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Have I changed?
I glance down and see the tops of my sneakers, under the cuffs of my jeans. They’re my trail-running shoes, bright blue and orange. They look too clean because I haven’t hit the trails much this spring. Too busy working at the clinic, mostly. Andworking on the house. And paying bills and trying to get to Chicago when I can, to see my dad whose health isn’t great.
She said that thing about how her life in California was a mess. And if I’m honest, my life here in Stillwell isn’t so hot, either.
I overheard two nurses talking about me at the clinic. They didn’t know I was down the hall, within earshot. One called me Doctor Doom.
At first I thought she was referring to Merriweather.
But nope. It wasmeshe was talking about.
Doctor Doom.
When did I become Doctor Doom?
Nurses literally flinch when I walk into the staff room. They fall silent and stare at their sandwiches and stop talking. And when we’re all at the computer stations in the hall, people don’t ask me how my weekend was, or whether I have any vacations planned.
I know I’ve been stern with a few people at the clinic, but do I really deservethatnickname?
And when did I become a happy-hour regular at The Buck, solo?
Also, I own a huge house. A regular guy might have a wife or kids to share the place with. But me? I barely know what to put in the many rooms.
I’m in my thirties now. Maddison is, too. We both have problems in our lives. And—no, it’s not like we’re going to meet in the Fredericks Hall study room at two a.m. tonight and everything will be okay. I know life doesn’t work like that anymore, for either of us.
But that doesn’t change the fact that in some way, the spark between us is still there. And being around her makes me feel lighter, and happier, and like somehow, everythingisgoing to be okay.
I’m glad she’s going to live next door.
Even if it’s just for a little while.
Maybe having a good friend back in my life is exactly the medicine I need.
Chapter 4
Maddison
“No thanks, I already ate,” I tell Roxie when she sets down the take-out carton on the coffee table.
French toast and maple syrup smells waft out when she flips the lid open.
I plop down onto the couch next to her and accept the plastic fork she holds out. “Then again, that was three hours ago and I do have a big day ahead.”
“Thought so,” she says. “No one can say no to Grandma’s Fluffy Stack French Toast. You know her secret, right?”
“Love?” I guess, as I tuck in.
“Not really, but not a bad guess. She does care. I’m talking about an actual secret ingredient.”
“I’m the only Bradshaw in three generations not to don an apron, so no, I don’t know. Oh… wow—I’ve missed these.” The light-as-air French toast melts on my tongue. Fluffy, eggy, sweet. I dab another forkful in maple syrup.
Roxie folds her legs up, lotus style, and faces me like we’re two kids about to play patty-cake. “Club soda,” she says.
“Lawn mower.”
“Hunh?”
I swipe off a drip of maple syrup from my chin. “I thought we were playing a game where we say random words. Lawn mower. Ceiling fan. Rickshaw.”
