even though sometimes all I do is think about it.

“Earth to Jason?” she says.

“Sorry about that.” I frown, grabbing my wineglass. “I just… I suppose you may wonder why I teach.”

“Because you like teaching?”

I’m sure she’s read my bio on the med school website. I’m a board-certified general surgeon and a fellow. So why wouldn’t I be cutting instead of teaching?

“Sure, teaching is okay,” I say, “but what I really love is performing surgery.”

“So why aren’t you doing it?”

“Kind of like the old adage, I guess,” I say. “Those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.”

She drops her jaw.

I hold up a hand. “I’m not saying I’m not good enough. Well, I guess I’m not now.” I take a sip of wine. “But I was good, Angie. I was amazing.”

I should be embarrassed at tooting my own horn like that, but I’m not. Because I’m not lying. I was on the fast track to being something great. Being an award winner, being a person who came up with new ways to save lives.

“What I mean is, I injured my hand three years ago. My right hand, my dominant hand. Without two steady hands, as you know, a physician can’t cut people open.”

She gasps. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Of course. The question I knew she’d ask. Everyone does.

So I say my rehearsed answer. “I was in an automobile accident.”

“Oh no. And there’s nothing they can do?”

I gesture to the bottle of wine. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Today I got some good news. From two of my colleagues. My neurologist and a bright young neurosurgeon. Dr. Patel—she’s the neurosurgeon—has this new technique with nerve grafting, and she thinks I’m a great candidate.”

Angie’s eyes go wide. “Really? That’s wonderful.”

“There are no guarantees, of course. But it’s the best news I’ve had in a long time. And I felt like celebrating with someone.”

“Why me?” she asks.

Why her indeed?

Because I have no other friends.