Chapter 3
Chapter Three
DELTA
D octor Harrison gave me his phone number.
His personal phone number is on my phone. Right now.
He probably gives it out to a lot of patients, especially the pain-in-the-ass ones who sneak too much junk food and cry on his exam table because they’re scared of getting a shot.
Okay, so it’s a big shot, but still. Not my proudest moment.
The thing is, my appointment was over a week ago. I’ve played the whole thing over so many times in my head, and I keep coming to the same conclusion… Doctor Harrison wanted me to cry.
He looked like I’d slapped him when he turned around and saw how scared I was, but he seemed even angrier when I tried to pretend everything was fine.
When he told me to look at him, it was like I was under a spell.
He was in control. I trusted him, and I just…
gave in to my emotions. I’ve had plenty of breakdowns in the privacy of my be droom, but I don’t remember crying in front of another person since I was very young.
The moment I did, though, it was as though the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.
Of course, I walked out of the office half an hour later and immediately pulled out my phone to check if the witness protection program accepts victims of self-inflicted humiliation; they don’t, but I did find a very nice commune in Central America which seemed like a pretty good alternative.
The logical side of me, the one who knows Doctor Harrison isn’t even slightly interested, wants to shrivel up in embarrassment whenever I think about how awkward he must have felt with me crying my eyes out on his exam table.
The other part, a tiny one that seems to be growing bigger and louder since my appointment, is convinced there was something .
As crazy as it seems, at that moment, I felt closer to him than anyone else in my whole life.
I have no idea what to do, or think, and the only thing I know for sure is that I can’t just text him to send him a picture of the cinnamon rolls I made or ask if he saw that new zombie movie.
We might feel like friends, but that doesn’t mean we are.
He’s my doctor, he’s paid a lot of money to keep me in fighting shape, and I did him a pretty big solid by getting his practice national publicity for free.
Doctor Harrison has witnessed too many of my most embarrassing moments this season alone, and I refuse to become an obligation, too.
Just the mental image of him picking up his phone and sighing tiredly when he sees it’s me has been enough to keep me from sending any of the dozen texts I’ve composed over the past week.
Of course, if I had a reason to get in touch with him, that would be different .
The fact the injection hasn’t helped yet is definitely the kind of thing he had in mind when he told me to call him.
I took the day off after my appointment, icing my hip and staring at his name in my contact list. Normally, that’s enough for me to return to training as usual, but not this time.
Dad gave me one of his soul-withering stares when I vaguely mentioned maybe needing to take a second day off, so back to the mountain I went.
Unsurprisingly, it was one of the worst weeks of my entire career. Everything I’ve done has been off. Tricks I’ve been doing for years are getting fucked up, falling on my ass has become a bi-hourly occurrence and I’ve snapped at every single person who dared point it out.
All while the supply of pain pills has dwindled.
The resolution I’d only take them to make it through until my appointment went out the window on my first day back. As if I didn’t feel like enough of an imposter to begin with.
Today is my day off, though. No training, no conditioning, and a blessedly empty house since Dad flew out to California to go to some A-List party with his latest girlfriend.
Lake and Bay moved out last year, getting an apartment downtown with a few of their friends.
I’ve only been there once, and don’t plan on repeating the experience any time soon.
The sight of the mixing bowl full of condoms on the kitchen counter and the leaning tower of pizza boxes on top of the trash pretty much convinced me to make the place a no-fly zone.
My family isn’t exactly quiet, and having a day to bum around by myself, no bras or pants allowed, is such a relief.
The first thing I did after getting up way too late was order Chinese food and garlic bread, and my only plans are to melt into the couch, ice my entire body, and watch a full season of some reality celebrity dating show.
Maybe if I can manage to get over my orthopedic surgeon before I die, I’ll ask my agent if she can get me on there.
I’m technically famous-ish, and having twelve super hot, successful men desperately lusting after me, declaring their undying love before commercial breaks, would do wonders for my ego.
I’m researching if you have to be able to walk in five-inch heels to be cast on Famous Love—not a skill I foresee myself developing anytime soon—when a text comes in from the woman my dad has on staff to do PR.
Brenda (PR lady who told me to go blonde): Hey DJ, Snowboarding Life Magazine reached out about an interview for their January issue.
