Page 16 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Fourteen

Jason

Angie opens the door. God, she looks beautiful. Her cheeks are rosy, and her dark hair is bouncing in waves around her shoulders.

I’m holding a bottle of red wine. I don’t know a lot about wine, and I think someone must’ve brought it to me. I’m more of a bourbon guy.

The problem is, I don’t really have any friends to celebrate with. I have colleagues, of course. But friends?

I kind of let my friendships go after I lost Lindsay and Julia.

All they did was remind me of everything I no longer had.

So I’m coming to see my neighbor.

My neighbor who is also my student.

Who I’m also wildly attracted to and have kissed.

And who’s probably no more than twenty-three years old.

But I don’t care.

I’m feeling hope for the first time in years, and it feels…

I want to say good, but I’m afraid to.

Louisa and Gita didn’t offer me any guarantees. Everything could go up in smoke, and I’ll be relegated to teaching for the rest of my life. I could end up losing the use of my hand entirely.

I enjoy teaching. Well, maybe enjoy is too strong of a word.

I haven’t hated teaching. I can still hold a scalpel.

I can still cut into nonliving flesh, now that I’m teaching anatomy lab.

I had to wait for an opening, and this year, I got it.

For the last couple of years, I’ve taught surgery techniques to older students.

My hand is steady as I hold the bottle of wine. I hardly feel the tremor, and it’s invisible to the naked eye. But if I tried to make a cut on a living person, I’d make a mistake.

Every millimeter—every fraction of a millimeter—matters.

Everything matters when you’re cutting into a human being.

When I was doing my surgical residency, the attendings treated themselves like gods. I thought it was ridiculous. I would never have a God complex, I told myself. Never in a million years.

But when I began to cut…

I realized it wasn’t a God complex that they had. It wasn’t even arrogance. It was simply confidence. Because without confidence, you can’t slice open a human being.

You absolutely can’t, unless you’re a psychopath.

I’ve met a few surgeons along the way who might be psychopaths. But the best surgeons—and I was on track to become one of the best—don’t consider themselves gods and are certainly not psychopaths.

No.

They’re healers. Healers who are confident in their abilities, confident in their steady hands, confident in their knowledge of the human body, and confident in their ability to fix what is wrong in any patient.

God, I miss that.

But for the first time, I feel a sliver of hope.

“Dr. Lansing,” she says. “I mean…Jason.”

“Hi, Angie. I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

A miniature schnauzer runs to the door, yapping its head off.

Angie scoops the small dog into her arms. “No, Tillie,” she says.

The dog shuts up.

She looks back at me. “I was just making myself a little bit of dinner.” She drops her gaze to the bottle of wine. “Did you…need something?”

“I got some good news today, Angie. I was hoping you might help me celebrate.” I hold up the bottle.

She widens her eyes. “I… Sure. Come on in. I’ll put Tillie out.”

I reach toward Angie and scratch the schnauzer’s ears. “Is that this little pup’s name?”

She smiles and kisses the dog’s head. “Yes. Tillie is my own little hellspawn, but I love her to pieces.” She walks into the house, looking over her shoulder. “I’m just making tomato soup and grilled cheese. Would you like some?”

“You know what? Tomato soup and grilled cheese sounds awesome.”

“My mom is a gourmet cook,” she says. “It’s her tomato soup recipe. I didn’t make it, though. She sent it to me in one of her care packages. But it’s absolutely delicious if you like tomato soup.”

“I love tomato soup.” I press my lips together. “But honestly I’m not sure I’ve ever had anything other than Campbell’s.”

Angie smiles then, and it’s a beautiful smile. “Then you will love this, I promise you. Come on in.”

I follow her inside. “So is your mom a chef?”

She frowns. “Yes and no. She’s had culinary training, and she’s as good as any chef at any restaurant, but no, she doesn’t work outside the home.”

Right. She’s a Steel. She probably doesn’t have to work.

But damn it, I am not going to let the fact that Angie Simpson was born with a silver spoon in her mouth—or that she’s my student—bring me down tonight.

“Do you like wine?” I ask.

“Oh, love it.” She opens her back door and puts the dog down on her back porch. She closes the door and looks back at me. “My uncle and my cousin make some of the best wine in—” She stops abruptly.

“It’s all right. I know all about your vineyards. I’m afraid this isn’t Steel wine. It’s”—I quickly read the label—“a classic red from some vineyard in California.”

“I’m sure it’s great.”

“I don’t know anything about wine. I’m not even sure where this bottle came from. Someone must’ve brought it to me, and I stuck it in a cupboard.”

Which means I’ve had this bottle of wine since…

Since before.

I shake the thought out of my head.

Angie takes the bottle from me and walks into her kitchen. I follow. She grabs a corkscrew out of a drawer and expertly removes the cork. Then she grabs two goblets, places something on top of the wine bottle, and pours the wine through it.

“What’s that?” I ask her.

“It’s an aerator,” she says. “It negates the need for decanting. It breathes the wine for you.”

I cock my head. “ Breathes the wine?”

She nods. “Gives it a little more body. Lets the flavors bloom.”

I didn’t even know wine should breathe. Tells you how much I know.

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.

Because she’s the hottest thing walking.

Because all I can think about is getting her into bed.

Which would get me fired, of course.

“Because you’re my neighbor,” I say, hating the lie. “I can drink myself into oblivion here and not have to drive home.”

God, what a crock. I can drink myself into oblivion anywhere and call an Uber or cab.

Besides the fact that I don’t even drink much. Even all those years, going through the loss and the pain, it never occurred to me to take a drink.

“Oh.” Her voice holds a trace of sadness.

She thinks I came over here for…

What did I come for?

And the answer is a simple one.

Yes, I wanted to celebrate with someone. Even though it could all be for nothing.

But the big reason is simple.

I wanted to see her.

I want to talk to her. Maybe get to know her. Maybe…

God.

She’s so different from Lindsay. Dark where Lindsay was blond, quiet where Lindsay was boisterous.

But brilliant, already I can tell. And Lindsay was also brilliant.

She took the MCATs with me for kicks. And she only scored one point below me. She hadn’t even taken all the pre-med courses.

But teaching was her calling, and her students loved her. God, those years I was in med school and then my residency were tough on our marriage. But we got through it.

Only to lose everything.

I take another sip of wine.

I don’t know anything about wine, but it tastes good.

“It’s good,” Angie says. “Very fruit forward. Of course that’s common for table wine.”

I raise my eyebrows.

She smiles shyly. “My mom again. She knows a lot about wine, but it’s her brother, my uncle Ryan, who knows the most. He’s really gifted.

A true artist. And my cousin Dale, who now runs Steel Vineyards, is nearly as good.

I’d say it ran in the family, except that Dale was adopted.

” Her cheeks are rosy. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m babbling. You probably know all about my family. ”