Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DREW
On Wednesday morning, Luke Carlton knocks on my office door.
“Hey, Drew,” he says. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” It’s actually a welcome interruption, since I’m not making much progress on the research paper I’m supposed to be writing.
Luke closes the door and sits down on the other side of my desk. “So,” he says with a grin. “I heard you’re dating your assistant?”
I almost ask where he heard it, but I realize it doesn’t matter. After all, we wanted the news to spread so it wouldn’t seem like we were hiding a dirty secret.
“My former assistant,” I clarify. “She works for Heather Larkin now.”
“So it’s true?”
“Yeah,” I say, as though there’s absolutely nothing remarkable about this. “Ally and I are dating.”
“And Ally’s the woman you were getting coffee with last week?” Luke asks.
“Yep.”
Luke raises an eyebrow. “Right. Well done.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh. I’m pretty sure if Luke knew the real story, he wouldn’t think I’d done well at all.
So far, I’ve coerced Ally into a pretend relationship, then convinced her to move in with me.
And now I have a problem, since I promised I wouldn’t touch her but I can’t control my reaction to her.
But after I’d lied to the Tates, I’m not sure what I could have done differently. Once I’d seen the inside of Ally’s apartment and met her landlord, there was really no alternative.
And I can justify my other problematic decisions, too. Like when she asked me to lend her a t-shirt to sleep in, what could I say?
But now that I’ve seen her in my shirt, I can’t get the vision out of my head.
To make things worse, Ally hasn’t given the shirt back. I’ve tried to tell myself she’s probably not wearing it anymore. She’s got all her own clothes now, so she’s probably wearing pajamas, but who knows? She might still be sleeping in my shirt.
There’s a lesson here: if you’re struggling with insomnia, the knowledge that Ally Parker is sleeping in the next room, possibly wearing your shirt, is not helpful.
And I definitely shouldn’t have checked her reflexes. There’s no excuse for that, but her statement that she ‘barely has reflexes’ was so ridiculous I couldn’t resist. But that was definitely a mistake, because it led to the tickling incident. I can’t get that memory out of my head either.
So for the past few days I’ve tried an avoidance strategy, leaving for the hospital before she’s awake and not coming home until late. I feel a little guilty that she has to walk to work, since we’re going to the same place, but at least my condo’s close to the hospital.
“Melissa and I are having a barbecue Saturday afternoon,” Luke says. “Are you and Ally around?”
I pull my attention back to him. “Let me ask her, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. It’d be great if you guys could make it.” Luke pauses. “I’ve invited Ethan, and I think it’ll be easier for him if there are more people there.”
I can see why a barbecue at Luke’s would be difficult for Ethan. The two of them were good friends until last fall, when Ethan tried to operate drunk and Luke had to take over the case. Of course, Luke had to report the incident, and as the chief of surgery, I had to deal with it.
And when Luke reported Ethan, he also admitted he was dating Melissa, the mother of one of his former patients.
I didn’t ask, because I didn’t want to know.
But I’ve always suspected Ethan threatened to report Luke’s relationship if Luke reported his drinking, and Luke was trying to get ahead of the problem.
Fortunately, I’d already guessed Luke was dating Melissa (I’d seen them together, and I’m not an idiot), and I didn’t have a problem with it. Dating a former patient’s mother is an ethical gray area, but in my opinion, Luke didn’t cross the line.
Regardless, if I were in Luke’s place, I’m not sure I could forgive Ethan. Luke’s evidently a better person than I am.
“So Ally and I would be a good distraction,” I say thoughtfully. “At your barbecue.”
“Well, it won’t just be you two,” Luke replies. “Austin’s coming, and Melissa’s inviting Sophie Kaminsky. But yeah, the fact that you have a new girlfriend . . .”
“Would be a good distraction.”
“Yeah.” Luke nods wryly. “To be honest, I was kind of surprised Ethan agreed to come. I know a couple people have reached out since he came back to town, and he hasn’t wanted to see anyone.”
“He’s only been back two weeks,” I say. Ethan spent his enforced leave of absence far away from Somerset: three months at an alcohol rehab center in California and three months surfing in Hawaii.
“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” Luke asks.
“Yeah.” I met with Ethan last week, to review whether he was fit to return to work.
“You probably can’t answer this, but . . . are you going to let him come back?”
I sigh. “Do you think I should?”
Luke looks surprised that I’ve asked for his opinion. “Shit, Drew, I don’t know. I mean, he’s a great surgeon. But . . .”
That pretty much sums up how I feel. Ethan is a great surgeon, and he swears he’s been sober for over six months. He got a great report from the rehab center, and his psychiatrist has cleared him.
And he’s not coming back because he needs the money. Ethan’s family owns a multimillion dollar construction company, and he has a very healthy trust fund. He told me about it when he was trying to convince me to let him come back, so I’d know he wasn’t motivated by the paycheck.
But the fact that he tried to operate drunk is frankly terrifying. And if I let him come back too soon and something happens, I’ll be partly to blame.
For the millionth time, I curse the fact that I’m the department chief, and wonder why I haven’t managed to resign yet.
“For his sake, I hope you let him come back,” Luke says. “With this on his record, he won’t get a job anywhere else.” He pauses. “I mean, can you imagine if someone told you that you couldn’t operate anymore?”
I have a fucking tremor.
