Easton
Locked?
Three dots came back almost immediately. Then:
Astrid
Locked.
A beat. Then another text:
Astrid
Go to bed, Easton.
I almost smiled.
I set the phone face up on the counter.
I knew what I was doing.
I just hadn't said it out loud yet.
CHAPTER 8
Astrid
Caldwell had bothered to put on a fleece vest and walk eight blocks across town to tell me, with his hands clasped at the front of his waist, that Hartsdale wouldn't have me.
He hadn't said that. He said the town couldn't really support two practices. He said it like you tell a child something for her own good.Joe is fine. Hate to see a young woman put everything she has into something that wasn't going to take.
But he had walked. That was the part I kept turning the next morning at the kitchen table. He didn't call. He didn't send a note through any of the half-dozen mutual acquaintances he had to have by now. He put on a fleece vest at the end of his workday and walked the blocks between Elm and Maple to deliver, in person, the soft version ofget out.
I knew the soft version. My mother-in-law ran a decade of it on me in the kitchen on Tuesdays—the wreath was wrong, the lamb was overcooked, the dress was a mistake.Always pleasant, always concerned, always just here to help. By year three, I was making my own corrections before she walked in. By year six, I was apologizing for the placement of a butter knife.
Caldwell ran a ten-minute version of that voice on my porch the night before, and by the time he reached the bottom step,I was gripping the doorframe like I needed it to stay upright. I came back inside and stood at the sink with both hands on the counter, and I waited for my pulse to come down.
He's not gonna do this to you,Easton said, his hand over mine, his thumb moving along the back of my hand once and then resting there.You're the best vet this town has had in thirty years.
I could still feel his thumb on the back of my hand.
I set the coffee down. I'd be damned if I was going to let Joe Caldwell, in a fleece vest, walk eight blocks to take my Wednesday from me.
I scrolled back to the line I was on. Surgical scissors. Mayo, curved, six and three-quarters inch. I ordered two of those, then the Metzenbaums, the hemostats, the needle drivers. Gauze, suture, iodine, alcohol.
By noon, I was on consumables. By one, I was on the laminated wall charts nobody actually looked at, but every clinic had.
I called Howie about the keys. I called Sof about a tech she knew—finishing up at a clinic an hour south, looking to move closer to home. Sof said she'd send me the woman's number that afternoon, and that I owed her a drink.
At two-fifteen, I clicked submit on the supply order.
Moose was on my foot under the table. I scratched the side of his face with my heel.
"We did it, buddy."
Easton was on shift that day. I crossed the street and let myself in with the key he'd given me so I could check on Penny.
He'd been paying a sitter to come by twice a day to feed Penny and let her out. I told him I didn't mind coming over while he was on shift—I was mostly home anyway, drowning in permits and the other paperwork the clinic required.