They’re doing an article on sports medicine and wanted to feature you and Doctor Harrison.
River gave me the OK, but I’m checking if you’d like to speak to the doctor or should I?
My cheeks warm. It says a lot about the depth of my obsession with the man that I’m suddenly tempted to agree to extra press just for an excuse to see him.
Drawing attention to my hip is probably a bad idea right now, but I’ve been careful.
Nobody has any reason to think I haven’t made a full recovery.
I’m being paranoid. Dad thinks it’s a good idea, and it would mean seeing Doc outside the office…
Delta: OK, sounds good. I’ll talk to Doctor Harrison and get back to you.
Biting my lip, I open Doctor Harrison’s contact and carefully type and retype my message.
Delta: Hey, it’s Delta. I hope it’s ok I’m texting you, do you have a minute to talk?
I expect it to take a while for him to text me back. I even toss my phone onto the couch and start picking a piece of bacon off my garlic bread, but not even a minute later, there’s a gentle chime beside me and my heart leaps into my throat.
Doc: Of course it’s okay. Are you alright? I’m walking into surgery, but if it’s an emergency, I can page someone else to take over and meet you at the office in twenty.
My stomach erupts with butterflies. He would do that for me?
Delta: I’m totally fine. It’s business stuff, actually.
Doc: Is it that snowboarding magazine? They emailed me this morning, as well. Can you come by at two? I’ll pick up some of that appalling garlic bread you love and we can talk.
I look down at the precious, foil-wrapped bundle of heart disease in my lap and giggle.
Delta: Appalling, huh? So the next time I go in there, they’ll have no idea what I’m talking about when I ask about the tall doctor who orders extra cheese on his?
Doc: No comment.
Delta: See you at two.
I’ve spent so much time at Doctor Harrison’s office over the past three years that his receptionist, Courtney, just glances at me over the shoulder of the patient she’s checking in and waves me through to the back hallway.
When I started coming here, the waiting room was mostly empty, but now it’s rare to see an unoccupied seat amidst the tasteful modern furniture and big, leafy plants.
Word spread fast after the Olympics that I was seeing a hotshot new doctor.
My first surgery made such a huge difference in my range of motion that Dad sang Doctor Harrison’s praises to anyone who would listen, and now every snowboarder in the country is trying to book in with him.
I try not to be too smug about the fact he always makes time for me, even though I’m pretty sure he has way more important patients.
Doctor Harrison’s door is cracked and when I knock it pushes open enough for me to see the handsome doctor leaning back in his office chair, grinning up at a tall, thin blonde woman wearing the same kind of sky-high, deadly looking heels that the women on Famous Love wear.
She’s leaning against his desk, laughing at something he said.
They both look around as I enter, and the warmth that usually spreads through me at the sight of my surgeon suddenly feels clammy and terrible.
She’s beautiful. At least six inches taller than me, and curvy in all the ways I wish I was. Her hair looks professionally colored and her nails are painted the same sophisticated, pinkish tan color as her shoes.
Is she his girlfriend?
“Oh wow, you’re Delta Jacobs!” I take a few seconds to realize the unknown woman is talking to me.
“Yes.” My voice sounds… off .
She laughs delightedly and pushes off the desk, holding out a hand. “I’m Phoebe! So nice to meet you. I knew you were a patient of Brooks’, but I didn’t think we’d ever meet.”
Not Doctor Harrison. Brooks. She calls him Brooks, and I never have.
Behind her, Doctor Harrison is silent, and though I don’t dare look at him, I can feel the weight of his eyes on me.
Can he see everything I’m feeling right now?
Can he tell I’m so jealous and hurt that I want to run out of here as fast as I can and never come back?
He’s not mine, I know he’s not mine , but the possibility that he’s someone else’s is so much more excruciating than the lightning-like pains currently shooting through my hip.
Phoebe is still staring at me expectantly with her hand outstretched, and when I take it, even my well-practiced media smile doesn’t come easily. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’ll let you two talk. I’ll see you tonight for dinner, Brooks,” she says cheerfully, turning back to kiss Doctor Harrison’s cheek, and I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from making a horrified noise. “Good luck with your season, Delta!”