Chapter 11
Evie
Ihave done a lot of thinking in the past week.
It turns out there’s not much else to do when you’re bedbound.
So, in addition to binge watching Gilmore Girls and eating every ounce of junk food that Grandma bought me, I thought about my most recent interaction with Brandon for an unhealthy amount of the time.
I eventually concluded that threatening to tattle on him was wrong of me.
I knew that, of course, but the guilt became almost unbearable while I festered in bed.
At the end of the day, it takes two to tango.
I chose to have sex with him, despite knowing he has a long—and I mean long—history of womanizing.
Sure, Brandon should have put a stop to it, seeing as he was the quote-unquote adultier adult in the situation.
But still—the decision was mine and mine alone.
I have no one but myself to blame for my broken heart.
Which is why, after stopping by Bill’s Baked Goods to grab a coffee, I take a deep breath and walk across the street toward Brandon’s psychiatry practice. I’m rehearsing my apology in my head when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Using any excuse to stall at this point, I pause in the middle of the sidewalk and slide the device out. One new text from Adam Smart.
Adam Smart: Hey, Evie! I hope you’re feeling better, and I’m glad to see you’re back at work. Would you want to catch up sometime soon? We could meet for lunch on Saturday.
I sigh. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to “catch up” with me.
Eventually, I’m going to have to have the dreaded conversation with him—the one where I own up to and apologize for my mistakes. We both deserve closure. After all, he was my best friend once upon a time. It would be helpful to no longer feel like we need to walk on eggshells around each other.
Me: Sure! I can meet you on my lunch break.
It’s only been a little over a week since the accident, but the schedulers at the agency have thrown me right back into the deep end. I typically work seven days a week because we’re so short-staffed, but even if I didn’t, I can never seem to get weekends off; even when I request them.
His reply is instant.
Adam Smart: Sounds great. I can’t wait.
Well, that makes one of us. I still care about Adam, but . . . I can’t help but notice the way he stares at me sometimes. It’s made me wonder if he still has feelings for me, so I don’t know if “catching up” is even a good idea. I don’t want to complicate our working relationship.
Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I take a deep breath and approach Brandon’s practice. Here goes nothing.
A bell above the door rings when I step inside.
I’ve never visited Brandon’s psychiatry office before, but I’m unsurprised—and, frankly, underwhelmed—by what I find.
It’s your average doctor’s office, from the generic jazz music playing softly in the background to the wall of accolades proving Brandon and his business partner went to medical school.
The building smells like polished hardwood floors and magazines—the quintessential scent of a small-town doctor’s office.
There’s a coffee bar in one corner and a couch brimming with throw pillows in the small waiting area.
A bouquet of flowers adorns a wooden coffee table, brightening the dull albeit calming space considerably.
A tub of toys sits beneath the bay window that could double as the world’s coziest reading nook.
Everything is slightly antiquated, but in an intentional and charming way.
Brandon is behind the front desk, a phone pressed to his ear.
His head is bent low as he jots down whatever the person on the other end is saying.
He glances up and flashes a friendly, practiced smile.
It’s polite, professional, and slightly emotionally detached—the same kind of smile Dr. Ramirez offered before he took a sledgehammer to my life.
It’s a doctor’s smile.
I shiver.
When he realizes it’s me, his eyes widen, and he stands tall, looking thoroughly distracted now.
His gaze bores into mine as he hurries to finish the call.
“Right. Thanks again, Jules. Nope. No worries. Promise.” His jaw tightens as he listens, and I smirk, amused by how hard he’s trying to repress his sudden impatience with Jules.
“Yup. No, you won’t receive a bill for a missed appointment.
No.” He shakes his head. “Uh-huh. Talk later. No, I promise it’s not an inconvenience.
I hope Stella feels better soon. Mmmbye. ”
He practically slams the receiver into its cradle. “Evie,” he breathes. “What are you doing here?”
I look around. “Sorry. I’m not interrupting, am I?”
