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“No. They said that was for you to divulge. I’m not asking you to share anything you don’t want to share.”
“I don’t talk about it with anyone,” she said. “Except my therapist. Sometimes Boxer, but even then…”
“Really?”
“It’s hard for him. I try to spare him the pain of my pain.” She shook her head. “So, I don’t talk about it if I can compartmentalize it. Becoming mixed up with the Blue Angels almost cost me my career.“
“Almost?”
“Either I’m really determined to heal”—she held up the three middle fingers of her right hand that were gruesomely scarred—“or someone up there”—she pointed to the ceiling—“is looking out for me. I can still perform surgery.”
“Why did you open the clinic?” I asked.
“I opened it so that if I wasn’t able to perform surgery ever again, at least I could practice medicine. I knew I could still be a good doctor, just maybe not a great surgeon.”
“Now I know why you’re sitting at the bar drinking alone.”
Two servers carting large black trays with plates of food sailed past us in the direction of our table.
“We should probably get back there,” Linden said.
“You go,” I said. “I really did need to hit the restroom.”
As I was drying my hands on a paper towel in the bathroom, my phone rang. I fished my cell out of my bag, hoping it was Slash. Disappointment curled through me for a moment when I saw it wasn’t him, but Jazz.
“Hey,” I greeted, phone to my ear.
“Hey, you gotta sec?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Horace called about the van.”
“Already?”
“Yep. He can get a new gas tank in a few days.”
“Good news, then,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Not really.”
“I’m out right now, but I’ll be home later if you want to come by.”
“Thanks, but I think I want to wallow in private.”
“You’re really not going to tell me about it? You, who demands to know everything I’m feeling.”
“It’s stupid.”
“I doubt that.”
“Life. Just life. Weighing me down.”
“Is it your mom?”
