“You do,” she says. “You always did.”
“I’m afraid if I leave, I’ll never get back on this track,” I admit. “One swerve and it’s ten more. One exception and suddenly I’m a person who makes exceptions. I’ve worked too hard to become a surgeon. I can’t be the girl who runs across the state because a man says her name when he’s on God knows how many meds.”
“He didn’t say it like a summons,” she replies. “He said it like a prayer. Mom told me.”
He said it like a prayer.
The words slide through my head, moving around as if they’re alive.
“Jason’s flagging me,” she says. “We’ve got a train. I have to go. Tabs?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay to choose yourself,” she says. “Just don’t pretend you chose anything else.”
The line clicks. I set the phone down and stare again at the stuff on my desk.
It’s okay to choose yourself.
Not what I would have expected to hear from Angie. From Eli, sure. In fact, he’s said as much several times. But Angie? Thoughtful and compassionate Angie, when it concerns her big brother?
Nope. Those words must have cost her.
I go to the kitchen, fill a mug with coffee that’s gone stale, and pour it down the sink instead. I rinse the mug and then walk back to the desk and grab a pad of sticky notes. Time for a list.
Shower
Instrument tray #2 review
20 clean surgeon’s knots
20 square knots
Eat at least a half sandwich, not just coffee
I add one more line and hate myself for how much relief it gives me to see the rule in ink.
Do not contact Henry
I already deleted his name from my contacts and deleted the text from Marjorie that had his number, but I could easily get the information again.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
I shower too hot, scrub until my skin says enough. I fix a tuna sandwich and force myself to eat the whole thing. Twice as much as my to-do list dictated.
Then back to studying. Tomorrow is a big day in the lab.
My phone alarm goes off, and I wrangle my hair into a bun. Scrubs, badge, penlight. I check my pocket for a pair of gloves and leave the apartment.
Outside, the sky is a gorgeous August blue. Halfway to the medical building, I stop under a cottonwood because the world goes a little soft around the edges with a memory.
His room. Morning. The day after we slowed down.
I woke up.
He was gone.
