Chapter Four #2
She steps back, walking toward the door in reverse, her gaze still tethered to mine. “Nope.” She picks up her purse and gives a lazy wave as she turns.
The door swings shut behind her, leaving me standing with a pool cue in my hand, a scoreboard that screams loser, and one hell of a craving that’s not going anywhere.
Not for a long, long time.
Now that Ginny’s gone, I can’t find much reason to stick around, so a little while later, I head out too. The drive to my house should take ten minutes. I’m on track to make it in seven. My mind is whirling.
She’s a Dempsey. Every second I spend wanting her is one more step toward a choice my family won’t forgive. She’s exactly right. How could it not be complicated? Why doesn’t that seem to matter?
Every second, I’m chewing on the same damn thought, What the hell am I doing?
Ginny Dempsey. She’s got a mouth like a blade and a body that won’t quit, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she looks at me. Like she’s already decided I’m trouble but can’t help circling anyway. And I know she’s trouble too.
I guess I want to find out how much.
I blow out a breath and shift lanes, my headlights carving through the curves that hug Black Bear Lake. The water’s dark and smooth, reflecting the moon like it’s trying to stay neutral in this town. Too bad nothing else is.
I grew up hearing her last name spit like a curse.
And now, I’m thinking about her mouth for all the wrong reasons.
I drag a hand down my face as I turn in to my driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
The lights of my house flick on as I hit the remote, casting shadows out the windows. Everything’s quiet. Still.
Unlike my brain.
If anyone in my family even suspected what went down in that bar tonight, they’d be supremely unimpressed. Tarryn would lecture me. Beckett would shake his head—though maybe he wouldn’t be surprised. Kingston would…disappear on his high horse.
Maybe I should focus on that.
But being careful has nothing on the way Ginny made me feel tonight. Like I’d finally met someone who could keep up. Push back. Throw fire and not flinch when I throw it in return.
She didn’t walk away with just the win tonight—twice. She walked away with something I didn’t know I’d put on the line. I thought I wanted another night, one more hit of her fire. But now I’m not so sure. Maybe what I really want…is to matter.
I hate how much I enjoy being with her.
I shut off the engine but don’t move. Just sit there in the quiet, hands loose on the wheel, her voice still echoing. “If I’m ever in a position to have an itch scratched, I’ll call you.”
Yeah. And if I were smart, I’d block her number instead of waiting for that day to arrive.
But I won’t.
Because I already know, if she called me, I’d pick up on the first ring.
I’ve learned that pediatrics is most often a carousel of colds, coughs, and crying kids on repeat. I’ve also learned I don’t mind it. The noise, the pace—it keeps things moving, keeps my head out of everything else, even the things I should probably be dealing with.
But today, the moment I push open the door to exam room three and catch the look from Mel, my medical assistant, I know this is going to be a different sort of Monday.
“New patient,” she says quietly, stepping out of the room to intercept me. “Six years old. Foster placement. Nonverbal since the transfer. Possible signs of trauma. Just came from the Ministry of Children and Family Development’s care last week.”
Mel’s seen plenty over the years—hell, we all have—but the cases that come with the word trauma hit differently. Especially when the kid can’t—or won’t—speak.
I nod once, jaw tight. “Thanks, Mel.”
She gives me a sympathetic look, then disappears down the hall, leaving me alone at the threshold. I take a breath, reset my posture, and step inside.
The boy is tiny, smaller than most six year olds, sitting stiff and guarded on the exam table.
His knees are pulled to his chest like armor.
His socks don’t match. His hair is a little too long, curling over his ears, and there’s a scab healing above his left eyebrow.
I make note of it automatically, but my focus stays on the way his eyes avoid me completely, head turned just enough that I can’t catch even a hint of expression.
In the corner stands the foster mom, Jocelyn Ward—tired, late forties maybe, with kind eyes and a cardigan that’s been tugged at one too many times.
“This is Eli Stone,” she says. “He’s… He hasn’t said a word since he came to us last week. Eats okay. Sleeps…okay. But sometimes he just sits like this for hours.” Her voice wavers, and I see the fear in her eyes, not fear of the boy, but fear she’s not enough to help him.
“Hi, bud,” I say gently, crouching so we’re at eye level. “I’m Dr. Ryker. Heard you’ve had a rough few weeks.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just sits there, small and still, a knot of tension barely breathing.
Then, when my voice dips a little too low, too close to some memory I’ll never know, he flinches. Just a twitch of the shoulder. Barely anything. But enough to make my gut clench.
Shit. Whoever hurt this kid didn’t just leave bruises. They left ghosts.
I look back at the foster mom, who’s watching me like I might have the magic answer. I don’t. But I know how to take my time. I know how to show up.
And I know this boy needs me to be something he doesn’t expect.
Safe.
