Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
He nods slowly but makes no such promises.
As he walks away, Sarah sighs. “It’s so hard, isn’t it? Knowing there’s only so much we can do.”
I nod, feeling the heavy weight of just the very first patient encounter. “It really is. But we have to keep trying.”
♦
By the time I leave the shelter around four p.m., I’ve reached my limit of sadness and despair over the things I’ve seen. I had brief moments of truly helping patients but for the most part, I couldn’t do much but slap Band-Aids on significant issues. I feel drained, both physically and emotionally, as I slide into my car.
After starting it and putting on my seat belt, I pull out my phone to check messages. I’ve been so busy I haven’t looked at it all day.
A smile slowly spreads across my face as I see a text from King. Hey, babe. Just thinking about you. Hope your day wasn’t too tough. Remember, you’re amazing at what you do. Can’t wait to see you again.
A fullness within me speaks to not needing another damn thing from a man other than what King has already given me. He intuitively knows exactly what I needed to hear at the end of a long day, and he did it while preparing for a hockey game.
Weight lifts off my shoulders and the drive home is done while singing along to Taylor Swift. By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m in a good mood but when I spot the bouquet of fresh flowers on my doorstep, I am nearly giddy with delight.
I shut off the car, jog to the porch and snatch the card from the huge arrangement of pink, white, purple and blue flowers.
Just a little something to brighten the rest of your day. – King
Clutching the card to my chest, I close my eyes and savor the moment. The sheer romanticism in this tiny gesture has me swooning and I nearly can’t stand it.
I lift the flowers, manage to wrangle open the door and call out to Brittany as I enter. “I’m home.”
“In the kitchen,” she calls back, and I smell the aroma of tomato sauce so I’m guessing it’s pasta for dinner tonight.
I set the flowers on the kitchen table as Brittany turns from the stove and gasps at their loveliness. “You bitch.”
“Why am I a bitch?” I ask with a laugh as I fluff the bouquet.
“Because you lucked out and got probably the one good guy left in the world,” she says with an exaggerated whine, but I see the amused twinkle in her eye before she turns back to the stove. “We’re having stuffed shells. Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”
“Perfect,” I say, letting my purse slide off my shoulder to the chair. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Knock yourself out,” Brittany says, but as I turn to walk away, she adds, “Oh… and you might want to pop your head in on your niece. She’s having an existential crisis.”
I blink in surprise at my sister. “A six-year-old can have an existential crisis?”
“Apparently mine can. She’s not sure hockey is her calling. She feels she’s far too graceful for the rough-and-tumble nature of the sport.”
“She said that to you?” I ask, agog.
Brittany snickers. “No, that’s me paraphrasing but I think she said something along the lines of ‘I decided I want to be a figure skater like Aunt Willa.’”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That she signed up to play hockey and she’s going to see it through, but if she wants to take up figure skating, we’ll work it out.”
I walk over to Brittany and wrap her in a hug. “You’re such a good mother. You know exactly what to say and how to say it. I’m in awe of you.”
My sister blushes and pushes me away. “You’re just saying that because I’m jealous of your boyfriend and you want me to feel better.”
“That’s true,” I quip, blowing her a kiss and heading out of the kitchen.
Just as I’m about to hit the staircase, I see a shadow approaching the front door through the side pane of frosted glass. I don’t even wait for the doorbell to ring but rather swing it open, assuming it’s one of the handful of Amazon deliveries we get each week.
Instead, I find Scott standing there, hand poised to push the button.
I immediately tense up, locking in tight for a fight. He shoots me a tentative smile. His eyes meet mine and I can see the turmoil within them.
“Willa, can we talk?” he asks quietly.
This demure demeanor throws me off, absolutely antithetical to his pompous arrogance, need to be right and disposition to fight. I hesitate for a moment but eventually nod, stepping aside to let him in. I lead him to my home office, a cozy room filled with bookshelves and my desk, and close the door behind us. Wanting space and a barrier between us, I take a seat behind my desk while Scott settles into the chair across from me.