Chapter 17
PEDRO
Iknow hiring Jessica is a mistake the moment I suggest it.
She's sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a piece of toast she hasn't eaten, wearing one of Carlos's hoodies and a pair of leggings that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely are. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Dark circles shadow her eyes.
"I can't go back to the job site." Her voice is small. Defeated. "I set Carlos's work pile on fire."
"I heard." The whole town heard. Mrs. Kowalski called my clinic to ask if smoke inhalation required a follow-up visit.
"He says I can come back, but I can't." Jessica pushes the toast away. "I'm a liability. A danger to property and human life."
Sergio snorts from his position by the coffee maker. He's wearing dark jeans. Henley stretched across his shoulders. Arms crossed over his chest like he's bracing for a hockey check.
"Carlos has a crush." Nacho doesn't look up from his newspaper. He's in civilian clothes today. Off duty. "There's a difference."
Jessica's cheeks flush pink. She grabs the toast and takes a bite, clearly using it as an excuse not to respond.
The flush does something to my chest. Something I refuse to examine.
I take a sip of my coffee. Black. Bitter. The way I like it.
"Work at the clinic," I hear myself say.
Three heads swivel toward me.
"What?" Jessica's voice cracks.
"Admin work. Filing. Phones. Nothing that can catch fire." I set down my mug and meet her eyes. Brown and wide and looking at me as if I've grown a second head. "My receptionist is out on maternity leave. Temp agency sent someone who quit after two days. Said I was 'too intense.'"
Sergio coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
"I don't have any medical training," Jessica protests.
"Don't need it. Answer phones. Schedule appointments. File paperwork." I shrug. "Straightforward."
"That's what Carlos said about carpentry. Right before I destroyed a porch and committed arson."
"My clinic is made of brick. Fire-resistant."
She stares at me. I stare back. I've had this exact staring contest with stubborn patients for years. I always win.
After thirty seconds, she breaks.
"Fine." She slumps in her chair. "But when I accidentally kill someone with a stapler, don't say I didn't warn you."
"Noted."
I grab my keys and head for the door.
This is definitely a mistake.
Jessica's first morning at the clinic starts well enough.
She arrives at eight, wearing a simple blouse and dark pants she borrowed from somewhere. Her face is set with determination. She looks ready for battle.
"Where do you want me?" she asks.
Dangerous question. My brain supplies several answers that have nothing to do with administrative work.
I point to the front desk instead. "Margo's station. Phone, computer, filing cabinets behind you. Patient files are alphabetized by last name. Appointments are in the system. Questions, ask me."
She nods. Sits down. Surveys the desk the way a general assesses a battlefield.
"I can do this," she mutters to herself.
I retreat to my office before I say something stupid. Before I mention how good she looks behind that desk. Before I admit that her scent is already threading through the clinic's antiseptic air, making the whole place smell less sterile and more welcoming.
For three hours, everything runs smoothly.
Jessica answers the phones with professional courtesy. Two appointments booked. She dodges Mrs. Whight's questions about why she's not with her husband.
I start to think I was wrong. Maybe this will work. Maybe she's found something she's good at.
Then I walk out to grab a patient file and find her standing in front of the filing cabinets, surrounded by chaos.
Files are everywhere. Stacked on the desk. Piled on the floor. Teetering in precarious towers on every available surface.
"What happened?" I ask.
Jessica spins around, eyes wild. "I was trying to help!"
"Help how?"
"The filing system! You had Anderson next to Abernathy, but Abbott was shoved in the middle. So I fixed it."
A cold feeling settles in my stomach. "Fixed it how?"
She beams. "Reorganized by first name! It's more intuitive. When someone calls, they say their first name first, right? So Aaron's under A, Beatrice under B."
"Stop."
She stops.
I stare at the chaos. Hundreds of files. Years of patient records, meticulously organized by surname, now scattered in a system that makes sense to exactly one person.
The door chimes.
Mr. Whitfield shuffles in, leaning on his cane. Eighty-three. Diabetic. Weekly glucose check.
"Afternoon, Doc." He squints at the mess. "Spring cleaning?"
"Something of the sort." I turn to Jessica. "Pull Whitfield's file."
Her face goes pale. "Last name Whitfield?"
"Yes."
"So that would be under... W?"
"In a normal system, yes."
