I fought against the wish, frowning as I continued, “All of our staff clinicians have varying levels of communication training, but the School of Medicine wanted everyone’s training to be consistent with the curriculum you developed. I’ve agreed to coordinate the training process, but it’s not really my area of expertise. I’d be interested in learning, though, if you don’t mind going over some basics.”
“Fine.”
I eyed her grimace of discomfort. Why didn’t she just sit down? Still as stubborn as I’d remembered. “We should start from the beginning. Are there basic requirements that we need to be watching for? Rudimentary quality assurance?”
“A few. There’s the basics. Things one might think are basic, anyway, but are easily forgotten when you’re a doc running behind in a stressful, busy clinic. Maybe more so if you’re talking to someone through a screen.”
I leaned back. At least she was talking to me, and God knew the project needed her help. “Like what?”
She ticked off items on her fingers. “Greeting the person upon entering the room. Using their name. Not interrupting. Then, starting with collaborative goal setting. Not just asking the patient why they came and immediately launching into the diagnostic questions, but inviting them to decide what topics will be covered during the visit. Avoiding medical jargon. Responding empathetically to concerns. Including the patient in decision-making about the treatment plan.”
“Okay.” This was a good start, and she was incredibly beautiful.
“Our Patient Experience team manages the coaching here. You can assign ongoing training refreshers to someone on your end to keep everyone’s skills up over time.”
“Fair enough. But why the video cameras? Can’t you observe and tick off those behaviors with something less intrusive, like audio recording? Couldn’t you get the gist of what’s going on without the whole Big Brother vibe?”
“Verbal communication—what’s said out loud—is only half the picture. Less, even. The stuff we say only accounts for about ten percent of what we communicate. The other ninety percent? Transmitted nonverbally.”
I studied her still-crossed arms, pointedly lifting a brow at the way she’d positioned herself as far away from me as possible on the other side of the examining table. “You don’t say.”
She ignored this. “Nonverbal communication gives us a window into more subtly expressed attitudes. Shows us what’s happening on the conscious and unconscious levels and helps us to study things like implicit racial bias, weight bias, and synchrony.”
“Synchrony? I think I read about this in a men’s health magazine. They claimed matching nonverbal behavior with a new date could increase the odds of—” Seeing her expression darken I hastily amended, “A happy ever after.”
She shook her head at me, with that same disapproving scowl she’d used since we were kids. “When two people are in sync communicatively, mirroring each other, moving in tandem, it’s like watching Ginger and Fred dancing. It’s an unconscious thing. People are often unaware it’s happening. But that’s where the magic is. We’re more likely to synchronize with others that we’re in a positive relationship with, who we want to be in a positive relationship with or who we trust.” Something flickered in her eyes, then disappeared. “That matters in a clinical setting like this because we think that synchrony between a patient and clinician is associated with more collaborative decision-making and better recall of information. Studying nonverbal communication tells us the story of that process.”
I took a moment to take in our placement. Me, sitting. Her, standing, far away, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in obvious discomfort. Abruptly, she turned away from me, as if the diagram of IUD placement on the opposite wall required all her attention.
Who we trust.
An old memory slammed into me. A younger us. One of the million times she sat in the V of my legs, head tucked against my chest. She leaned back to smile at me, eyes full of trust, as she offered me a bite of her sandwich.
Today, the look in her eyes had been far from warm.
There was no point in prolonging this. Whatever magic we’d once had was gone. My being here only further destroyed what I’d ruined all those years ago.
“It’s okay,” I said, studying my hands. “I think I’ve got what I came for. If you wouldn’t mind showing me the capture station—because I am interested in how this is transmitted—I’d appreciate it. I won’t bother you anymore, Zora. Not any more than I have to after this.”
There was no mistaking the obvious relief that flitted across her features, the way her shoulders relaxed from their hunched position.
“If you’re fine with that,” she said, but she was already moving, limping, toward the door. “I’ll just show you into the closet—”
“I can’t say I hear that all that often around here,” a new voice said.
I turned to see a tiny, dark-haired woman in a lab coat in the doorway, arms folded. Something about her was familiar.
“Hey, Zora,” she said, taking a few steps into the room once Zora backed up. She studied me. “Who’s this?”
“This is—”
“Nick,” I said, before Zora claimed I was a stranger who just wandered in off the street. “Zora and I are old friends. She’s been nice enough to show me around, explain her work.”
“This is Dr. Adesola Rojas.” Zora watched me with narrowed eyes.
It clicked. “You’re the gynecologist from the video?”
Adesola gave me an alert glance. “What video? You saw one of our videos?”
I gave Zora a quick glance. “Uh, you know. The educational one. For the young adults . . .”
Adesola frowned, her head tilted. “Yeah, all the videos are for our young adults. What was the topic?”
I looked to Zora and realized she’d be no help. She seemed lost in thought, staring into the empty doorway. “It was, uh, about young women making sure they, uh, took care of themselves, uh, empowered themselves—” I broke off, seeing Adesola’s gaze now wide and fixed on my hands. Looking down, I watched as my hands nervously twitched at my waist. More than that, the pointer and middle fingers of my right hand were stuck together and drawing small, tight circles in the air.