I back off a step and grab a tongue depressor from the counter, holding it like a lightsaber. “Are you a Star Wars fan?” I ask, keeping my voice light. I make a few slow sound effects, waving the stick through the air. “Wom, wom, wom…”
Still nothing. No smile. No movement. Just his dark eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past my shoulder, like if he stays frozen long enough, the world might forget he’s there.
I turn to Jocelyn again, and she lifts her hands in a helpless shrug.
“I don’t know what he likes yet,” she says.
“I’ve only had him a few days. He’s…sweet.
But quiet. Just like this.” She gestures to the boy.
“He wets the bed every night and screams sometimes in his sleep. Won’t let me tuck him in.
He doesn’t speak, but he hums sometimes. Not like a tune. Just…a sound.”
“Mind if I try something?” I ask.
“Not at all,” she says, stepping aside but not leaving the room. I respect the hell out of that.
I cross to the toy bin in the corner, digging through the collection of battered plastic figures and worn board books until I find what I’m looking for, a soft, lime green plush dinosaur with floppy arms and a goofy grin.
“Okay,” I say, turning back around. “Dr. Rex here is going to do the exam today.” I make my voice gravelly and ridiculous. “I’m the best dino doctor in the business. Rawr.”
There’s a flicker, just the faintest shift of attention. Eli peeks up for a second. His eyes dart to the dinosaur and then drop again. He relaxes a little bit.
But it’s something.
I step closer and gently place Dr. Rex on his knee. “I need to check your tummy, but only if Dr. Rex says it’s okay. Can you lie back?”
Eli uncurls his body without taking his eyes off Dr. Rex. I guide the plush dino’s arms to lightly pat Eli’s abdomen, keeping my movements slow. He flinches at first—a muscle-twitch of defense—but doesn’t pull away. When I sense he’s steady, I shift slightly and do the real exam with my fingers.
No bruising. No distension. He’s underweight, but not dangerously so. I note the slight muscle tension in his abdomen, a common symptom of stress. Guarding.
His eyes still don’t meet mine, but I can feel his shoulders soften, though only a little bit.
When I’m done, I offer him the dinosaur. “Dr. Rex says you’re pretty brave.”
Eli still doesn’t say anything. But he reaches for Dr. Rex. He clutches the dinosaur tight.
For some reason, my mind flutters to Ginny. I wonder what she would say to a kid like this. Something blunt, probably. Honest. But she’d see him. I know she would.
I rise and step over to Jocelyn, lowering my voice. “His silence could be selective mutism triggered by trauma or instability,” I explain. “It’s not uncommon after a major transition, especially in kids who’ve been neglected or harmed.”
She nods. “What can I do?”
“Routine,” I tell her. “Keep things calm, predictable. Keep offering him choices—small ones, like what to wear or which snack he wants. That gives him control without pressure. And if he makes a sound, even a hum or a laugh, just go with it. Don’t push for words.
Let him come to them on his own. Eventually, I’ll give you a referral for a psychologist, but I think just getting used to the new environment will go a long way for now. ”
She exhales, looking over at Eli. “Thank you.”
“You’re doing great. Really. I’d like to see him again in a few months to see how things are coming along.”
Eli is still clutching Dr. Rex like the thing’s magic. “He just needs to feel safe,” I add. “Once he knows no one’s going to leave—or hurt him—he might surprise you.”
Her eyes mist up a little, and she wipes them quickly. “Thank you.”
“Call me if you need anything. Seriously.” I write my personal cell number on the notepad and hand it to her. “And keep the dinosaur. Sometimes having a sidekick helps.”
She smiles. “Thanks, Dr. Ryker.”
I nod and turn back to the boy.
“It was nice to meet you, Eli. I’ll see you next time,” I say confidently.
He doesn’t respond, but he’s still holding the dinosaur. And he watches me leave the room. That’s enough for today.
After the door clicks shut behind me, I settle against the hallway wall, letting my head fall back against the cool plaster.
Mel rounds the corner, nearly bumping into me. Her brows lift. “You okay?”
I nod automatically, but it feels like a lie. I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake it off. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to—” I cut myself off. “That just got me a little, that’s all.”
Mel studies me for a beat, then hands me the next chart without another word. “You’ve got a big heart under all that sarcasm,” she says as she continues down the hall. “Don’t worry. We won’t tell anyone.”
I huff a laugh, but it’s half-hearted. My feet stay planted a moment longer, the chart loose in my hands, my mind still back in room three.
That kid cracked something open in me. I felt something that didn’t come with a punch line or a coping mechanism.
It felt real and human. Complicated, not something I usually involve myself with, as Ginny and I have discussed.
I find myself wanting to tell her about this, talk it through the way I might with my family, one of my brothers. She’d get it, not just the kid and his struggles but the feeling and weight of it.
And yeah, maybe that’s insane. She walked out on me last week with no more than a carefree wave. But even then, I sensed more beneath the surface. She’s someone who could handle the mess underneath my mask if I ever let her. Or if she ever decided it was worth the trouble.
But she’s a Dempsey, my brain immediately counters. How could that happen?