Page 272 of The Doctors Will See You Now

My dad sighed heavily. “You really should have gotten that rider’s name, Low,” he added in disappointment, but thanks to the dimming lights, both my view of his disappointment and the time for speaking began to fade.

And for once in my life, as the curtain started to lift, a Broadway show was my favorite fucking thing on the planet.

My least favorite thing? Scott fucking Shepard.

Harlow Paige.

Frances Harlow Paige.

Harlow fucking Paige, the Gossip columnist, was Bleeding Woman.

Bleeding Woman was Frances.

And Frances, well, she was Harlow Paige.

I’d been running through the convoluted web—okay, it’s not that complicated, but the distorted reality I’d believed to be true made it feel like it—of her identities as the actors on stage danced and sang for six full songs. Now, well entrenched in the seventh, a song about a woman who was always choosing the wrong guys, an intense burn had taken root in my stomach with the sting of reality.

Of course they were the same person.

In hindsight, I should have known. Sure, New York City has millions of people, and the chances of them being the same person were slim—statistically speaking—but life had a funny way of working out like this.

And the personalities matched up perfectly.

Challenging to the point of agitation, Harlow Bleeding Paige, held my attention. Both her visit to the ER and the witty exaggeration of her articles had seized a curious part of me in a nagging, torturous way I hadn’t been able to forget. Day after day, I’d wondered about the woman I’d sutured and the woman who wrote passive-aggressive columns about me that bled a little too close to the line, and everything that’d been muddled and smudged by uncertainty of who and why now felt clear in my mind.

One complicated woman was at the center of it all. Glancing past my mother, I scoured the lines of Harlow’s face for some sign of remorse or discomfort. A wrinkled brow. A minute frown. I moved on to her body. A clenched fist. A nervous fidget. Something.

But she gave me nothing.

Instead, her eyes were glassy, the shimmer of their moisture glinting in the glow of the stage lights as she worked at her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth. One hand rubbed at a tight-covered thigh, and the toe of her boot bobbed to the music. She seemed thoughtful without looking anxious, like each word of the song would expose some vulnerable part of her if she weren’t careful.

As discreetly as possible, so as not to garner the ire of my musical-bopping mother, I pulled my phone from my pocket and fired off a text to a number I’d saved to my phonebook, like a normal person.

Me: So you’re Bleeding Woman.

It wasn’t exactly the most creative opening after thinking about it for six and a half songs, but it was the best my cynical mind could do, apparently. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I could sit there and think on it as I typed while the light of the screen sent out a virtual distress call to any and all ushers in the area. Just like in a movie theater, they didn’t like when you texted during the entertainment.

Harlow: Bleeding Woman?

Right. Of course, she wouldn’t remember the thing she’d said that I’d remembered a million times since. It figured.

Me: Your sex victim name.

Harlow: Oh. Yeah. I guess that’s me. But why act like you didn’t creep my medical file to find my real name? You CLEARLY know it.

I leaned forward, just slightly, again trying to get a read off of her by inspecting her face, but she was completely out of view behind the bulk of her dad, like she’d become one with the seat. I’d just have to do my best to assess the situation without visual cues.

Me: I didn’t do it on purpose.

Okay, that was a bit of a lie, but it wasn’t like I was the only one sugarcoating the truth. I mean, she was also that fucking columnist from Gossip.

Harlow: Job hazards, right? Pffft.

Me: Listen, I tried not to look, but I had to sign off on your chart. And like you should talk. You’re the Gossip columnist.

Harlow: Yep. That’s me.

So fucking casual. My jaw ached from clenching it, and my pulse pounded in my ears. She had a way of getting under my skin like no other, but at least I was keeping it contained, eating away at me on the inside rather than causing a scene.