What the hell? Had I really mimed working a clit?
Fuck.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck.
Adesola grinned at me. “Never mind, I think I know which one now.” She threw a teasing look at Zora. “Yep, you two are from the same tribe. Excuse me for butting in. I heard Zora was here and I just wanted to stick my head in and say hello. I heard about the grant. I’m sorry, Z.”
Zora’s already strained expression tightened further. For the first time, I recognized the weariness in her face. “It’s okay. Part of life, right?”
“Right,” Adesola agreed, lips twisted. “Wanna catch up later, talk next steps?”
“Yeah.”
I watched Zora and the new notch between her brows.
Adesola’s gaze moved between the two of us before settling on Zora. A grin suddenly spread across her face. “Well. I’ve got rounds. Nice to meet you, Zora’s Friend. You kids have fun in the closet.”
Chapter Six
Zora
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
I couldn’t do this.
I picked my way down the clinic hallway, feet screaming with each excruciating step. Nick’s presence behind me warmed my neck and sent my stomach into aching spasms. But I did my best to slow my stride, trying to shuffle forward at a dignified, measured pace.
I had a feeling I looked like a peg-legged parrot lurching down the hall.
God help me, it was all falling apart. All my carefully constructed walls and boundaries were in danger of crumbling the longer I was around him. I was reassured by the qualities I remembered while also confronted with new data that ultimately proved I didn’t know who he was.
Not anymore.
I remembered that same sharp interest
, the curiosity that fueled so many of our childhood imaginations. But there was also a new edge to him, a subtle cloak of power that made me vaguely uneasy.
I needed to get away from him. Quickly. Away from him, and that knowing gaze, to someplace with a chair.
I’d arrived at the hospital early, wanting to get myself ready for this moment. I’d listened to a meditation curated by my favorite TV life coach in my car. It was supposed to help me center my energy and prepare to conquer any challenges I encountered. “You can do this,” I’d repeated at top-volume, clenching the steering wheel as I screeched and drew startled glances from passersby. You are strong. You are capable. You are prepared for anything that happens today. Then I’d freestyled: It doesn’t matter how long he’s been gone, it doesn’t matter what he has to say. It doesn’t matter that he looks like a tree in need of climbing.
He broke your heart.
You will get through this. Done and over with.
And then, seeing him in the lobby, I’d gone numb.
He’d met me at the coffee shop adjacent to the hospital’s entrance. He was in all black, in jeans and a black sweater that looked soft to the touch and did little to hide his sculpted torso. Gripping a coffee cup, he’d fixed an intent stare at the opposite entrance. I was happy to have the element of surprise when I approached him from behind, prompting a startled reaction from him.
The look on his face when he finally saw me, recognized me? Something like relief relaxed his features, followed by a wide smile. It was the Nick smile. The one that once belonged only to me.
And the redhead, I reminded myself.
I had to keep my feet planted in the memories, so I’d endeavored to be strong, to fortify my heart. After less than twenty minutes in his presence, I wasn’t feeling all that strong. I bit my lip, cursing the fact that there was another corner to turn, another corridor to walk through.
Why did I wear these shoes?
Don’t pretend you don’t know why.
Self, pipe down if you only have judgmental things to say.
But yeah, I did know why.
I’d gone on a Googling spree after Leigh and Walker left, unable to stop myself from poring over images of Nick. Nick at a gala with an actress from one of my mother’s favorite soap operas, handsome in a tux. Nick running on the beach with a New York socialite in the Hamptons, defined abs on full display. When Leigh showed up in my doorway with her revered Jimmy Choos, I took them and figured I’d just have to take one for the team.
I’d needed to recalibrate the power differential I’d felt ever since the moment he and Nellie showed up in my doorway and I’d ended up on my hands and knees under my desk.
I needed to project cool, professional distance, but I was no longer sure if my feet could carry me to our next destination. I winced, angry at myself and the insecurities that would eventually cripple me. Rage was far more manageable in flats or Birkenstocks.
I’d almost reached the corner when I recognized the woman headed in my direction.
“Hey, Carly.” I slowed to a stop to greet one of my research assistants. “How goes it? Do we have a taping today?”
She gave me a cautious smile; her gaze running over Nick behind me. “Hey, Dr. Leffersbee. No, I’m actually working out of the center today. I just stopped by to let the repairman into the capture room. He’s all done.”
I introduced her to Mr. Rossi and listened to his follow-up questions as he queried her about our colon cancer prevention program. Carly was a tightly wound, neurotic woman of few words, known for barking at other research staff if they asked too many questions. Yet she stood patiently, cheeks reddening and eyes wide, as Nick fired off questions about at-home colon cancer test kits.
Great. He charmed everyone in his path.
I half-listened as their conversation meandered through random topics. After a while I realized Carly, who never had more than a few non-work related sentences to share, was telling Nick all about her son, his senior year, and the planned senior trip. They were almost friends by the time their chatter finally ended and I led him to the designated door.
