by Emily Childs
“So family medicine.”
Dot nods. “You comfortable with that?”
She has no idea how comfortable I am. “I really enjoy family practice, believe it or not.”
“I thought you were into cardiac care. At least that’s what Zac told us,” Lily says through a mouthful of breaded okra.
“I work at a cardiac clinic back home. But my first interest was general practice. I love the variety, I guess.”
“It’s busy,” Dot warns. “Especially at nights, but we could open up five to six evenings a week if you came to help. It would help a lot of folks. I already spoke about it with Doctor Raymond, and he’s willing to be the supervising physician like you mentioned. He seemed rather relieved actually.”
I can’t ignore the swirling in my stomach. I belong in patient care, and not that I was glad August hurt his hand, but I went into another part of myself. Like a natural instinct took hold, drawing me to do what I was meant to do. “I’m willing, and if the judge allows it, I’d love to help.”
Olive rolls her eyes. “Oh, I doubt McKinnon will fight this as long as everyone agrees. He’s not one to make waves and bring more courtroom shenanigans more than necessary. Besides, it’s for a wonderful cause.”
I agree, but there is one more problem. “Yeah, but if Zac has a problem with it, I doubt the judge would agree since it’s clear there’s a connection there. I have half a mind to scream conflict of interest in the entire sentence.”
“Half a mind, but you don’t,” Lily says, and I detect an underlying meaning.
“It’s not like I don’t realize that I rammed into the pump,” I admit. “I wish Zac hadn’t called the police, but—don’t ever tell him this—I can understand why he did.” I bite out the words. “I could appeal, I guess, but I don’t think it would go anywhere. My boyfriend’s father is an attorney, and he advised I don’t try to fight it or the sentence could have the opposite outcome. As in more fines, or time. Not worth the risk.”
“Well, you’ve given it some thought.” Dot brushes her cinnamon hair over her shoulder. “I suppose community service could be worse than hanging out with three—excuse me, I always forget about Mouse—four, handsome mechanics all day. Especially if you come hang out at the clinic, it won’t be all bad, will it?”
“No, it’s not as bad as it could be.” I glance at Olive, embarrassed to even ask. “If I do work at the clinic, I might need to take you up on your offer for a car.”
Olive wiggles the keys. “It’s yours.”
“It’s a nice car though . . .”
“True, but even if you crash into gas pumps, I get the feeling I can trust you.”
“Besides, Ollie’s daddy will buy her another one if anything happens to the silver bullet.” Dot laughs.
Olive snorts and kicks Dot underneath the table. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, he would not. I told you, Rafe and I live on our salaries alone. I just happen to really love the car.”
I’m curious about the background of Olive the schoolteacher who wears genuine pearls and drives a new BMW.
Lily leans in. “You’ll need to go on up to Olive’s parents’ house someday. The place is enormous and the gardens are breathtaking this time of year.”
“Really? Is it an old plantation?”
Olive shakes her head. “Oh, nothing like that—although we should take you to see one while you’re here. My parents have property, but that belongs to mama and daddy, I’m quite content where I am.”
“Be content,” Dot says, “but it’s nice to have the Big House to visit every once in a while, even you can admit that.”
“You should talk,” says Olive. “Living in that big beach house by yourself. You’re like a queen in her castle.”
“Don’t forget it either.”
The more we talk, the more ashamed I am. All my prejudices, hick jokes, they’re blowing up in my face and I feel bad for spewing it all at Zac before I even knew him or his people. I like these women. I like Rafe and August. I like . . . Zac. There, I said it. I like Zac Dawson.
Once the waitress brings boxes for our leftover food, Dot corners me before we leave the table. “So, do I have a firm yes from you about the clinic? I’ll need to get the paperwork settled with my parents and let Doctor Raymond know.”
“I want to, trust me. That isn’t the problem. I guess it’s in Zac’s hands really, and how much pull he has with the judge. If he even talks to the man. Maybe he’ll keep me at the shop longer just to spite me.”