She starts frantically searching through the piles. Papers fly. Folders cascade. A stack near the edge of the desk gives up entirely and crashes to the floor.
I take Mr. Whitfield back to the exam room and do his check from memory.
When I return to the waiting room thirty minutes later, Jessica is on her hands and knees, surrounded by a semicircle of files, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry. I thought I was helping. I thought..."
"Go home."
Her head snaps up. "What?"
"Go home. Come back tomorrow." I crouch down and start gathering files. "I'll fix this."
"Let me help. Please. I made the mess, I need to..."
"You'll make it worse." The words come out harsher than I intended. Her face crumples. Guilt twists in my chest. "Jessica. Go home. Get some rest. Start fresh tomorrow."
A knock on the door makes us both jump. Carlos pokes his head in, takes one look at Jessica's tear-stained face and my rigid posture, and immediately backs up.
"Nope. Whatever this is, I'm not qualified." He starts to leave.
"Carlos," I growl.
"I can come back. I'll come back in an hour, or a day, or whenever the crying stops and everyone's wearing fewer feelings on their faces." He's still backing away.
"Get in here."
Carlos sighs dramatically and enters, closing the door behind him. "Okay, but for the record, I want it noted that I'm very uncomfortable with emotions that aren't my own. What happened?"
"She reorganized my files," I say flatly.
"Oh." Carlos looks at Jessica. "Oh, that's... I mean, that's kind of your thing, isn't it? Organization?"
"I messed up," Jessica wails.
"Okay, no, that's not true. Jess, hey, look at me." Carlos crouches beside her. "You didn't ruin everything. You reorganized one filing system. In the grand scheme of things, that's a two out of ten on the disaster scale."
"What's a ten?" she sniffles.
"Me kissing you six years ago and making you run away. That's a ten. This is a two. Maybe a three if Pedro's system was really complicated."
"It was alphabetical," I admit.
"Then this is a one point five." Carlos pats her knee, the gesture easy and familiar. "We've all done worse. Nacho once arrested his own cousin at Thanksgiving dinner for an unpaid parking ticket."
"She had seventeen unpaid tickets," Nacho's voice carries from the hallway.
"See?" He grins at Jessica, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "That's at least a six. Your filing reorganization doesn't even crack the top five pack disasters."
She hiccups a laugh, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Really?"
"Really." He stands and offers her his hand, palm up. "Come on. Pedro's going to be here all night fixing this. Let's get you home, fed, and convinced that you're not the worst person in the world."
She takes his hand and lets him pull her up. Her legs wobble slightly. He steadies her with a hand on her elbow.
They move toward the door, her footsteps shuffling, his boots heavy on the tile. He pauses in the doorway and glances back at me over his shoulder.
"Want us to bring you dinner later?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked." He's still looking at me, one hand on the doorframe, the other still holding Jessica's.
Despite everything, my mouth twitches. "Bring food. Nothing spicy."
"Got it. Come on, Jess. Let's leave Dr. Grumpy to his alphabetizing."
The door chimes behind them, leaving me alone with six hours of reorganizing and the lingering trace of her scent.
I get to work.
The next morning, Jessica arrives at seven-thirty. Half an hour early. Her eyes are red-rimmed but determined.
"I stayed up last night learning medical filing systems," she announces. "Last name, first name, date of birth. Color-coded tabs for different conditions. I've got it."
I hand her a cup of coffee. Black. She makes a face but drinks it anyway.
"New task today," I say. "Wellness reminder texts. List is on the computer. Template is in the system. Send to everyone who's due for their annual checkup."
Her shoulders relax slightly. "Just texts? No filing?"
"No filing."
"I can do texts."
She settles behind the desk with visible relief. I retreat to my office to catch up on paperwork. The files are back in order, more or less. My fingers are still cramped from eight hours of reorganizing. But the system is intact. No permanent damage.
For two hours, the clinic runs without incident.
Then my phone starts buzzing.
I pull it out and glance at the screen.
Sergio: Did you really send this to the whole town?
Nacho: Please tell me this is a joke.
Carlos: LMAOOOOO
My high school football coach: Dr. Negrorio, I think there's been an error.
Pastor Morrison: I'll be praying for you, son.
My stomach drops. I pull up the clinic's outgoing message log on my computer.
The template was supposed to say: "This is a reminder from Largo Waters Family Medicine that you're due for your annual wellness exam. Please call to schedule."