I hate it.
I bite my lip, force my eyes open. Enough.
I reach for Tom’s file and pull it from the archive drawer. Time to make a few additions.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that technology can’t be trusted. That’s why I keep patient files on paper instead of storing them digitally. My colleagues hate it, especially when we need to communicate treatment plans. I get it. The resorthas an internal network where files and notes are shared— with restricted access, of course. It’s faster and easier, and it’s supposed to reduce miscommunication between coworkers— not that the drama ever vanishes here.
Still, I refuse to change. They don’t know the things that I know, and since I mostly work independently in the alternative therapy wing, I can get away with it.
Tom is the exception. If I make it to head of the department, he’ll be the last resort guest I take on for full guidance.
Last night made one thing painfully clear: I can’t do this without getting too deeply involved.
Another set of years of study, wasted. For what? How did I ever think I was cut out for this?
I feel like a failure. And the worst part? I’m starting to accept it.
I gave up being a surgeon years ago because I couldn’t do it anymore. Not after Afghanistan.
Now I’m walking away from psychology too.
But I’m not walking away from Tom.
I considered it after that conversation with Tiffy. I didn’t fully admit it to myself, but I knew handing Tom over to Erin would be the right thing to do. Professionally, at least.
Then Terrence happened.
And then Tom shared his pain, probably for the first time in his life.
How the hell am I supposed to turn my back on him now?
If I did, the little trust he has in people would disappear. He’d shut down. Maybe for good.
No. I promised myself I’d fight for him.
So, Tom McKenna is off-limits.
I can’t put my own feelings above his wellbeing, and I don’t know what that makes me. Toxic? A walking red flag, like Tiffy said?
Maybe. But I’m doing the best I can, trying to navigate this dangerous road without wrecking us both.
I have to get this right.
Failure is not an option when it comes to him.
I open the file, flip to an empty page, setting my fountain pen on the paper. While I think about where to start, ink pools beneath the nib, forming a small black stain. I lift the pen and write two names:
Jay.
Emily.
I circle them.
I’d known Jay was controlling, maybe even abusive, but hearing it from Tom’s mouth… Him talking about being beaten into the hospital by his brother, like he somehow deserved it…
And Emily.
My eyes stay fixed on her name. Yesterday, after everything Tom had told me, I had to fight not to lose it right there in front of him.
