“Is it?” Alison asked, tilting her head. “You tell your patients to trust the process, to take one step at a time, but the second you need to take your own advice, you refuse. You’re already skipping straight to the end, Bette, bracing for disaster.”
Bette had no argument to counter that, and instead of fighting her best friend, she picked up a stray shell and ran her thumb over its ridges. There was silence. It stretched on for a couple of minutes, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just two old friends sitting side by side.
It was only when a toddler suddenly cried out that Alison dusted off her hands and began pushing herself up. “Alright, enough brooding for one morning. Let’s take a walk. We can go around the block.”
“Since when do you like voluntary exercise?”
“Since I realized you might end up sitting here all day avoiding your feelings unless I physically make you move.” Alison held out a hand. “Come on. I’ll even let you buy me coffee.”
Bette sighed but took her hand, letting herself be pulled to her feet. The sand shifted beneath her, but the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. Not like the thought of heading to work in an hour. “Fine, but only because you came all this way.”
“Add in a croissant then,” Alison teased, smiling. She wrapped an arm around Bette’s shoulder and squeezed. “And try to loosen up, Bets. The world isn’t ending.”
Bette gave her a sharp look that made her friend laugh. But she was right. The world wasn’t ending, yet somehow it felt that way.
The surgical ward felt like a damn minefield, every corner a potential explosion just waiting to go off. Bette kept her head down, focusing strictly on her patient rounds that morning. But every time she glimpsed auburn hair, her pulse stuttered and her breath quickened.
Bette knew that Emily was there, somewhere close, just out of sight. She could feel it, an awareness crawling up her spine like ants.
But she had to focus. She had to shove the thought of Emily out of her head and concentrate on her patient—an elderly manin his late sixties recovering from a knee replacement surgery. Doctor Meissner had done a fabulous job, but even then, pain was a massive factor during the rehab process. She had to be extra patient, and extra gentle, yet Bette was feeling neither of those things.
“Alright, Mister Lively, let’s try that bend again. Slow and steady.”
The patient grimaced but complied, wincing as he flexed his knee. He was an ex-ultramarathon runner, doing a few hundred miles a year. Until his right knee gave out.
“You ever have one of these done?” he asked, jerking his head to Bette’s knees which were thankfully covered in scrub pants.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I’ve rehabbed enough patients to know that the first weeks after surgery are the hardest. You just have to push through.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mr. Lively pouted, looking like an overgrown kid with silver speckles in his hair. “You can at least walk out of here.”
Bette put on her best fake smile. “And you’ll be walking out of here in no time. Just be a little patient, Mister Lively.”
He grunted but didn’t say anything else, only carried on with his reps. Thank goodness.
Once the session was done, Bette grabbed her clipboard, headed out of the private room, and checked both ways as if she expected oncoming traffic. When it all looked safe—no Emily in sight—she hurried toward the nurse station to fetch a patient sticker.
The quicker she got back to the treatment center the better. But as Bette turned, a solid shoulder knocked into her own, and before she could react, the sharp slap of files and paper hitting the linoleum
“Shit, sorry,” Bette muttered, already crouching down to help.
The nurse she’d bumped into—a young woman with ash blonde hair, probably fresh out of school, judging by her wide-eyed expression—frantically reached for the scattered file. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking, I didn’t?—”
“Not your fault,” Bette said, her hands moving on autopilot. The faster she got out of there the better. “I was in a bit of a rush myself.”
The nurse suddenly stiffened like she’d been hit with a stun gun. Her head flicked up, her fingers clutching at the edge of a manila folder. “Doctor Sharp,” she whispered, barely moving her lips.
Bette’s stomach flipped at the mention of Emily’s name. She followed the nurse’s gaze, pulse pounding in her ears, only to see Emily standing a few paces away, watching the two of them, her body unnaturally still, except for her jaw working slightly, clenching and unclenching.
The nurse stood up, papers squished in her arms. “Congratulations on getting approved for surgery. I saw your name on the board for today.”
Emily gave a short, curt nod. “Thank you, Tamara.”
Approved? Bette’s mind scrambled, piecing it together. Someone else had signed off on her. The other physical therapist, no doubt. Was Emily even ready? Not just her shoulder pain but her mental wellbeing too? Was she fine toget back into surgery?
Not that Bette should care. Shedidn’t. Yet, the knowledge still landed like a punch to the ribs, a very heavy, very final punch.
Emily’s gaze flicked to her, completely unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away, leaving Bette frozen watching the space where she’d just stood.