Dot smiles, and I must’ve missed the joke. “I wouldn’t worry about Zac standing in your way.”
“Don’t be so sure. I’m not exactly Zac’s favorite person.”
Lily snorts in her water and Olive taps the table with a grin. Dot simply looks confused.
“I think Zac will be just fine with whatever you choose,” Olive says.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Listen, I’ve known Zac for a long time, and just trust me—I don’t think he’d want to stand in the way of anything that might make you feel a little better.”
They laugh, clearly at me, but as we finish our plates, we don’t say another word about Zac Dawson.
“You were serious about that?”
I’m quiet for a long time. Emmitt’s tone is rife in disappointment after I tell him about the potential job at the clinic. I clear my throat and finish stroking mascara onto my lashes. “Yeah. I don’t mean this twisted or anything, but when I was suturing that mechanic’s hand—I felt like myself for once.”
“I get that, what I don’t get is why you want to work at a grungy family clinic.”
“Why do you think it’s grungy? The people who own it are as far from grungy as can be.”
“Come on, Jo. It’s a free clinic, right? Low-income . . .”
“That’s an arrogant thing to say, Emmitt. Not everyone has good insurance or can afford care all the time. It doesn’t mean they’re grungy.”
“I know, Jo, I’m the doctor, right? I understand how insurance works.”
Emmitt rarely tosses the doctor card in my face. I have a lot of liberties with my education, but still need a supervising physician, and sometimes Emmitt uses it against me.
“Well, I’m hoping I can start covering nights.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asks in such a way it sounds as though I’m betraying him.
“Doing what?”
“I mean, why a general practice clinic? I thought you were specializing in cardiac care?”
I scoff. “Emmitt, I am, but for the next three weeks, if I can do what I love to do, then I think it’s a small victory.”
“I thought we talked about family practice a long time ago. I thought you got all that out of your system. This is backward, and not the sort of focus you need to have.”
“You know I enjoy family practice.”
He groans. “Yes, I know, and I also know it’s some unhealthy connection to your dad and look where that got him.”
I draw in a sharp breath. My heart pounds in my ribs. How could he say that? If he felt betrayed because I don’t live and breathe the heart, I am certainly betrayed by the knife in my back.
Emmitt awkwardly clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But we have goals, Jo. I’m going to need support if I’m going to be a name in cardiothoracic surgery. I need a partner who wants the same things as me, you know?”
Right, a partner. My blood rushes too fast, and my insides feel like they might turn in knots. “I want that for you,” I whisper.
“See, I knew you’d—”
“But I want that for me, too.” Am I doing this?
“What do you mean?”
“I . . . I need support too. I have interests outside of specialties. If I want to change my direction, then I need support from my partner. Emmitt, I think—”
“Jo, what are you doing?” he interrupts.
Something I should’ve done a year ago. “I think I need some time, Emmitt. We�
�ve been on different pages for a long time. I think maybe this is a good time to take a break and see what we both want.”
“Are you serious? After a week, you just decide—”
“After a week, if I’m feeling this way, don’t you think that might be a clue that we have things to work on?”
He scoffs and curses under his breath. “You’re something else, Jo. So, I hurt your feelings and you decide you want to break up. Really mature. You know what, whatever. I don’t need someone whose hand needs to be held through her emotional baggage.”
“Okay, Emmitt, that’s too—”
But the phone goes dead. I stare aghast at the blank screen. Three years and he spits out emotional baggage? He’s hurt, I tell myself. But when my heart should be broken, I feel . . . lighter.
I toss my phone aside and cuddle the pillow on the bed. I might have baggage that I keep locked inside, but that isn’t why I want to work for Dot’s clinic. I love family practice. I belong there.
The conversation with Emmitt rolls around in my skull for a moment before I decide enough is enough. I snag my bag of unwashed clothes, hope Zac is at the shop, but I’m too flustered to even care if I run into the man.
I’m too flustered that I don’t even notice that the idea has some appeal. I’m not ready to dissect what that means.
