25. Guidelines & Rules
Chapter twenty-five
Guidelines & Rules
Ellie gets her right crutch caught in the strap of her backpack before we make it out the front door.
She stops, looks down at the mess, then looks up at me.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I can carry my own backpack. Stuff happens. I adapt.”
“I was thinking about suggesting I carry you to the car.”
She points one crutch at me. “Absolutely not.”
She shifts the backpack, swears under her breath, and gets the strap loose. I pretend not to hear the swear because she is injured, and because I’m choosing my battles with new maturity.
Possibly.
She makes it down the front walk with more dignity than I expect and more effort than she wants me to notice.
The morning air is cold enough to put color in her cheeks.
Her hair is down and swept over her left shoulder.
Her knee is wrapped and she has her brace on under loose jeans, and the small bandage near her hairline makes me want to keep her home for another week.
Yes, it’s a dad thing and I resist.
I open the passenger door.
She looks at me. “Thanks, Dad.”
She climbs in. It takes longer. When I get behind the wheel, she’s already buckled her seat belt and pretending the whole process was a breeze.
I start the car. “You have your meds and your phone?”
“In my bag.”
We pull out of the driveway. Coupeville is waking. Lights on in kitchens. A dog refusing to cooperate with a man in a rain jacket.
Normal life.
I used to think normal life was the thing you had before a disaster. Now I know it’s the thing you have to keep rebuilding afterwards.
Ellie looks out the window. “You’re not going to come inside, are you?”
“I thought I’d walk you to the office.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Drop-off zone.”
“El.”
“I will get in. Slowly. With witnesses. And Erin is meeting me.”
“I could park.”
“You could also let me have one tiny shred of dignity.”
I get it. I pull into the school drop-off line.
She softens a little. “You can watch until I’m inside.”
“Thank you for that generous allowance.”
“You’re welcome.”
Erin is waiting near the front doors, backpack over one shoulder, expression already concerned and trying not to be. Ellie notices too.
“She’s going to cry at me,” Ellie says.
“Probably.”
“I hate when people cry at me.”
She opens the door before I can get out. I manage not to lunge across the console.
Progress.
Ellie swings both crutches out, plants them, and stands. Her face changes once. She hides it fast.
Erin hurries toward her.
“I’m fine,” Ellie calls before Erin can speak.
I sit there until Ellie reaches the front doors. She turns, sees me watching, and lifts one crutch in a half wave.
I wave back. Only when she disappears inside do I pull away.
By the time I reach the clinic, Annie’s car is already parked beside the building.
The CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY sign is gone from the front door.
That hits me hard.
The clinic is open again.
Life is open again.
Inside, the front lights are on, charts are stacked on the counter, and the day’s schedule is printed beside the phone. Annie is behind the desk, hair clipped back, sleeves pushed up, pen between her fingers while she reads a message off the answering machine.
She looks up when I come in.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
There is a whole day between us now.
Anger. Apology. Her bed. Portland.
Then she caps the pen and says, “You’re late.”
I look at the clock. “By three minutes.”
“Dr. Painter would’ve called that a moral collapse.”
“I never met the man, but I feel judged.”
“You should.”
I step behind the desk and stop close enough that she has to tip her head back to look at me.
“Good morning,” I say.
Her eyes move to my mouth. “Is it?”
“Trying.” I smile. “Have a minute?”
“Yes. What do you need?”
“My office please.”
When she walks in, I’m standing by the door and quickly close it. She turns to see what I’m doing and I grab her at the waist and pull her into me, close.
Then she reaches up and pulls me down by the back of my neck.
The kiss starts quietly and turns into something else before either of us has time to think about it. Her mouth opens under mine, and my hand tightens at her waist. I pull her in close, feeling the heat of her against me.
I forget the desk. The phone. The printed schedule. Every professional boundary I have ever believed in.
She tries to break the kiss, only managing to say, “Patients,” pressed to my lips.
“We don’t have any for twenty-seven minutes,” I say, kissing down her cheek and over her jaw.
“Phones,” she breathes into my ear.
“We have an answering service.” I kiss down her collarbone. “And we are technically not open yet.”
“Doc.” She pushes one hand against my chest. “We can’t.”
I ease my grip at her waist and step back.
She smooths the front of her scrub top, hands sliding down over her breasts and stomach. Then catches herself and points at me. “No.”
“No, what?”
“You don’t do innocent very convincingly.”
“I’m a man.”
“That’s your defense?”
