Hotshot Doc(42)

“I didn’t know you take care of your sister,” Dr. Russell says from across the table, his deep voice cutting through the chatter around us.

I still, keeping my gaze pinned on Mrs. Russell. I didn’t know he was listening. With all the conversations taking place around us, it would have been hard for him to hear me clearly.

Unfortunately, when I finally work up the courage to glance over, those White Walker-blue eyes are studying me intently. There’s no doubt he’s heard every word. Dread fills my stomach. I want to go back to a few minutes ago when he was ignoring me, because the way he’s looking at me now, it’s like he’s also seeing my vulnerable spot. What a dangerous development. He already wields so much power, and I’ve just hand-delivered him even more.

Cooper laughs loudly on my right and the sound jars me out of the moment. I’m thankful at least he is carrying on like he’s at a wedding while the rest of us go deep into a therapy session. I don’t need any more of an audience listening to my familial woes.

“I wish you had told me,” Dr. Russell says, his dark brows crinkled in concern.

I clear my throat, trying to ease the tension there. “You’ve never asked about my life outside of the hospital.”

He looks stricken by my comment, and I instantly regret the way it sounded. His mother is still listening, after all. I don’t really think it’s appropriate to chastise him in front of her.

“And,” I clarify, “it’s not something I talk about all that often.”

After that, dinner lasts for another unbearable hour. I sit in silence, Dr. Russell nurses a few drinks, and Mrs. Russell carries the conversation for all of us. I practically leap out of my chair when they clear away the last plate, bumping into the waiter who gave me his number.

“Hey, uh…I’m not sure if you came with anyone tonight…”

Oh dear GOD.

I sidestep around him and run for the bathroom, and even though I want to cut in front of the bride’s grandma and a tiny flower girl hopping back and forth from leg to leg, I don’t. I lean against the wall and wait my turn so I can lock myself in a stall and linger for as long as I damn well please.

Sitting on a crinkly piece of tissue paper covering the toilet, I check Uber and lament the ridiculous fee that pops up. It took us a while to get here. I knew the cost to get home would be expensive, but that’s like can-I-pay-with-sexual-favors expensive. Walking isn’t an option either because it’s -139 degrees outside and my limbs would freeze and break off within the first mile.

“Hey! C’mon! There are only three stalls!” someone shouts before banging hard on my door.

“Oh! Sorry! I’m having diarrhea.”

And then I pull up a YouTube video of Niagara Falls so I can finish researching my exit in peace.

Unfortunately, after a good deal of desperate searching, I’m left with no other option but to grin and bear it for a little longer until I can convince Cooper to take me home.

When I vacate my sanctuary (stall) and reenter the festivities, I expect him to be worried about my prolonged absence. No doubt word of my condition has spread through the ballroom, but I’m annoyed to find that I happen to be on a date with the Russell brother who loves attention. At this very moment he’s in the middle of the dance floor smoothly transitioning back and forth between twirling the flower girl like a ballerina and shimmying beside the mother of the bride. There’s a circle of people clapping around him and oh my god, he’s doing the worm. Three bridesmaids hover nearby, licking their chops.

I turn in the exact opposite direction. Some people were made to dance, and some people were made to be wallflowers. I fall solidly into the second category.

I round the edge of the room, happy to finally have a moment to myself, but then I spot Dr. Russell sitting outside in the cold. He couldn’t be farther away from the festivities unless he physically removed himself from the premises.

I watch as he brings a drink to his lips and takes a long drag. Then he lays his head on the back of the chair and stares up at the night sky. I press my hand to the glass and confirm it’s just as cold as I thought it would be.

Stupid man.

He’s going to get frostbite. I should let him.

What do I care?

And yet, I turn and walk back to the dining table to get our coats. His is thick wool and undoubtedly expensive and I want to wrap it around myself so badly, but I stuff my arms into my own puffy pink sleeves and resist the temptation.

At the door to the patio, I take a deep breath, appreciating one last second of warmth before I step outside and arctic air blasts my face. My extremities turn to ice. I lose feeling in my bare legs.

“Jesus, are you insane?!” I shout, scurrying over to him quickly. “What are you doing out here?”

He doesn’t turn around, just holds up his tumbler as if in explanation.

“Yes, I get it: you’re trying to drink yourself to death. You’ve been doing it all night—surely you’re close by now.”

He chuckles. “One more ought to do it.”

His reply is lazier than usual. He’s definitely drunk, and I’m definitely about to die when another blast of wind hits me.

I round his chair, fling his jacket onto his lap, and run back inside as fast as my legs can take me. I feel no pity for him anymore. He has his jacket. I’m going to walk right over to that nice roaring fire, plop down in the cozy sitting area, and pull up the Kindle app on my phone.