12
Zac
I swipe a hand through the steam on the mirror. My body aches from the day, but it’s a good ache. I don’t mind hard work, and if I’m not a little sore, then I need to check my effort. I slip on a pair of basketball shorts on, rehang the towel, then flip on the electric razor to trim what my mom is dubbing my new mountain man look. If I don’t do it, the woman will sneak in at night and do it herself.
Rafe and Olive invited me over to their place, but tonight I’m tired. After nearly two hours on the phone with Judge McKinnon, anyone would call it a day. The man droned on about fishing trips, and then the big one—he got on a dream rant about Agatha Dawson. There is nothing more awkward than a man talking about your mother like they are a hormonal kid looking for a prom date. No matter how many times I insisted all her needs were being met, McKinnon resorted to expressing how he needed to stop by since she didn’t have a man to help her out. Who the heck did he think I was? Could be fun to watch Mama rip McKinnon a new one when he tried to call her ‘little lady’ or something hilarious like that.
The entire long-winded conversation had been worth it, though. I’ll have good news for Jo in the morning. If she could resist scowling at me. Those eyes—they were hypnotizing sometimes, the way her pale coloring turned lavender when the light struck them just right. I admired how Jo slipped next to August without hesitating when he’d cut his hand. Her soothing tone, her quick, gentle hands—she had a gift for easing fears in people, it was clear watching her work. After that, I’ve been bothered that I had a part to play in ripping her away from her life. I’m sure people are missing her.
A clatter down the hallway startles me from my wandering thoughts of Jo Richards. I flip the switch on the razor and arch toward the door, listening for the noise again. A low rumble like a distant car humming to life, sends a prickle down my spine. I open the bathroom door, rush through my bedroom, and ease the door to the hallway open. I breathe out a sigh. It’s only the washing machine.
But . . . I’m not doing laundry.
I creep down the hall, peek into the small room, then stifle a laugh. Jo’s braid swings back and forth as she sways to whatever beat is blaring in her pink earbuds. Her tongue clicks and her hum echoes in the small room. There’s something sweet about the way her head bobs to the music. I step into the room, inching closer, until I’m basically ensnared. The silky vanilla of her perfume lured me in and now I’m stuck, shirtless, like a psychopath staring at the back of her head. Quit being weird. I tap her shoulder and chaos breaks out.
Jo screams. I jump back. She almost slips, clutching her heart, but I’m quick to catch her. Before I know what just happened, my arm is around her waist, her hectic pulse keeps time with mine. I shudder because in the near fall, Jo’s hands pressed against my bare chest, and I didn’t think such an innocent thing would send my head underwater.
Her full lips part, and I notice how full they are for the first time. How I’d like to taste those lips, and then heat rushes to my face. She hasn’t pulled away, her eyes scan my face, she’s blinking too fast. Did Jo ever let a few thoughts slip like I do? No. She has a boyfriend. But the tips of her fingers sort of dance over my skin, and I wonder the same thing again. I know letting myself slip down that hole is stupid, it’s wrong, but there is something about how she feels in my arms that leaves me wanting to fall into the hole even deeper.
“Why,” she says in a rasp and releases my arms. She flicks her eyes to my chest. “Why, uh . . . are you . . . naked?”
I look down at my damp skin. “I’m not. Shirtless is a far cry from naked, Jo.” I’m trying to make light of an awkward situation, and I think it’s working. The corner of her mouth twitches. “A man is allowed to walk around his own house without his shirt down here. I don’t know about you New Yorkers, but we keep it pretty casual in the south. I mean it’s not like you’re not getting a heck of a show.”
I wiggle my brows and take a bit of victory in the way she drags her bottom lip between her teeth. Then reality snaps into place and she rolls her eyes. Hey, she’s still smiling, though. No scowl in place.
“Well, maybe give the girl you handed your key to fair warning if you plan to admire yourself.”
“Oh, I was. Just standing there ogling.”
