Alex
Ten
Tuesday morning comes too early after an overlong day at the clinic yesterday to start the week, but habit gets me through the drive anyway. When I pull into the clinic lot, most of the spaces are still empty.
I reach for my bag and notice that sand from my walk on the boardwalk Friday night still clings to the edge of my shoe and flakes onto the floor mat.
The sensation of kissing Josie returns, sudden and uninvited.
It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted someone, and it makes me feel like a superstar.
I want Josie. And not just sex with her.
In that moment, though, I wanted to undress her and lick every part of her body.
But that’s not easy when you have to think about how every action could impact your child.
I push my car door open and step out, heading for the building that houses my office and our clinic.
Inside, the air smells faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee.
The reception area lights are already on, and a couple of exam room doors stand open down the hallway, computers humming as they wake.
I hang my coat in the office, set my bag beside the desk, and wake my computer with a tap of the mouse. Overnight reports begin to populate the screen—lab results, imaging updates, a note from the hospital about a patient I admitted yesterday afternoon. I scan through them.
“Morning, Alex.”
I glance up to see Olivia Turner, my nurse, leaning against the jamb, tablet tucked under one arm.
“Morning.”
She steps inside and sets the tablet on the corner of the desk. “Quick question before things get busy. Dr. Chen’s on-call shift next weekend opened up. He’s at a conference, and we’re trying to shuffle coverage.”
She pauses, already expecting the answer. When I don’t respond, she asks the question. “You want it?”
Ordinarily I would say yes before she finished the sentence. Extra hospital hours keep the calendar moving and save the front desk the headache of rescheduling patients who have already been waiting weeks for appointments. But now I have other considerations.
I reach for my calendar, and the week opens across the screen. Friday evening is a blank space I intentionally left open after Josie suggested dinner over text the other night. “I can’t take that one,” I tell Olivia.
Her eyebrows lift. “Are you sure?” she asks. “You’re usually the one rescuing everyone else’s schedule.”
“I know.” I glance back at the calendar. “But I’ve got something Friday night.”
Olivia looks at me curiously and then picks the tablet back up. “All right. I’ll find someone else to guilt into it.”
“Appreciate it.”
She disappears into the hallway.
I turn back to the screen, pulling up the next lab report, but the shift has already happened. I turned down covering for someone else. I rarely do that. But that’s what I wanted this time.
The waiting room fills quickly once the day begins, and the morning’s quiet dissolves into a familiar rhythm—voices at the front desk, the soft chime of the phone system, footsteps moving between exam rooms. By the time I finish reviewing the first few charts, the day is underway.
Olivia knocks lightly before opening my door. “Room three’s ready.”
I nod, gather my things, and walk down the hall to my first patient.
A woman in her early sixties sits in the exam chair when I step into the room, a cardigan folded neatly over her lap. Her chart is already open on the computer beside the desk.
“Good morning, Mrs. Donnelly.”
She smiles as I close the door behind me. “Morning, Doctor.”
I pull the stool over and glance at the screen before turning back to her. “How are you feeling since the last round of chemo?”
“Better than I expected,” she says. “A little tired, but that part I was warned about.”
I nod. Fatigue is almost always the first thing patients notice once treatment starts. “Any nausea?”
“Some,” she admits. “But the medication helps.”
I ask a few more questions while I scan the lab results on the screen. Her counts have held steady, which is the best outcome we can ask for this far into treatment.
“That all looks encouraging,” I say, turning the monitor slightly so she can see the numbers if she wants to. “Your blood work is holding where we want it.”
Her shoulders loosen a fraction. “That’s good to hear.”
I finish the note in her chart while we talk through the rest of the plan—another infusion next week, repeat labs the day before, a reminder to call if the fatigue worsens or the nausea stops responding to the medication.
She gathers her cardigan as I stand.
“Well,” she says, “my daughter told me that if I keep behaving myself through treatment, she’ll take me wine tasting when this is all finished.”
“That sounds like a wonderful incentive.”