“This is a closet,” Nick said, sounding scandalized as I swung open the door.
“It’s just the right size,” I countered, feeling the tiny room was even tinier than I remembered.
It had been a janitor’s supply closet. After its conversion to a “capture studio,” it only needed to accommodate a team of two research assistants. A narrow strip of fluorescent light lit the room, but the dark cement walls somehow absorbed any illumination, throwing the room in perpetual shadow. A narrow desk ran the short length of the room on one side, with two chairs tucked under it.
We didn’t have far at all before we reached the console in the corner that controlled the examining rooms’ cameras. I powered it on, narrating my efforts to demonstrate the cameras’ capabilities. The monitor came alive with side-by-side displays of the room we’d just left. Nick was a pillar at my elbow, peering closely at the screen as I managed the navigation controls, zooming in and changing angles.
“Carly’s a single parent?”
The question was so unexpected and the topic so random that I turned in his direction without thinking. He was close, really close, stooped low over my shoulder to see the camera displays. I could see each of the dark hairs dotting his chin, the individual strands of silver at his temples. I looked directly into his eyes without thinking and my heart stopped.
Damn it.
His gaze searched mine. His chest lifted with an audible inhalation.
Damn, I missed him. I’d loved him so much. But that was so long ago. Why wasn’t there a button or a switch I could turn off in my brain?
“Carly’s my employee,” I said carefully. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to disclose any of her personal information—”
“It’s okay, I get it.” His gaze stayed on mine, briefly dipped to my mouth, returned to my eyes.
All the nerves along my face and arms tingled, as if I’d stepped into the intense glare of some immense heat or light.
“Zora—”
“So, that’s my lab,” I said, hoping he would accept the note of finality I injected in my voice. “I hope you found it helpful. Should you have any other questions, Nellie knows how to contact me.”
Silence.
I willed myself not to look back, not to get lost in him again. I powered down the console, gathered up my bag and turned to go, intent on shepherding Nick out of the room.
And out of my life.
He stood in the doorway, arms folded, gaze disturbingly intent.
My mouth went dry.
“Uhh . . .”
“This may be my only chance to get this said. So I’ll ask you to just . . . let me get it out.”
“What?” I regretted it as soon as I said it. I’d always been annoyed by manufactured displays of ignorance. Here I’d gone and done the same thing.
However, as of today, I better understood the instincts that fueled these kinds of verbal games. I thought I’d wanted an explanation, a justification of his past actions. But now, more than anything, I wanted to stop whatever he was about to say. What if it was somehow worse than what he’d already done? Why was the burden on me to relive the pain from all those years ago, just because he’d reappeared on my doorstep?
He unfolded his arms with a sigh and straightened.
I was suddenly reminded of how very small the room was, and how very large he was. Only three of his giant steps and he was directly in front of me.
I held my ground. Looking into those green eyes, I wondered why I’d doubted it was him at first sight.
“I left because I’d wanted what was best for you. And at the time, I wasn’t that. I wasn’t what you needed. I would’ve only held you back. When I realized that . . . I did what I thought was best.”
Outside, a knot of women loudly discussed lunch options.
“Could you close the door? Please?”
He nodded and turned to close
the door. I took the opportunity when those unnerving eyes weren’t prying into mine to settle myself. I’d always hated showing my emotions, specifically the untidy ones. The ugly ones. The cruel irony was this man standing in front of me had once been the only human with whom I’d been comfortable being a mess.
Now I needed to make sure I kept my composure in place and withstood anything he had to say. Because he was also the one person who hurt me the worst.
“Go ahead,” I said, hating the cautious, watchful look on his face, hating the hint of smoke I heard in my own voice. But if we were going to do this, then so be it.
I took a step forward and his brows went up. I aimed my next words up, directly into his face. “So, why now? What’s the purpose of you coming back, kicking up dirt from the past? You moved on a long time ago. Not long after you left, as a matter-of-fact.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I—”
“You what?” I hissed. A voice at the back of my brain spoke up, timidly suggesting maybe I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to have this conversation right here and now. That the likelihood of my saying something I’d regret was increasing exponentially.
Oh well. Bite me. I was done being well-behaved.
Nick stepped back and I advanced into his space, fueled by the fury warming my bloodstream. “What’s my part in all this, Nick? Is this the part where I’m supposed to tell you I accept your apology? That it’s all good, it’s okay? That we likely wouldn’t have stayed together anyway because we were just two dumb kids who didn’t know any better?”
His mouth opened, closed.
“And then what’s your line, after I say my part? You pat yourself on the back, console yourself, walk away feeling like you’re still a good person? Is that what you need? You want my permission to feel better about yourself?”
Nick went still, his face stiffening. His gaze didn’t leave mine, but I saw the change in his eyes. Saw something lurking there.
There was no way I could stem the tide of emotions barreling out of me. I was as helpless as he was against the force of my own anger, disappointment, rage, and bitterness. “You’ve apologized. Be happy with that. I don’t intend to pat you on the head and tell you I forgive you so you can go on and live your life guilt-free.”
Been There Done That Page 7
