Page 8 of Brother in Law with Benefits

I am going to hell for lying to this woman.

There's a part of me that wants to text back something about the lunch —why would you say that about my mom in front of him— but I don't, because Patty doesn't apologize for things she doesn't consider wrong, and because some tiny, traitorous part of me is almost grateful somebody finally said it out loud where a witness could hear.

Me:Tell him to get some rest. Long trip.

Patty:You too, honey. 7:30 the day after tomorrow. Don't be late.

3

Sophie

The shift starts at six-forty-five. I arrive at six-thirty, because arriving early is the one area of my life where I am reliably, compulsively competent.

Three walk-ins waiting already. Marissa mouths "sorry" at me from behind the desk.

I pull on my scrub jacket and get to work.

The shift unfolds in its usual rhythm. A seven-year-old with strep. A two-month-old for a weight check whose mom needs twenty minutes of reassurance more than she needs the number on the scale. A ten-year-old who wiped out skateboarding, sprained his ankle, and is very invested in not crying in front of me. I give him a dinosaur sticker. He accepts. We have an understanding.

This is what I'm good at. Clear problems. Specific solutions. Comfort the scared one, explain the situation, send them home better than they came in.

Not like whatever I've been doing in my head since three o'clock.

Around nine, Dr. Hammond finds me in the supply room doing something I will claim was an inventory check and was actually just standing very still in a small quiet space.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Sophie." She leans against the doorframe. "I've known you for five years."

I consider maintaining the fiction. Abandon it. "Grant Guilligan is back in town. He got here today. I had lunch with him and Patty and then came directly to work."

"Your ex husband’s brother?"

"That's the one."

Dr. Hammond is quiet for a moment. She's got the particular patience of someone who has spent many years listening to people tell her things obliquely.

"Is he staying?" she asks.

"Three months. Maybe four. For Patty's treatment."

"And you're going to be coordinating care with him."

"Apparently."

"Okay." She straightens up. "For what it's worth — the fact that you've been standing in the supply room for ten minutes organizing tongue depressors by size is probably information."

I look down at my hands. I have, in fact, organized the tongue depressors by size.

The desk buzzer. She goes. I put the tongue depressors back in the jar in no particular order, which feels like growth.

By seven AM, I'm dead on my feet. The drive home is muscle memory. I park, trudge up the stairs, and notice the succulent is still alive, which is the kind of small irrational comfort I'm apparently relying on these days.

Inside, I drop my bag and am about to drag myself toward the shower when my phone buzzes.

Unknown number.