“I said it’s over. Get out of my house.”
I pack up my equipment with mechanical movements, neck stiff, jaw tight. I don’t look at her. I can’t.
If I look at her, I’ll say something I regret.
Or worse, I’ll apologize, and I don’t even know why I should apologize for being professional.
I head for the door, medical bag in hand.
“Your blood pressure is dangerously high,” I say without turning around. “I strongly advise you to schedule another appointment in the next few days. With me or another physician.”
“Get out.”
The door closes behind me.
Not violently. Not with some dramatic movie-worthy slam. No. Worse than that.
Firm. Final. Absolute.
The kind of closing that says: You are not welcome here. And you never will be.
I stay frozen on the porch while the rain intensifies around me.
Of course it does.
Because Scottish weather apparently has a flair for melodrama.
My hair starts sticking to my forehead. Water seeps into my new shoes, which are definitely not made for muddy Highland roads. I should move. Head back to the clinic. Fill out my notes. See the next patient.
But I stay there, rooted in place with that familiar feeling eating away at my insides.
The one I know far too well from Edinburgh.
You’re not good enough.
You never will be.
Movement catches my attention.
Across the street, a woman in her fifties is watering her flowers despite the rain. She’s staring at me. I hold her gaze for one second. Two.
She looks away first and hurries back inside.
Fantastic.
News travels fast in a village this small. By tonight, all of Glenfield will know the new doctor got thrown out of Moira MacTavish’s house. By tomorrow, half my patients will probably cancel their appointments.
I walk down the path, push through the squeaking gate, and head toward the car parked three houses away. An old Land Rover Nate loaned me until I buy one of my own.
“You can’t drive a city-boy sedan in the Highlands, Finn. You’ll wreck it in a week.”
My cousin was right.
Only the car isn’t the problem.
I slide behind the wheel and sit there watching rain stream down the windshield. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from the clinic receptionist.
“Mrs. Campbell canceled her 3 p.m. appointment. Family emergency apparently.”