“Ogling? Okay, thesaurus.”
I laugh. Then laugh with a bit of nervousness because my hands are definitely still on the small of her back. Why hasn’t she pulled away? Why haven’t I? Easy. I like being like this. I can’t speak for her, though. “I try to say a smart word at least once a day.”
Jo chuckles, then to my regret, she pulls back. “I was, uh, well obviously taking you up on your offer to do laundry. I was about to start offending you guys with my stink if I didn’t.”
I laugh and lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “Need any help?”
She scoffs. “Thank you, but no. Something about you folding things that go in my top drawer is weird.”
“I’m not shy.”
She slugs my arm. When did this happen? Are we really flirting? Or maybe it’s nothing more than we’re getting used to each other. Either way, I like it.
“Go away, Zachariah,” she says with a grin.
“Okay.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Want something to eat? I was going to whip something up.”
“You cook?”
“Why do you sound so surprised? I did cut the cord on my mom needing to feed me a couple years ago.”
She snorts a laugh. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. I’m a pro.”
A bit of red tints her cheeks as she folds one of her T-shirts. “Okay, Zachariah. Show me what you’ve got.”
I wink and disappear down the hall. “Oh, so with your pasta do you prefer boxed Mac ‘n’ cheese or Spaghetti-o’s?”
When she laughs until she coughs, I decide right there, that I could hear that sound every day until I kick the bucket.
I make more than canned food. I’m not bad around a grill and know how to steam vegetables like a grown up. When Jo brings her clean clothes out, her eyes widen. “Wow.”
“I told you.”
“But I really wanted mac ‘n’ cheese.”
“Next time, Jo,” I say. By now I’ve had the decency to put on a shirt, but I still feel like I’m more exposed than before. My hands are all sweaty and I realize like a punch to the gut, I’ve never made dinner for a woman not related to me before.
“This is too much,” she says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your night.”
I crack a knuckle, if only to keep my hands busy and not give away that I’m actually nervous. “Interrupt my night of sitting on
the couch watching TV Hate to break it to you, Jo, I’m boring.”
She agrees with me, but it’s absent the bite. “I won’t stay long all the same.”
“You’re not in my way,” I tell her. No beating around the bush. I’d like it if she stayed a while. I clear my throat and sit. “So, how was the lunch?”
She hesitated, and I wonder if it’s hitting her that this is so not us. Small talk, laughing, teasing with smiles. Whatever caused her to pause, she shakes her head a little and a genuine smile crosses her lips. “Lunch was fun. Thanks for letting me off the rest of the afternoon. Surprisingly nice of you.”
“I’m no hero, Jo. I didn’t have a choice, not when Olive and Lily are involved. Those women could live on the beach and be plum happy. The second they took you there, I knew you’d be gone for hours.”
Jo laughs. “You run a lax ship if your employees’ wives can tell you what to do.”
Zac tilts his head. “Would you cross Ollie or Lily? Or worse—Dot?”
“No, I suppose they have their ways of making you suffer, but what I know of them, they wouldn’t stop smiling and complimenting you while they did it.”
“Southern hospitality even through torture. It’s our way,” I say. She smiles, but for the first time, I notice there is something shadowing her eyes. Like she’s hiding something inside. “So, what’s wrong?”
“What? Nothing’s wrong.”
I shrug. “I don’t buy that.”
“You have a nice house?” she blurts out.
I smirk. “Does that offend you?”
She lets out a long sigh. “No, I’m making conversation, Zachariah.”
I stand and take her plate to the sink. “I’m onto you, Josephine. You were avoiding my question.”
Jo smiles, but her shoulders slump. “I’m fine, really. I, uh, I broke up with Emmitt before coming over.”
My heart jumps in my chest. I turn away and use the excuse of loading our plates in the dishwasher to hide whatever stupid expression is on my face. I’m sure it’s obvious. I’ve never been one to hide what’s going on inside. “Uh, sorry. Want to vent? Curse Doctor Dumb’s name?”