That’s different, though. I’ve never noticed it when I operate.
I run a hand through my hair. “I think Ethan’s chances are good.” In fact, I know they are, because I’ve already recommended that he be reinstated. His application’s gone to the board, and I expect they’ll rubber-stamp it.
“That’s good to hear.” Luke says, standing up. “Let me know about the barbecue.”
“Yeah. I’ll talk to Ally and let you know.”
When I get home at eight, Ally’s in the living room, doing some sort of Pilates-style routine with resistance bands.
Her black yoga pants fit like a second skin, and her strappy blue tank top leaves her belly button visible.
There’s music playing from her phone, an upbeat song that sounds familiar but I can’t place.
“Hey, Ally,” I call.
She hops up from the floor. “Hey, Drew.” She grabs her phone and stops the music. “Sorry, was it too loud?”
“No, it was fine. What song was that?”
“‘Chelsea Dagger.’ The Fratellis.”
“Ah. Your arm’s okay?”
Ally glances down at the bandage on her left arm. “Yeah, it’s fine, I’m mostly doing lower body stuff. I was thinking I might come down to the gym with you sometime.”
I go to the gym in the condo basement almost every evening. But if she wants to join me, and she wears outfits like that to work out . . . I’ll have to stop.
“You should give your arm the time it needs to heal,” I tell her. “Don’t push it.”
“I’m not,” she says. “I made chicken cacciatore for dinner, there’s a plate in the fridge for you.”
“Thanks.” Ally insisted I cancel the premade meal deliveries, and over the past few days we finished off what was already in the fridge. Today’s the first day she’s cooked dinner, and the kitchen smells delicious.
I open the fridge and blink. It’s unusually full of food, food I’m pretty sure wasn’t there when I left this morning.
“You went grocery shopping?” I ask Ally.
“Yeah,” she says, walking over to join me in the kitchen. “After work today.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
She looks confused by my reaction. “I told you I’d cook.”
“Right. Of course.” She did tell me she’d cook, so obviously she’d need to buy groceries, and I’m being an idiot. “I’d have driven you to the grocery store.”
Her brow furrows. “It wasn’t a big deal. The bus stops right in front of it, and I didn’t buy that much stuff.”
Still . . . “I’d have paid for it. I’ll reimburse you.”
“Drew,” she says with exaggerated patience. “It’s fine. You’re not charging me rent, remember?
“Yeah, but I don’t expect you to pay for my food.” The fridge beeps, because I’ve been holding the door open this whole time, and I reflexively push it closed.
Ally blinks. “So you’re not going to eat it unless I let you pay for it?”
“What? No. Of course I’m going to eat it.” I open the fridge again, find the plastic wrapped plate, and pull it out.
I’m not thinking well right now, because Ally’s standing less than two feet away. She smells faintly of peaches, probably her shampoo, and there’s an inch of skin visible between her tank top and her yoga pants.
“You should microwave that,” she suggests.
“Yeah.” I pull off the plastic wrap and pop the plate in the microwave.
Ally steps toward the sink to pour herself a glass of water, and now she’s less than a foot away. Close enough for me to see a tiny bead of sweat on her temple. Close enough to reach out and touch.
“I’ll e-transfer you money for groceries,” I say abruptly.
She frowns. “I guess you can pay for half,” she says grudgingly. “I’ll send you the amount.”
“How’s work going?” I ask her. “Heather treating you all right?”
“Yeah,” she nods. “I know you don’t like her, but she’s been okay as a boss. So far, anyway.”
“It’s not that I don’t like Heather,” I say carefully. “It’s more that there’s a natural antagonism between doctors and administrators. I’d probably clash with anyone they put in that position.”
This is stretching the truth pretty thin; even though I’d probably clash with anyone in that position, I find Heather particularly irritating. But it sounds like she’s been good to Ally, and that improves my opinion of her a little.
“A natural antagonism?” Ally repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “They don’t understand us, and I’m sure they think we don’t understand them. We’re trying to look after patients, and they’re . . .” I trail off, because most of the time I don’t understand what admin is trying to do. “Anyway, it’s not personal.”
“Oh,” she says thoughtfully.
“Yeah. “The microwave dings, and I pull out my dinner. “My friend Luke invited us to a barbecue on Saturday,” I tell her. “It should be pretty casual, just a few friends from work. What do you think?”
She hesitates and takes a sip of her water. “What time?”
“I’m not actually sure,” I admit. “In the afternoon sometime. I’ll text him and ask.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “The afternoon should be fine.”
“You sure?” I ask. “We don’t have to go if you have other plans.”
“I don’t, really,” she says, taking another sip of water.
“It’s just—the French Open women’s final is Saturday morning.
Sarah Hayes will be playing if she wins her semi tomorrow, and I’d like to watch it live.
But it starts at nine in the morning, our time, so it shouldn’t be an issue for the barbecue. ”
“Ah,” I say. “Okay. I’ll let Luke know we’ll be there.”
Ally nods. “I can make lemon squares.” She pauses. “Unless you’d rather take something else?
“No, lemon squares sound perfect.”
“Okay.” She finishes her water and puts the glass in the dishwasher. “I’m going to jump in the shower.”
“All right.”
Ally disappears down the hall, and I carry my dinner to the table. A few moments later, I hear the shower start.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the chicken cacciatore.