I shrug my shoulders and we both start laughing. I grab her waist and pull her against me.
“We’re going to need clinic rules.”
“Yes, we do.” She agrees and kisses me again, pressing her breasts into me.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She laughs and smirks.
“Okay, how about we just say, no touching in patient areas or around patients.”
“That’s pretty broad.” She raises an eyebrow, and runs her hands along my chest. “But I can live with that.”
“And, not doing anything to intentionally distract the other person during the workday.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Define intentionally.”
“No.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” she chirps and gives me a look that promises future trouble.
“That.” I point at her. “That look is intentional.”
She smiles slyly.
The phone rings and we both look at it, and laugh.
Annie picks it up. “Coupeville Family Medical.”
Just like that, the day begins.
Patients come in with the normal complaints and ailments. Mr. Fleming, who insists his rash is probably nothing while standing in the exam room looking worried enough to prove it is absolutely something to him.
Annie moves through all of it with the ease I noticed before I knew how much I wanted her. She knows who needs reassurance and who needs directness. She knows which patient will understate pain, which one will overstate side effects, which spouse is actually the one to ask about what is going on.
I know medicine.
Annie knows this town’s pulse.
When we are not braced for a fight, the clinic feels less like a territory dispute and more like a machine finally using all its parts.
At noon, I find her in the break room writing a note for a lab requisition.
I come up behind her, sweep her hair over her shoulder and kiss her neck. “Ellie texted.”
Annie lets out a small moan and tips her head, giving me more access.
I nibble at her earlobe. “She made it through morning classes.”
“That’s great.” Annie smiles and arches before she can stop herself. “I mean, Ellie.”
I sit down next to her and slide my hand over hers, thinking about yesterday afternoon. Her honesty about Ian. And the honesty in the way she gave her body freely to me.
I also think about what this clinic means to her, professionally and personally. This place isn’t walls and exam rooms for her.
It is proof that she is a survivor.
I understand that much better today.
“Hey. You still with me?” She taps the pen against the paper.
“Yeah, just lost in thought for a moment.” I run my fingers along her forearm.
“Okay, Casanova.” She laughs. “Do you and Ellie want to come over for dinner tonight?”
“It’s scallops, asparagus and probably garlic bread.”
“Probably?”
“Definitely. I’m trying to sound casual.”
I reach across the table and touch her hand. “We’d like that.”
“Great.” Her fingers turn under mine and she pulls her hand away first. “Let’s say six.”
We have patients in thirteen minutes.
***
When I pick Ellie up from school, she’s exhausted but satisfied. She made it through the day.
“How was it?”
“Everyone asked what happened.”
“And?”
“I said I fell.”
“Technically true.”
“Then Erin said, ‘From a waterfall,’ so subtlety died immediately.”
“Sounds like Erin.”
“Mrs. Harrell made me sit near the door in every class in case I needed to leave.”
“Good.”
“She also asked if fluorescent lights bothered my head.”
“Also good.”
She looks out the window, but she’s smiling.
“Annie invited us over for dinner,” I say.
Her head turns back. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Are we going?”
“Yes. Well I told her I would ask you first.”
“Yes. My answer is yes, of course.”
“All right. Dinner it is. We’re going over at six, so you have plenty of time to get your homework done.”
She groans. “But it's worth it to see Annie.”
***
Annie has appetizers on the kitchen table when we arrive, and the smell of garlic bread in the oven wafts through the house.
Ellie notices immediately.
“I smell garlic bread.”
Annie points a carrot stick at her. “You have a good snout.”
Ellie grins.
The evening starts with the kind of awkwardness no one admits to. I help Ellie into a chair. I go into the kitchen to help. Annie shows me where plates and silverware are. Ellie folds napkins and watches both of us with too much interest and not enough shame.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing look.”
“I’m observing.”
“Don’t.”
Annie turns away fast, but I see her smile.
Halfway through appetizers, Annie sets her napkin down.
“El,” she says.
Ellie looks up.
Annie’s hands fold together on the table. “I need to say something before dinner.”
All the humor drains from Ellie’s face.
I keep my seat. This is not mine to steer.
Annie takes a breath. “I’m sorry you got pulled into what happened at the clinic. I’m sorry you heard anything ugly. And, I’m sorry Ian hurt you too.”
Ellie stares at her.
“I should’ve found a way to keep that away from you,” Annie says. “And I’m sorry I didn’t.”
Ellie’s face changes.
Then she grabs for her crutches.
“El,” I start.