Page 223 of True Blue

“Yes,” she smiles, nodding.

“God, I’m so sorry, I just blurted it out while coming,” I groan, but Indie shushes me gently and kisses my lips, brushing against mine as she speaks.

“It was perfect,” she smiles. “By the way—I love you too, Teddy bear.”

I swallow hard.

“Yeah?”

“Always.”

EPILOGUE

TWELVE YEARS LATER

“Dr. Ambrose?”

“Come in,” I call out, finishing up my last email.

The door opens, and when I glance up, I see Dr. Browne, one of our newest residents, standing in my doorway with tense shoulders and fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag like she’s using it to steady herself.

“Dr. Browne,” I say, surprised. “Is everything alright?”

“I was wondering if I could speak to you?”

“Of course, have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the chairs across my desk.

My eyes go back to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard as I finish setting up my Out of Office Automatic Reply. Then I firmly shut my laptop. No need to open it again for the next two weeks.

I’m on vacation.

Dr. Browne shyly sits down, looking a little green.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for oncology,” she says, her voice soft and filled with more than a little self-reproach.

That confuses me because Dr. Browne is exceptional—a Harvard Medical School graduate, top of her class, with a stack of recommendation letters that had been placed on my desk before her interview. She had been an automatic yes for me. She has it. The compassion, the instinct, and the technical skill to back it up.

I don’t know who put this insecurity in her, but I don’t like it.

“That’s not what I’ve been hearing,” I say, folding my hands on my desk. “Mimi tells me you have a real knack for patient care. And if Mimi is paying you a compliment, then you are excelling in this space.”

Dr. Browne’s furrowed brow softens slightly as she asks, “Really?”

“I’m your Chief of Medical Oncology,” I remind her with a small chuckle. “It’s my job to be critical of your patient care. I have nothing to note as of yet. Granted, it’s only been a month, but you’re doing everything right so far.”

“I just…” She exhales, frustrated with herself. “I don’t know if I’m breaking the news to patients correctly. I hear you do it, and you’re incredible at it, Dr. Ambrose. Truly. Even when you’re giving a terminal diagnosis.”

“Dr. Browne, I was not perfect at this from the jump,” I tell her, suspecting that’s the main issue. She’s hard on herself because she thinks she should already know how to do the hardest part of the job, which is a very difficult thing for an overachiever to stomach. “This specialty is not gentle while you learn. But we need people like you. Technical skills develop with time, repetition, and experience.”

Dr. Browne nods, but she doesn’t look fully convinced.

So I press a hand over my chest, right over my heart.

“But you have the kindness I can’t teach,” I say. “Your patients need that more than anything while they’re here. They don’t need their physician rattling off microbiology fun facts when their entire life is changing in front of them. They need someone to be gentle with them. Someone who sees them as a person and not just a diagnosis.”

Her eyes shimmer, and she quickly blinks it away, and I pretend not to notice.

“Thank you, Dr. Ambrose,” she says before her attention drifts toward the frame on my desk. Her expression lightens as she points to it. “Is that your family?”