“Oh, she’s very serious about it.” Mrs. Donnelly smiles. “Her husband is convinced the Black Bear pinot is the best bottle in the valley. My brother insists Paradise Hill is better.” She gives a small shrug. “We’re going to taste test and see. People around here feel strongly about their wine.”
“They do,” I say. “You’ll have to give me your opinion after you try them together.”
Mrs. Donnelly nods and slips the cardigan over her shoulders. “See you next week.”
“See you next week.”
The door closes behind her, and the next chart appears automatically on the screen.
Still, the previous conversation lingers, even as I move to the next patient. Black Bear isn’t just another winery on the ridge anymore.
The clinic’s pace slows slightly around noon, the waiting room thinning as the morning appointments taper off.
I finish my last chart from the morning and return to my office.
Back at my desk, I open my calendar on my computer and the week spreads across the screen in blocks of color—clinic hours, hospital rounds, meetings, and time with Eloise.
I scroll through the days. Tonight is full, and tomorrow isn’t much better. Thursday is Zara’s school night. And Friday shows the open clinic shift Olivia mentioned earlier.
Then I move the cursor forward, looking for where I can make more space in my life. After studying next week, I begin moving things around.
A clinic block on Wednesday afternoon slides to another physician who still has room in his schedule, and I send the request.
Next I open the call roster.
I look up as Ryker steps in carrying a sandwich and a cup of coffee. His office is next door. He drops into the chair across from me and glances at the screen. “Are you reorganizing the universe over there?”
“Just cleaning up my schedule.”
He takes a bite of the sandwich and watches the cursor move across my calendar. A second later he squints at the screen. “You’re not taking that Friday call?”
I shrug, keeping my attention on my screen. “I wanted to free myself up.”
Ryker leans back in his chair. “That’s new.”
“What is?”
“You volunteer for extra shifts almost every time someone asks.”
I finish blocking the time and close the scheduling window. “Thought I’d take a night off.”
He lifts his coffee again. “Miracles happen.”
I give him a small nod and close the calendar before the conversation drifts any further. This wasn’t just a one-off. My choice to make more space feels intentional now. I can do things differently.
I turn to face him, and Ryker and I catch up for a few minutes. We make plans to get together soon before he heads back to his office to get his afternoon underway.
My phone buzzes, and I’m smiling before I even open the message.
Today is a professional development day for teachers, so Eloise is home with Zara.
A photo loads as I unlock the phone. Eloise is sitting at the kitchen table, her hair escaping a loose braid.
Crayons are scattered across the table beside her, and she’s leaning over a sheet of paper in deep concentration.
A message follows the photo.
Zara: She has declared this “art hour.”
I chuckle to myself.
Zara: How’s your day looking? Will you need to stay late tonight or are you coming home for dinner?
I stare at the question for a moment.
Things have been on track this morning, and there’s not much that could potentially unravel this afternoon.
My staff and I try always to be available to patients who need extra reassurance or help navigating the side effects of their treatment plans, but today should be routine follow-ups. No problem.
Me: Coming home.
Zara: Good. Eloise will be thrilled.
I look at the clock.
The afternoon appointments will start in a few minutes.
I stand and reach for my laptop. I have only three patients scheduled, but despite my best efforts, the first patient runs into the second, a quick follow-up with the third becomes a longer conversation about medication side effects.
By the time I finish the last chart, the building has already begun to quiet down for the evening.
I shut down my computer and mark the files I still need to review at home. The hallway outside my office is mostly empty now, the front desk lights dimmed as the staff finishes closing procedures.
The parking lot behind the clinic is nearly empty again when I exit. I reach my car just as the rain starts to fall. Once inside, I sit there for a second with my hands loose on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at the dark edge of the vineyards across the lake.
The drive home has always been the dividing line, a time of transition for me. One mile I’m thinking about scans and survival rates, and the next I’m wondering whether Eloise finished her math homework or convinced Zara to bake cookies. But tonight Josie is in my thoughts.
I need to confirm our plan for Friday, now that I’m officially free.
That fills me with hope, but I can’t avoid the side of worry.
