Page 6 of Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

Shoving those memories to the side, I walk into the room, wondering if this person might be a relative of Jonah’s. I spot the little girl sitting on the examination table and smile at her. Her back is straight, and her arms are crossed over her chest. She has dried tear tracks down her face, and she’s frowning. She’s wearing a blue-and-white private school uniform and has on a navy satin headband, pulling her hair off her face.

“Hi, Vivi,” I say softly, hoping to defuse some of her tension.

“Sophie?” I hear whispered from the parent chairs. It’s a voice I would recognize almost anywhere and still hear in my dreams at night. It’s like I conjured him with my thoughts in the hallway, and my back goes ramrod straight.

Turning slowly because he’s sitting, I come face-to-face with tanned skin, a jaw that should be used in men’s razor commercials, and large, surprised hazel eyes. The same eyes from that night, which were a mixture of kind and heated. So heated, I can still feel the track of how they raked over me once my clothes fell to the floor.

My stomach tightens.

Suddenly, this ten-by-ten room is shrinking, and I wish for nothing more than to be able to slink out of it. That feeling of not being enough for this guy burns through me. I can feel my cheeks and ears turning pink, and then I get angry with myself. This is stupid. My reaction to him is stupid. He’s just a guy. A guy who chose not to include me in his life, and that’s on him, not me.

He’s also the same guy who gave me one of the best nights of my life. The night was filled with dancing, laughter, and intimacy that still leaves me blushing to this day when I think about it.

It’s then that I notice he looks good. Like really good. He’s wearing a black baseball hat pulled down over his forehead, a white T-shirt with the Tarpons logo on it, black athletic shorts showing off his muscular legs, and a nice pair of running shoes. These past two years have been kind to him, and suddenly, self-consciousness slips under my white coat, and I wish I could pull it tighter around me. It’s not that I think I look bad. In fact, I think I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in, but like Maya Angelou said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

He made me feel lied to and inconsequential. If he didn’t want to see me again, he just could have said so. Instead, he gave me false hope with zero regard for how his standing me up would ultimately make me feel.

“You’re a doctor?” he says, more like a statement and less like a question. There’s confusion on his face as two distinct lines form between his eyes.

“Yes. Surgeon, actually,” I tell him with an unwavering voice.

Pride defuses through me at him finally knowing this. The night we met, there wasn’t a lot of getting-to-know-you happening. I don’t know why I didn’t mention that I was a doctor. I just didn’t. But I worked so hard to get to this point, and while I do think I’m an all-around catch, it feels great to let him know that he missed out on someone amazing, driven, incredibly smart, and successful.

Silence engulfs us as his confusion slowly slips to something that looks like a mixture of esteem and regret. My mind must be playing tricks on me because, deep down, I know that’s not true. Not at all. While he might be impressed with my professional accolades, this man has no regrets, or he would have found a way to reach me a long time ago.

“You know her?” the little girl asks.

Her voice breaks our staring contest. I'd forgotten she was even in the room, and I can feel the heat under my skin climbing up my neck and into my face.

I turn to look at her, and an unfamiliar pang jolts me.

One that feels a lot like jealousy, longing, and unrequited heartache.

She looks just like him.

Well, not just like him. But her hair color, eye color, and a few of her features are identical, and I have to work hard to hide my shock.

He has a daughter. A seven-year-old daughter, according to the chart.

And suddenly, it’s really easy to answer her question.

“No. We do not know each other. We only met once at a friend’s house several years ago.”

In my peripheral vision, I see his shoulders slump just a little. I mean, what did he expect my answer to be? We were together for less than twelve hours in total, and most of that time, we weren’t speaking.

Clearing my throat, I look back at the iPad and see they’re here for her ankle.

“So, Vivi, my name is Dr. Black, but you can call me Sophie, too. How about you tell me what happened today.” I pat the back of the exam table to get her to scoot all the way back so both feet are out in front of her.

Jonah stands to move next to her, and I swear the room shrinks even more. Why is he so tall and so wide? His broad shoulders and chest, combined with his long arms, means he’s bigger than the examining table, again sucking up more space in the room. Space I desperately wish I could sneak out of.

Is it hot in here?

“I don’t know. I was walking down the stairs, and then I fell. My ankle twisted, and I kind of landed on it.”

“Do you lose your balance frequently?” I probe her swollen ankle a little to see how she reacts. A few winces here and there from tenderness, which is better than her crying out, but with the location and the purple bruising, this tells me all I need to know.

“No,” she replies.