“No.” His head tilts as he rounds the counter, coming closer. “My first patient just rescheduled. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” My eyes fall down his tall, lean form.
He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt with a dark blue tie that has goofy, cheerful snowmen on it.
My heart softens and aches at the sight, as if someone has squeezed it like a stress ball.
On his bottom half, he’s wearing black slacks and polished dress shoes. He looks so formal. So professional.
And so different from the playful, cheeky person I know he is behind closed doors.
“Evie?” he prompts softly, tilting his head. “What are you doing here?”
Wiping my sneakers on the rug, I glance down the hall. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling nosy. “I just came to say hi. Can’t I come and say hi?”
“Of course,” he says warily, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But you never have before. And I was under the impression you weren’t very happy with me the last time we spoke.”
I came here to apologize for that, but I need to psych myself up for it. I look up at the ceiling. “It’s so strange to me that I’ve never been here before.”
And, admittedly, ever since he proposed the idea of working for him again, I can’t stop thinking about it.
What would it be like? Not that I’m genuinely considering it.
But I have wondered what working in an office setting might be like.
I’ve been a caregiver since I was eighteen years old, and before that, I was a nurse’s aide at our local assisted living home, Sunny Days.
It occurs to me that all I’ve ever done is take care of other people.
Brandon’s eyes soften as he walks closer, passing by me in pursuit of the coffee bar. He opens a drawer and pulls out a disposable coffee pod then pops it into the machine. It whirs to life, and we listen to the coffee brew in silence.
I squeeze my coffee cup as I consider what I want to say. I think Brandon can sense I’m working up the courage to say something important because he waits patiently, pretending to be absorbed in the task of mixing cream and sugar into his drink.
“Does your assistant have to do that?”
He looks up, then back down at his mug as he picks it up. “What? Make my coffee?” His lips quiver in amusement. “Yeah. That and my dry cleaning.”
“You’re not serious.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m not being serious.
” He smirks at me over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip.
I can see the relief on his face when the caffeine touches his tongue.
I take a sip of my own coffee in response.
“But I wouldn’t turn down a cup of coffee if they offered to make me one, either. ”
“But you don’t make them run around town doing goodness knows what all day long?”
From what I know, Brandon runs a tight ship. He’s a perfectionist. I’ve seen him wield a label maker, and he likes to clean when he’s drunk. I’ve seen it. One time, I emptied his dishwasher for him, and he ended up rearranging everything I put away because he’s an ungrateful toad.
“Rarely.”
“Hmm.” I walk around the front desk, casually glancing over what would be my workstation. It’s nice. Spacious. I’ve never worked at a desk before.
Brandon creeps up behind me as I survey my surroundings.
He leans against the edge of the counter as I run my finger across the top of the computer monitor, then casually rifle through some forms resting in a metal organizer.
I lower myself into the swivel chair and spin around once.
Lifting my feet off the ground, I lean into the spin for more momentum, grinning despite the dull ache throbbing in my lower back.
Brandon grabs the back of the chair, bringing my joy ride to an abrupt halt. “Evie.” He’s barely containing his laughter. “What are you doing?” When I don’t reply, his head tilts. “Are you reconsidering my offer?”
“Nope.” My thumb taps the side of my coffee cup as I peer around him. “I’m just feeling nosy. Can I see your office?”
He steps aside. “Be my guest.”
I get a little rush of excitement as I take off down the hall. I’m still sore all over, but I make it a point not to limp like I’m in pain because Brandon is like a dog with a bone. He’d end up lecturing me about how I’m working too much, and how I need to learn to take breaks, blah, blah, blah.
I would never tell anyone this, least of all Brandon, but I’m nervous about how my first day back at work is going to go.
I told Adam that I wanted to take it easy, requesting he schedule me for more runaround jobs, like driving clients to and from doctors appointments, grocery shopping, companion visits—things like that.
He said he would do what he could, which didn’t fill me with a whole lot of confidence.
“It’s the last office on the left,” Brandon says from behind me.