If I keep seeing her, this won’t stay quiet, and that’s a consideration for both of us.
Towns like Paradise survive on gossip. Someone always notices who leaves with who, whose truck is parked where, who lingered too long after an event ended.
I pull onto the road toward home, the headlights cutting through the dark.
The kiss felt right while it was happening. Everything after feels a hell of a lot more complicated.
My mind turns that over, and when I arrive at home, warm light spills through the kitchen window. I shut off the engine and grab my bag from the passenger seat before darting through the rain up the short walkway to the door.
The moment I step inside, small footsteps come racing down the hallway.
“Daddy!” Eloise launches herself into my arms with the complete confidence of someone who has never doubted she will be caught. I lift her easily, the momentum carrying both of us a step backward toward the wall.
“Hey.” I tuck her against my shoulder. She smells faintly of tempera paint and soap. “Did you have a good day?”
She nods into my neck before leaning back to look at me. “We painted dinosaurs.”
“That sounds fun.”
From the kitchen, Zara appears with a stack of notebooks tucked under one arm and a travel mug in her hand.
“Perfect timing,” she says. “I was just about to head out.”
“You’ve got your study group tonight?”
“Statistics,” she says with a grimace. “Which I’m hoping makes more sense the second time around.”
Eloise tightens her arms around my neck.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Zara tells her.
Eloise nods solemnly, and then leans forward for a quick hug before Zara slips out the door.
I set my bag on the counter and lower Eloise to the floor.
“Dinner first,” I say.
She climbs onto the kitchen chair and spreads a sheet of paper across the table. The dinosaur she mentioned earlier soon dominates the page in broad strokes of purple and green.
While pasta cooks on the stove, she explains that the dinosaur can fly, lives on a mountain, and might breathe fire, though she hasn’t fully decided that last part yet.
I listen while I stir the sauce Zara made.
We eat together at the table once dinner is ready, Eloise’s feet swinging lightly beneath the chair while she talks about her friends and how much she missed them today, since there was no school. After dinner comes the rest of the routine—bath, pajamas, a bedtime story.
She curls beneath the blankets with her Hello Kitty tucked under one arm. Halfway through the book, her voice interrupts the rhythm of the words.
“Daddy?”
I pause. “Yes?”
“Do you have friends?”
“Of course I do.”
She shifts slightly against the pillow. “Like who?”
I turn the page before responding. “People I work with. A few neighbors. Some friends I’ve known a long time.”
She seems to consider that. “Why don’t you ever hang out with them?”
“Well, sometimes I do.” But it isn’t quite accurate, even as the words leave my mouth. The truth is that most of the people I see regularly exist inside the structure of work—conversations in between patients and charts, brief exchanges in hallways or conference rooms, the occasional fundraiser.
Eloise accepts the answer without pressing further. “Okay.”
I resume reading, finish the story, and close the book, setting it on the nightstand.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out as sleep pulls her under.
I switch off the lamp and leave the bedroom door cracked the way she likes it before stepping back into the hallway.
The house has gone quiet, but Eloise’s question keeps circling in my head.
Josie won’t stay separate from this part of my life for long. Would Eloise like to have someone else in our lives? Does she need to know I have other relationships? It just seems impossible to manage and potentially confusing for her.
The floor creaks softly beneath my feet as I head toward the kitchen. There I rinse the last plate from dinner and leave it on the rack beside the sink. Then I pull a chair out at the kitchen table and open my laptop.
My calendar fills the display. The changes I made during lunch still in place.
Wednesday’s clinic block has shifted. The overnight call I would usually cover on a Friday belongs to one of the other oncologists instead.
And Friday evening remains empty.
I can’t shake my desire to fill it up, despite all the questions and challenges that could create. I reach for my phone where it sits on the table beside my keys.
Josie’s name appears near the top of the message thread, and I type quickly.
Me: Are you still free Friday?
I press send, and the screen returns to the conversation window, the message resting there beneath the others.
Across the kitchen, the clock ticks a steady rhythm on the wall.
I set the phone down, willing myself not to sit here and wait.