Page 27 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jason

I’ve been staying away from Angie and Tabitha’s table as much as I can. I don’t want to seem like I’m hovering.

Plus, I can’t show any favoritism.

Just being in the same room with Angie is difficult. All I want to do is touch her, run my fingers over her flesh, feel her heart beating next to mine.

She’s probably angry with me for leaving late in the night. And rightfully so.

But too much is going on in my life right now. I have a chance to become a surgeon again. To take back some of what life has taken from me.

While I’ll never get Lindsay or Julia back, perhaps I can at least get my livelihood. I was a talented surgeon—quickly becoming one of the best in the field.

And then?—

It all came crashing down.

For so long I didn’t care. I never wanted to wield the scalpel again. Because the accident cost me two things I valued more than my ability to cut into human flesh.

The grief never goes away. The loss is always with me.

But it does begin to hurt less.

I didn’t believe anyone at the time. I certainly never believed that idiot psychiatrist who promised me she could help Lindsay.

Day by day, I’ve learned to cope, to exist.

To exist in a world without Julia and Lindsay.

To exist in a world where I can no longer perform surgery.

Of course, that was all it was. Existing.

But now I have hope.

But I have something else as well.

Something I’m not keen to give up.

I’ve met a woman. A woman who speaks to me in ways I never imagined I could hear again.

A woman who is different from Lindsay.

But a woman who almost makes me believe I can feel again.

Because already I’m feeling things. Feelings I’ve never felt before.

It frightens me. Especially since she’s a student.

And that is why I left her in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but…

I’m finding it harder and harder to make excuses for my behavior.

Because quite frankly, I’m not sorry it happened. And while I’ve been focused on the surgery and the hope that it’s given me, just as much of my focus has been on Angie Simpson.

It’s forbidden.

Taboo.

And I’ve given that some thought. Is that why I’m so attracted to her? Because it’s so wrong?

But I’ve been teaching for two years. Four semesters. I’ve taught many beautiful women, but not one of them has affected me like Angie Simpson has.

We finish up lab, and as I give the instructions, I deliberately look away from Angie.

The students did well today. Most of them were excited to start cutting—all of them except for Angie.

But she did it.

She faced her fears, and she made the cut with as much precision as I’ve seen any first-year medical student make.

She has the gift. She may not want to be a surgeon, but she could be.

The other two students in the class who seem to be the most gifted are her lab partner, Tabitha, and Elijah Garrett.

But they all did well.

“Excellent work,” I say as I dismiss the class. “Same time tomorrow, and we’ll continue this exercise.”

Then they applaud.

I’m not sure what they’re applauding. Certainly not my lecture. They’ve heard me lecture before. They must be applauding the fact that they cut today for the first time.

But Angie’s not clapping.

She’s looking down at her cadaver as she covers it. And I see her mouth the words thank you .

She’s something else.

I made it clear in our first lecture what a gift this was, how we should be grateful for these amazing people who gave us the ultimate gift of their bodies to study and learn from.

She took it to heart.

This is a woman who probably thanks the animal before she eats a steak.

In fact I wouldn’t doubt it, since she comes from a family of beef ranchers.

She’s something else, Angie Simpson.

Emotions coil through me—emotions I haven’t felt in so long. Emotions I didn’t think I was capable of feeling any longer.

And some of it…

Some of it’s not familiar.

And because it’s not—because I’m feeling something that I don’t think I ever felt for my wife—guilt overwhelms me.

How can I feel something for another woman that I never felt for Lindsay? I always thought Lindsay and I were soulmates. Perhaps we were. Perhaps you don’t have just one soulmate.

I’m not in love with Angie Simpson. I barely know her.

But I feel a pull. A magnetic attraction that yanks at my chest, twisting my heart in perplexing directions. I feel a connection, an undercurrent of shared understanding that seems to bind us like an invisible thread.

It’s different from what I had with Lindsay. Our love was comfortable, solid as the ground beneath our feet. Perhaps it lacked the raw intensity I’m grappling with now, but it had a quiet strength, a resilience that lasted through good times and bad. Until it got too bad for either of us to handle.

