into this.”
“Fine. But you’re the one who had to get married. You said that’s what you wanted, but nothing’s ever enough.”
“What are you saying? I bludgeoned you into marriage?”
He shrugged. “You’re the one who proposed.”
“I did not!”
“You bought the ring.”
“That is not fair! You asked me what kind of diamond I liked.”
“Yeah, and the second I did, you dragged me to the mall, picked out a ring, and paid for it yourself.”
“You said you were low on cash,” I gritted out. “Should I have let you run up your credit card bill?”
“You should have waited until I asked you properly.” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “The old-fashioned way.”
“Really.” The ends of my wet hair were creeping out of my turban and soaking through my robe. “And when would you have gotten around to proposing the old-fashioned way?”
He shrugged.
“When?” I pressed.
“I would’ve.”
“Right. If I hadn’t bought this ring, we’d still be in relationship limbo!”
“Well, you got me, okay? You got what you wanted.”
“Lucky me.” I marched into the bedroom, pulled on cleanjeans and a sweater, and crammed my feet back into my hiking boots.
“Where are you going?” he asked as I pulled on my parka. “What about pizza?”
“Get your own damn pizza,” I snapped. “The old-fashioned way.”
I stomped down the stairs toward my truck. On the way I checked the mailbox. Sandwiched between the phone bill and my new issue of the Whole Dog Journal, I found an envelope bearing the seal of the State of Massachusetts. I glanced at the typed address, then up at the windows of our apartment, where the television’s flickering glow outlined the silhouette of the man whom yes, truth be told, I had sort of proposed to.
I folded the envelope and crammed it deep into my coat pocket.
Right now didn’t feel like the best time to reopen negotiations.
10
ERIN
F at, wet flakes of snow sifted down from the darkening clouds as I locked the office door behind me and headed for the parking lot. David and I had spent a long day apart after last night’s standoff—I’d checked into a hotel in Pittsfield, where I’d been so furious that I’d actually sent off an email to Jonathan, one of my friends from residency, asking him to test the waters and find out if there might still be a job for me in Boston.
God help me if any of this ever got back to Renée. How are you two going to give me grandchildren if you aren’t spending any time together? Your job is too stressful, Erin, I keep telling you. What’s the point of being a doctor these days, anyway? It’s all red tape and HMOs. Hurry up and start a family before it’s too late. Let David wear the pants for a change.
She was right about one thing: My job was stressful. Mylast scheduled appointment had been at four thirty—Ava Schaltzi’s chicken pox—but then Kelly Fendt had rushed into the waiting room with her toddler bundled up in a blanket. She’d demanded to see a doctor. Immediately. Christa at the front desk had been so freaked out that she’d called me away from my paperwork to deal with the situation.
“I know she’s a hypochondriac, I know she’s a pain in the butt,” Christa had said nervously. “But she says her son has whooping cough. She says he’s coughing up blood. I put her in exam room B.”
So I’d given up all hope of squeezing in a session at the gym and agreed to assess the situation. Little Carter Fendt had smiled up at me from behind his pacifier.
“He’s been coughing,” Kelly reported. “All night long. He stopped breathing for a minute, Dr. Maye. I swear he did.”
“Mm-hmm.” I scanned his chart, then pressed my stethoscope against his chest to listen to the lungs. No wheezing, no rales, no signs of any distress. “I don’t hear anything to be too alarmed about…let’s take his temperature.”
“Good idea.” Kelly looked vindicated. “My husband says I’m making a mountain out of a
“Fine. But you’re the one who had to get married. You said that’s what you wanted, but nothing’s ever enough.”
“What are you saying? I bludgeoned you into marriage?”
He shrugged. “You’re the one who proposed.”
“I did not!”
“You bought the ring.”
“That is not fair! You asked me what kind of diamond I liked.”
“Yeah, and the second I did, you dragged me to the mall, picked out a ring, and paid for it yourself.”
“You said you were low on cash,” I gritted out. “Should I have let you run up your credit card bill?”
“You should have waited until I asked you properly.” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “The old-fashioned way.”
“Really.” The ends of my wet hair were creeping out of my turban and soaking through my robe. “And when would you have gotten around to proposing the old-fashioned way?”
He shrugged.
“When?” I pressed.
“I would’ve.”
“Right. If I hadn’t bought this ring, we’d still be in relationship limbo!”
“Well, you got me, okay? You got what you wanted.”
“Lucky me.” I marched into the bedroom, pulled on cleanjeans and a sweater, and crammed my feet back into my hiking boots.
“Where are you going?” he asked as I pulled on my parka. “What about pizza?”
“Get your own damn pizza,” I snapped. “The old-fashioned way.”
I stomped down the stairs toward my truck. On the way I checked the mailbox. Sandwiched between the phone bill and my new issue of the Whole Dog Journal, I found an envelope bearing the seal of the State of Massachusetts. I glanced at the typed address, then up at the windows of our apartment, where the television’s flickering glow outlined the silhouette of the man whom yes, truth be told, I had sort of proposed to.
I folded the envelope and crammed it deep into my coat pocket.
Right now didn’t feel like the best time to reopen negotiations.
10
ERIN
F at, wet flakes of snow sifted down from the darkening clouds as I locked the office door behind me and headed for the parking lot. David and I had spent a long day apart after last night’s standoff—I’d checked into a hotel in Pittsfield, where I’d been so furious that I’d actually sent off an email to Jonathan, one of my friends from residency, asking him to test the waters and find out if there might still be a job for me in Boston.
God help me if any of this ever got back to Renée. How are you two going to give me grandchildren if you aren’t spending any time together? Your job is too stressful, Erin, I keep telling you. What’s the point of being a doctor these days, anyway? It’s all red tape and HMOs. Hurry up and start a family before it’s too late. Let David wear the pants for a change.
She was right about one thing: My job was stressful. Mylast scheduled appointment had been at four thirty—Ava Schaltzi’s chicken pox—but then Kelly Fendt had rushed into the waiting room with her toddler bundled up in a blanket. She’d demanded to see a doctor. Immediately. Christa at the front desk had been so freaked out that she’d called me away from my paperwork to deal with the situation.
“I know she’s a hypochondriac, I know she’s a pain in the butt,” Christa had said nervously. “But she says her son has whooping cough. She says he’s coughing up blood. I put her in exam room B.”
So I’d given up all hope of squeezing in a session at the gym and agreed to assess the situation. Little Carter Fendt had smiled up at me from behind his pacifier.
“He’s been coughing,” Kelly reported. “All night long. He stopped breathing for a minute, Dr. Maye. I swear he did.”
“Mm-hmm.” I scanned his chart, then pressed my stethoscope against his chest to listen to the lungs. No wheezing, no rales, no signs of any distress. “I don’t hear anything to be too alarmed about…let’s take his temperature.”
“Good idea.” Kelly looked vindicated. “My husband says I’m making a mountain out of a
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