Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
As she heads to the open kitchen to give the order, I pick a meal for myself then a salad and a risotto dish I think Juliet will like.
Juliet, my friend.
Juliet, my co-worker.
Juliet, the woman I was gifted a house with.
I take a deep breath, finally, finally feeling like my momentary bout of lust has burned off. I am all good.
After Clem brings the olive and pepper mix, I munch on a few Castelvetranos as I return to my book. A few minutes later, a throat clears behind me.
“Monroe?”
Shit. I turn toward the familiar voice. Yup. That’s my dad alright, shrewd blue eyes crinkled at the corner, gray hair thick like a lucky motherfucker, and questions—always questions—in his tone.
“Hello, Doctor Blackstone,” I say.
“Hello, son.” His head is tilted as if he can’t believe I’m here. I RSVPed to his party, but I didn’t tell him I was coming early. “You’re back in town already?”
I square my shoulders. “Yes, I am.”
“The party’s not for a week.”
“I’m aware. I’ll be here for the week.” I don’t share the details.
He blinks like he can’t make sense of me, which is standard for us. Then, he seems to remember that fathers hug sons, and he comes in for an uncomfortable embrace, punctuated with staccato back claps. It has to be as awkward for him as it is for me.
He steps back, glancing at the stool next to mine. “I’m meeting a friend here in a few minutes, but I’ll join you till she arrives.”
“Great,” I say, pasting on a smile.
There’s an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. “I was surprised to see you. I wouldn’t have thought you could take a random week off. I suppose your new line of work allows you more free time.”
My jaw ticks.
Here we go again.
Down Therapy Isn’t as Tough as Medicine Road and then onto Should Have Been a Practicing Medical Doctor Lane. The street he always travels.
“I do have appointments.”
“Right, right,” he says, amiable at first, then sliding back to critical. “I just mean it’s different, having a session versus a—”
“Surgery?”
He smiles, sort of self-deprecating, but there’s nothing truly unpretentious about the surgeon who practices at the prestigious university on the outskirts of town.
A guy whose reputation is sterling. Whose colleagues adore him. Whose protégés think he walks on water. A man who put his entire heart and soul into medicine after his wife—my mother—died unexpectedly when I was thirteen.
“I’m taking a week off to—” I stop. Don’t want to mention the class I’m developing, the house we were given, or any of the things I’m doing that aren’t good enough. He has a way of making me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass on a sunny day, insignificant and scrutinized at the same time.
“—to work on some online studies,” I finally say.
He nods a few times like he’s giving it some thought. “Good. Good. Education is good.”
We have so much to say to each other. “Yup.”
More silence as my dad fiddles with a napkin. Then, he clears his throat awkwardly. “We should have lunch while you’re here. Better yet, dinner. Or play a round of golf. Did you ever learn to play golf?”
Yes. But I learned because my friends play golf—Carter, Sawyer, and our bar-owning buddy Gage. We play because it’s fun. My dad wanted me to learn because doctors need an outlet to relieve stress.
But therapists? I don’t even want to hear how low stress he thinks that job is.
“Lunch works,” I say.
“Or golf. I’ve got a standing tee time on Wednesday.”
I’m saved from any more invites when Clem returns, giving him a bright smile. “Doctor Blackstone. Good to see you.” Her tone is playful. “Here I was thinking you’d left me for another tapas bar.”
“It’s only been a few days,” he says, amiable once more. “And I’d never leave.”
“Whew. Thank god,” she says.
I’m pissed now that this place isn’t mine. It’s his. Like this whole damn town.
Then, Clem turns to me and plunks a brown paper to-go bag on the bar. “Here you go. If you love it like I know you will, be sure to leave a review.”
She flashes a warm smile, and I can’t be pissed at her. She’s just a good businesswoman. “I will. The olives were great.”
She looks down at the small bowl in front of me. “Want me to pack up the rest of those for you to go?”
Dad looks at the dish with skepticism. “You like peppers now? You always hated spicy things as a kid. I didn’t think you’d ever develop a spice tolerance.”
He says it like “develop a spice tolerance” is code for “grow the fuck up.”
“I did,” I say. “And yes, I’ll take them, thanks.”
But before Clem picks up the dish, I fish around for a little red pepper, pop it in my mouth, and let that spicy vegetable burn my tongue. It’s a little five-alarm fire, but I don’t let on. I just smile and eat, then say goodbye.