Traitor.
The one time she actually needed her best friend to be an immovable force of chaos, to stand like a barrier between Emily and Bette, she basically hand-delivered Emily on a silver platter. She’d deal with Tessa later, possibly spoil an episode ofDownton Abbeyfor her. A small price to pay for such blatant betrayal.
A stretch of silence followed. The kind that made Emily’s skin itch, like she needed to move, to say something, anything, to break it. But what? What could she say to the woman who had somehow made her feel the whole world with her touch? Should she mention the push, the pull, the longing that simmered under her skin? Should she mention how maddening it was, how infuriating also because Emily had no right to feel so much after just one hot encounter?
Finally, Bette exhaled, running a hand through her short hair, not quite meeting Emily’s eye. “I heard you put in a request for another physical therapist.”
Emily stiffened, and for the first time in ages, a twinge settled in her shoulder. Instinctively, she reached for it, rubbing her knuckles against the sore spot before she caught herself and crossed her arms. “It’s not a big deal,” she muttered, “I just thought it might be easier. For both of us.”
“Really?” Bette’s voice was as sharp as a butcher’s knife. “If it’s not a big deal, why didn’t you tell me you planned on transferring? Why did you go behind my back?”
Guilt suddenly prickled at the back of Emily’s neck, but instead of explaining, instead of telling Bette what she really thought of the whole situation, she snapped back, “Why do you even care? I’m doing you a favor by going to see someone else. I’m making it easier on you, so you don’t have to see me three times a week when clearly seeing my face is the last thing you want.”
Bette flinched. “Is that really what you think? That I don’t want to see you again. That it’s that easy to just…” she trailed off, clearly biting back what else she’d meant to say. The words didn’t come out. “You’re wrong, Emily. It’s not about that. Not at all.”
Emily’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize for not telling Bette about the transfer. She wouldn’t. Instead, she shoved down the rising lump in her throat. “I thought it’d be easier this way.”
“Easier for who?” Bette asked.
Emily dug her fingers into the fabric of her dress. “Does it matter?”
Bette’s gaze hardened. She didn’t say anything at first. Only after what felt like a century of silence, Bette nodded, once, sharp and decisive. “Understood. I wish you all the best, Doctor Sharp.”
It was a cold and final blow.
Emily’s chest tightened like an elephant was sitting on it. She couldn’t get any words out. She couldn’t even say goodbye. All she did was watch as Bette stepped back, glancing at the club entrance. “If you see Jamie again, tell him I went home.”
With that, she turned and walked away, disappearing down the dark street, leaving Emily standing there cold and alone.
11
BETTE
Bette sat on the cool sand beach, feet buried deep in the soft grains, the ocean breeze ruffling her short hair in a way that almost made her feel alive again.
Almost.
It was Friday morning, and the sun was just beginning its slow crawl over the horizon, stretching out like a cat reluctantly waking up from a nap. The sky was that perfect shade of early morning blue—pale and sleepy, tinged with fine whispers of lavender and pink. Ahead of her, the ocean stretched out, waves rolling gently onto the shore, kissing the sand.
Bette had gotten up earlier than usual this morning.
Mostly because she had spent the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep, and getting out of the house was the only way to rid that thick haze clouding her mind. A haze caused by no one other than Dr. Emily Sharp.
The other night she had “bumped” into Emily outside the bar and it had unraveled her completely. Bette could’ve handled it differently.Should’vehandled it better. She was supposed to be the calm one, the reasonable one, the one who didn’t get caught up in her emotions. Yes, she was hurt when she found out Emilywas transferring to another physical therapist. Yes, she had felt blindsided, like the rug had been yanked out from under her.
But did Emily have to know that? Did she have to see it written all over Bette’s face?
That night, a week ago, Bette had worn her heart on her sleeve, and she’d nearly told Emily that seeing her go wasn’t what she wanted, not really. She’d nearly let too much slip. Luckily, she had caught herself in time.
Luckily.
And yet, nothing about Emily Sharp felt lucky. It felt like the universe had handed her a puzzle with no instructions, and suddenly, Bette had no idea which way was up. Every moment over the last few weeks had left her teetering on the edge of something—something big, something uncertain, like she was standing too close to a fire, unsure if she should step back or lean in and let it burn.
Bette listened out for the sounds of sneakers slapping against the pavement. Twice earlier, she had nearly looked back, hoping stupidly, that one of the runners might be Emily.
Bette couldn’t help it.
The surgeon had taken over her mind like a virus, even more so now after their last encounter a week ago. She constantly found herself scanning every coffee shop, street, and parking lot, half-expecting to see her there. And no matter how hard Bette tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about that stolen moment outside the gala—how alive it had made her feel like every nerve in her body had been switched on all at once. Bette hadn’t felt that way in a long time.
