Page 16 of Clinically Delicious
I looked up.
“Thank you. For giving me another chance.”
I waved her away, unable to trust my voice. As she left, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
I’d just made either the best decision or the worst mistake of my parenting career.
Given my track record, it was probably both.
The next morning, I jumped into the shower as it was the only place I could think anymore.
Hot water, steam, silence. The holy trinity of single fatherhood. No patients demanding my attention, no daughter asking why clouds float, no nannies breaking bones on my watch. Just me, overpriced shampoo, and the vague hope that I could wash away the lingering anxiety from yesterday’s ER visit.
I was mid-rinse when I heard it: knocking. Persistent, rhythmic knocking that suggested whoever was on the other side of my door had either never heard of doorbells or was conducting some kind of psychological experiment.
Fantastic.
I shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around my waist with the efficiency of someone who’d perfected the art of interrupted showers. Water dripped down my back as I stalked toward the front door, already composing the speech I’d deliver to whatever door-to-door salesman had made the catastrophic error of disturbing my Saturday morning.
I yanked the door open.
Cate stood on my doorstep, hand frozen mid-knock.
Her eyes went wide. Then wider. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed, then opened again like a fish that had suddenly forgotten how gills worked.
She was staring. Blatantly, unabashedly staring at my chest.
I waited for her to say something. Anything. An explanation for why she was here, perhaps, or an apology for interrupting the one moment of peace I’d had all week.
Nothing.
Just staring.
“It’s Saturday,” I said finally, my voice flat. “You’re not scheduled today.”
She blinked at me. Slowly. As if I’d just spoken ancient Sumerian.
“Saturday,” I repeated, enunciating each syllable like I was explaining a complex medical procedure to a particularly dense intern. “Your day off. The day you don’t work.”
More blinking. I was beginning to wonder if she’d suffered some kind of minor stroke.
“Cate?”
“I—” Her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Saturday. Right. Yes. The day. That’s today.”
Was she malfunctioning? Had the stress of yesterday’s incident finally broken something fundamental in her brain?
A drop of water slid down my temple, and her eyes tracked its movement with the focus of a predator watching prey. This was getting ridiculous.
“Did you need something?” I asked, crossing my arms. The towel shifted slightly, and I watched her face go through an impressive spectrum of colors, pink to red to something approaching purple.
“No! Nothing! I just—I thought—” She gestured vaguely at nothing in particular. “I wanted to check on Megan. Make sure she was okay. After yesterday. The arm. The broken one. That she has now.”
“She’s fine. Still asleep.”
“Great! Wonderful! Sleep is important. For healing. And... existing.”
I stared at her. She stared at my collarbone.
This was, without question, the strangest conversation I’d had all week, and I’d spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining to a five-year-old why she couldn’t keep her cast forever as a souvenir.
“Cate,” I said slowly. “Are you alright?”
“Perfect!” Her voice hit a pitch that probably alarmed dogs in a three-block radius. “I should go. You’re clearly... busy. With your... towel situation.”
Before I could respond, she spun on her heel and practically sprinted down the driveway, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to escape.
I stood in the doorway, dripping water onto the hardwood, watching her retreat as if I’d just threatened her with a scalpel.
What the hell was that about?