With Angie, everything is new and disturbingly intense.

There’s an odd familiarity about her that has nothing to do with memories or past experiences.

It feels more like a deep-rooted knowledge, as if some part of me recognizes her from other lives lived long ago.

And since I don’t believe in that stuff, it’s all the more frightening.

Guilt gnaws at me, making every breath a struggle. Is it fair? Is it right to have such feelings for someone else when my love for Lindsay still lingers?

But then again, isn’t love supposed to be selfless?

Isn’t love supposed to be a celebration of another’s existence, rather than an obligation driven by guilt? Perhaps it’s not my attraction to Angie that belittles my feelings for Lindsay, but the guilt itself. It’s the guilt that makes me question, that breeds self-doubt and regret.

I haven’t told Angie about Lindsay. About Julia.

Every time I look at Angie, I see a different life, one filled with possibilities and happiness. A life where my heart doesn’t feel like it’s made of lead, where guilt doesn’t gnaw incessantly at every moment of joy.

But for that life to exist, do I have to erase Lindsay and Julia from my past?

None of that matters anyway.

Angie is my student.

I need to stop this before it goes so far that neither of us can take it back.

I head out to lunch when my phone buzzes. It’s Louisa.

“Hi there,” I say into the phone.

“Hey, Jason,” she says. “We’ve run into a little snafu with the surgery.”

My heart falls.

Of course. Why should this surprise me at all? It was always too good to be true.

“Fuck. Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I were.” She clears her throat. “Gita and I went in front of the hospital medical board yesterday evening. They convened a special session to discuss your surgery. Gita’s presentation was flawless, and we both figured this was just a formality.”

“But…” I prompt.

She sighs. “They have doubts about allowing the surgery because of the potential complications. The nerve graft in your hand is a complicated experimental procedure, and they worry about the potential for permanent damage if it doesn’t go as planned.

They want you to understand all the risks before proceeding. ”

I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. This surgery was supposed to be my second chance, a new beginning away from all the guilt and pain.

“I do understand,” I reply, willing myself to stay calm. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

“Jason, it’s not that simple,” she replies. “They want you to meet with the board before making a final decision. They want you to understand clearly what could happen and make sure you can cope with every possible outcome.”

The news crashes into me like a tidal wave. My mind is a whirl of thoughts and fears. More delays, more uncertainty, more waiting. I’m a surgeon, for fuck’s sake. I understand complications. I understand what could happen. I’m not a damned moron.

The board just wants to be free of any liability if something goes wrong. And they’re going to do everything they can to convince me not to undertake this challenge.

“And…” she says.

“And what?”

She pauses. “They’re concerned about your…

mental health. What you’ve been through with the loss of your wife and child and your ability to perform surgery.

They’re concerned that without a proper support system, you might not be able to handle the potential stress and complications, should any arise.

It’s not just about the physical risk, Jason.

It’s about your emotional well-being too. ”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “They think I’m unstable?”

“It’s more about your ability to cope under such stressful circumstances. Surgery can take a toll on anyone, Jason, even those who haven’t experienced the kind of trauma you have.”

I push away from the wall, anger surging through me.

My personal life is my own damned business.

How dare they pry into it like this? They wouldn’t do it if I were a normal patient.

They just happen to have this extra information on me.

Information I wouldn’t dare let them know if I were going into the hospital as a normal patient.

“I have a support system,” I argue weakly.

It’s not entirely untrue. There are people who care about me, but since Lindsay’s death, I’ve pushed them away.

But if I really needed them, I could reach out.

“Gita and I tried,” Louisa says, “but the board is adamant.”

“Fine,” I say, my voice clipped. “When is this meeting?”

“We’ll schedule it as soon as possible,” she says.

I end the call abruptly without saying goodbye.

Yeah, that was rude as hell. This isn’t Louisa’s fault.

But I know what’s coming. If I want this surgery in this hospital, they’re going to make me go to therapy.

Fucking therapy.

Therapy cost me my wife.

And God damn it, it won’t cost me my hand as well.