Page 39 of Fire

That is what I saw in his eyes in that hallway.

The kind of stress that can paralyze you.

If not properly managed, it can rob you of the very dream you’re trying so desperately to achieve. It almost took mine that day outside the testing facility. If I hadn’t known what kind of breathing exercises to do, thanks to a roommate back in undergrad who suffered from panic attacks, I might not have made it into the building or through the next two years of med school.

But I did.

And I knew he could too.

So I lied and got him out of the hallway. Once we were safely behind closed doors, I did the first thing that came to mind: Story Time.

It was something I made up during our tutoring sessions to help bridge the gap between what was in the textbook and what made sense to him. I used real-world examples and wove them together with what I was trying to teach him. Soon, it became a sort of game he loved to join in on, only his stories had little to do with science and often involved a heavy amount of flirting. But it was fun.

He was fun.

I never used Story Time again with any of the other students I tutored. Whenever I thought about it, I always found an excuse for why it wasn’t suitable for that person or that particular situation. It just never felt right.

And now I know why.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t find anyone who felt right.

It was that I didn’t want to.

Story Time wasours.

It’s a couple of hours later. The first concert of the tour is in full swing, and based on the deafening level of noise coming from the direction of the stage, I think Hendrix is doing just fine.

I’ve just wiped down my entire clinic with antiseptic when Elena comes in, sans kid.

“Hey, you busy?” she asks, looking every bit the rocker’s wife in tight black pants and a cropped Manic tee. She takes a cursory glance around and gives a faint smile of approval.

“No, why? Everything okay with Marisa?”

“Yeah, she’s with the nanny for a few hours,” she explains with a shrug. “If I don’t hand her over now and then, it sort of defeats the purpose of having one in the first place.”

“Is it a requirement that you have one?” I met Selene, the nanny, on the plane yesterday. She reminded me a bit of my mom. They are close in age, and she has the same sweet and sassy demeanor that everyone loves about my mom. Within hours, she’d been named the unofficial grandma on tour, promising baked goods to everyone as soon as she got her hands on an oven.

“No, and this is the first time I’ve ever had one. When we’re home, it’s just the two of us. But being on tour is a whole different beast, you know?” I nod because after just twenty-four hours of this, I wholeheartedly agree. It’s a lot. And I don’t even have a kid. “And at times like this, when I want to watch my husband play, it just wouldn’t be possible without a nanny. I could put headphones on her ears and take her out there for a few minutes, but that’s about it,” she explains. “With Selene, she can be content in the quiet room, and I can enjoy a bit of adult time.”

I nod, shrugging off my white coat and placing it on top of one of the rolling carts. “That makes perfect sense, and it’s what I would recommend if you had asked me.”

“Well then, I guess I’m not doing too badly at this whole parenting thing.”

“Nah, I’d say you’re doing pretty damn good.”

“Nice. Doctor approved! I’m so texting that to Marin.”

“That’s your sister-in-law? The one from North Carolina?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, reaching out to grab my arm. “Did I tell you she’s an artist? And she lives on the cutest little island in North Carolina? Come on, I’ll tell you all about her on the way.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, grabbing my cell, since I’m apparently leaving the clinic.

“To a rock concert, duh.”

There are three things I realize almost simultaneously as Elena and I reach the side of the stage.

One—rock concerts are loud. Like, the ear-ringing, chest-vibrating kind of loud. I mean, I knew they would be, but experiencing it in person is really something else.