Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jeff
Devon is missing in action. And no one but me seems to think there’s any cause for concern.
It’s been two weeks since Tara’s apartment, undoubtedly long enough to nurse a hangover and rest her legs after sprinting full speed out of that bed and out of my life.
Hell, she got over national humiliation in less time than this.
But she hasn’t texted—hasn’t shown up for poker night or happy hour—and hasn’t gone with us to CHOP to volunteer.
Syd tells me she isn’t feeling well, which I believe is code for lying in bed watching Vampire Diaries so she doesn’t have to see me, but that feels a little egocentric.
Last week, Syd and I took a few selfies with the obnoxious positive message latex-free balloons Syd asked me to pick up for the patients, and sent them over to Devon.
She sent back a thumbs up on the group chat.
Not even a haha or a lol. I mean, I was holding a balloon that says Inhale Good Shit in front of my face and Syd held one that says Exhale Bullshit and all we got was a lousy thumbs up?
This is more than just her usual avoidance.
This is next level. And I feel a little pathetic, but every day that passes without the sound of her laughter or the sight of her smile makes the ache beneath my ribs spread deeper into my gut.
I cannot separate my homesickness from my Devonsickness.
I sit down at the table by the window in the hospital’s cafeteria and stare at my phone.
It’s been two days since I last reached out.
Two days of waiting, checking my phone like an infatuated teeny bopper.
Oh, and performing surgery, of course. I can feel the acid eating away at my serosa as the worry gnaws through my brain.
With Devon m.i.a. and my sister avoiding me, I’m spiraling.
Even the intense focus that usually washes over me in the OR is interrupted every so often by someone else’s phone pinging and my desperate mind thinking it might be mine. It might be her.
I could just shoot her a quick text. She’s teaching anyway, probably doing the Macarena for her eighth graders, wearing her “Surely, Not Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting” tee shirt. I smile at the image. Lucky kids. They get a 180-day ticket to the Devon Gallagher one-woman show.
“Why are you smiling like that at your soft pretzel?” Kevin asks as he slips into the seat across from me.
I rub a hand over my face.
Kev looks me over and starts to unpack his lunch as his eyes assess.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says, opening each of the tiny Tupperware bins he’s laid out with a pop. “—about Devon.”
My pulse does the double Dutch at the mention of her name, but Kevin’s tone tells it to settle the hell down.
“What about Devon?” I rip off a hunk of soft pretzel, count the salt flecks.
Kevin looks around like he’s about to tell me the code for a nuclear missile launch. I follow his gaze to the bistro line, where Meredith waits in her white coat, her hands flitting around like humming birds as she chats with Dr. Asario, a senior pathologist.
“Mer would kill me if she knew this,” Kev murmurs, “—but the night you had to stay at the hospital—” He lets out a long breath and looks down at the slices of cheese in one of his bins. He’s got a goddamned charcuterie in front of him.
I want to interrupt him. Make him feel better, because I know what he’s about to say—have known for some time. But it seems like he wants to get this out on his own, so I roll the pretzel between my fingers into a ball and wait.
“I got your message—that night,” he breathes. “I got it and I didn’t tell Devon and–”
“I know.”
His eyes widen. “You know?”
I nod.
“Come on, Kev. You never miss a call. You’re one of the most attentive, committed doctors I’ve ever met.”
He shakes his head a little. The flush creeping up his neck stretches upward.
“I’m so sorry, man. I’m an ass. I’ve loved Devon from the moment she hit me in the testicles with a cornhole bag—but when I saw her have that panic attack and realized I’d caused it—”
It’s like every cell in Kevin’s body deflates at once.
His shoulders fall, his neck seems unable to withstand the weight of his head.
I want to tell him that I get it. Love makes us do stupid shit.
But he holds up a hand before I can speak and says, “That’s not love.
You don’t hurt the people you love like that.
Lie to them. Withhold the truth at their expense—”
“What are you two morons talking about?” Mer asks, plopping her wrapped sandwich onto the table between us. She looks at Kevin and narrows her eyes as he stares down at his fig spread. “You’re talking about Devon aren’t you?”
I’m suddenly very hungry. I take a huge bite of the pretzel.
“Were you asking Kev why she’s ghosting you?”
Kevin gives Mer the look that I give to Jenny whenever I want her to butt the hell out of my business. Meredith ignores him and hones in on me.
“Listen, Jeff. As much as this all started with the ‘Great Sex Scare of 2025’—”
I choke a little on the doughy part of the pretzel.
“The great what?”
“—the situation has—evolved.” Meredith points a finger and flicks her wrist making a little cyclone. I glance at Kevin for a translation.
“It’s the time of year,” he adds. “Devon always goes underground in November.”
I imagine the glorious little shed having a trapdoor and Devon descending into a bunker with the chickens marching after her in a straight line.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“November 9th is the anniversary of her dad’s death,” Kevin says quietly.
And there goes all the air in the room. And with it, my self-respect. I’m such an idiot. “An arrogant, prick,” in Devon’s words. Here I am obsessing, making this whole situation about me, and she’s in pain—mucking through her grief, completely and utterly alone.
“Don’t start beating yourself up about it, Jeffery.” Meredith sticks a bony elbow into my flank. “She wouldn’t want that. Which is why she goes off the grid—to avoid that look on your face.”
I fix my face and pretend to listen to Kevin and Meredith as they argue about whether or not to go to the Eagle’s game on Sunday, their words drifting past me with the buzz of conversation in the busy cafeteria. I even nod and smile when they direct some of those words at me.
But I don’t stop thinking about her.
“Jefffff.” Meredith’s hand is fluttering in front of my face as she looks down at me from where she stands. She shakes her head and lets out a breath. I look to my right and notice that Kevin has packed up his honey and brie and is talking to the table next to us.
“Listen—,” Mer says, sitting back down and dragging the seat towards me so she’s uncomfortably close. “If you’re this worried about her—”
I open my mouth to speak and she puts her palm against my lips more forcefully than necessary.
“Then you need to just man-up and go after her. Make it so she can’t run. Corner her ass.”
Of all the things I want to do to her ass, cornering it is not one.
“That doesn’t feel right,” I say when she slides her fingers away from my mouth. “Maybe she just needs to—”
“Devon needs somebody who’s gonna show up, Jeff.
She takes care of everyone—shows up for everyone else.
Her students. Her friends. Her mom. She needs someone who will do the same for her.
You gotta trust me on this,” she says. She pats my leg.
“Besides, it can't get much worse, right? She won’t even answer your texts.”
Shit. She has a point.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise.
She rolls her eyes and checks her apple watch.
“Think less. Do more.”
And then she’s walking away, murmuring something about men being pussies, and I’m stuck looking at the back of her white coat trying to hide just how much I want her to be right.