Chapter 11
Eleven
Tabitha
I wake before my alarm.
In the shower, I scrub my face and body until the last of yesterday, including the texts and talk with Marjorie, is gone. I exit the shower, towel off, and blow my hair dry. In the mirror, I pull my hair into a clean bun and tell my reflection the story I need for today.
You’re here because you worked for it. This is an opportunity you can’t pass up. No second thoughts, Tabitha. No second thoughts.
I glance at my phone.
Nothing from Marjorie.
Good. Bad. Both.
I shoulder my backpack and decide to walk to school today. Getting in my car could open a can of worms.
It would be too easy to start driving.
And not stop until I get to the Western Slope.
So I walk.
And I do not drive to Grand Junction.
Instead, I walk to campus, the streets still empty, the air already heating with the promise of August sun.
I focus on the foothills, the scent of coffee in the air, on the ordinary.
Anything to keep from picturing Henry lying in that hospital bed with his head bandaged and monitors beeping beside him.
Except it’s all crap.
He’s in my head.
Marjorie’s voice echoes in my head. I told Henry you sent your love. He smiled.
I almost allowed those words to undo me when they flashed on my phone screen.
Almost.
When I get to the building, the lobby is cool. A few students shuffle in, coffee cups clutched in their hands. I nod at a girl I vaguely recognize from anatomy last year. She nods back. She’s not in the seminar. Must be taking a different summer class.
Inside the classroom, students are already settling in, flipping open notebooks, powering up tablets. I take a seat near the middle this time, somewhere I can disappear if I need to.
Blake strides to the front. His posture is stiff, his jaw set in that overconfident way I’ve already decided I don’t like. He starts laying surgical instruments across the table, naming them one by one as he does.
Scalpel handles. Forceps. Clamp. Scissors.
“These are your tools for the next month. Learn them. Know them better than your own hands. Because when you’re standing over a patient in the OR, fumbling isn’t an option.”
My pulse quickens. Patient in the OR. That’s what I want. That’s what I’ve always wanted. Not just medicine.
Surgery.
To hold the knife, to make the cut, to repair what’s broken with nothing but skill and precision. To be the one who changes the outcome when no one else can.
So why does my mind keep slipping to Grand Junction, to Henry’s parents in the waiting room?
Blake lifts a Kelly clamp and holds it high. “Someone tell me what this is.”
My hand goes up before I can think. “Kelly clamp. Smaller than a Crile. It’s used for clamping blood vessels or manipulating tissue.”
He nods. “Good.”
The rush of relief is ridiculous. I shouldn’t need affirmation for something I already knew, but I do. Every small victory steadies me, grounds me here instead of there.
“Now,” Blake continues, “pair up. Practice passing instruments to each other as if you were scrub nurse and surgeon.”
The room stirs with motion. Desks scrape. Students shuffle.
Eli appears at my side before I can even stand. “We’re partners,” he says.
“Fine,” I mutter, and we move to a side table where a neat row of instruments waits.
He picks up a scalpel handle and offers it to me with the practiced flourish of a scrub nurse. “Scalpel, Doctor.”
I can’t help it. I smile. “Thank you, nurse.”
We switch, trade, correct each other. My fingers fumble once, and I curse under my breath.
Eli just smirks. “Relax, Tab. You’re gripping it like you’re about to stab someone.”
“I might,” I shoot back.
He laughs. “Now that’s the Tabitha I know. Did you end up talking to Henry?”
Way to get me back in the dumps, Eli. I don’t say it, though. I only shake my head, hoping he takes the hint.
He does.
We continue the exercise. Pick up. Pass. Receive. Lay down. Again. Again. The repetition drowns out the noise in my head until all I can hear is the clink of metal and Eli’s steady voice.
When Blake calls time, my palms are damp, but my mind is clearer. This is where I belong. I can’t let anything shake that. Not even Henry.
Especially not Henry.
By the end of the session, we’ve practiced with clamps, scissors, forceps. We’ve tied a dozen knots. Blake critiques each pair with clinical detachment. When he passes me, he only says “Good” before moving on.
I gather my things slowly, giving myself time to steady my breath. Eli lingers, leaning against the desk.
“You did great,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“You’re thinking about him, though.”
I stiffen. “About whom?” I ask, as if there’s any question.
“Henry,” he says softly. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I swallow. My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. “He told me we had no future,” I say again.
“And you believed him?”
“I had to,” I whisper. “Because if I didn’t, I’d be there right now instead of here.”
Eli studies me for a moment. Then he nods. “Then be here. All the way. This isn’t a half measure.”
The words settle in my chest like a weight and a relief at once. This isn’t a half measure.
This is your life. Your chosen career.
This isn’t a half measure.
When I step outside, the heat hits me like a wall. I sling my backpack higher on my shoulder and walk toward the library instead of toward my place. Work, I tell myself. Read. Review. Learn the names, the uses, the knots until they’re muscle memory.
Because if I let myself think too long about Henry, I’ll break.
And I can’t break. Not now.
Not when I’ve chosen.
I keep walking.