Page 7 of Pumped

Most of the time, I don’t care. He can think whatever the hell he wants. I’ve got plenty of friends. I don’t need him. But sometimes, there’s a part of me that really, really wants to know. Sometimes, I want to peel back all those layers and see if there’s actually a human being hiding inside.

CHAPTER

TWO

OWEN

Soft violin filters through speakers hidden around my study, and I settle into the plush armchair by the window. A glass of red wine sits next to me on the side table, and the latest issue ofJAVMAis cued up on my iPad. Ahead of me stretches two full days of uninterrupted time. No shifts at the animal hospital where I’m a veterinary surgeon. No chores or paperwork to get caught up on. No plans to drive up to Westchester to see my parents or to head out to Brooklyn to see my brother and his family. I’ve got nothing but time to read, go for a few walks, maybe try out a couple new recipes I’ve bookmarked. Total bliss.

I take a sip of the pinot noir from an up-and-coming vineyard in Napa Valley and scroll to the article that piqued my interest: new procedures for treating cleft palates in canines. I’m only halfway through the introduction when the screen on my phone lights up.

Unknown Caller ID.

I stare at it for a second, debating whether I should ignore the call and let it go to voicemail. It’s probably my hospital. I’m not supposed to be on call, but there could be an emergency they need me for.

I swipe to accept. “Hello?”

“Is this Owen Lambert?”

My entire body snaps into high alert at the dry, official tone of the unfamiliar female voice. “Yes, this is he.”

“I’m calling from New York-Presbyterian Hospital. You’re listed as the next of kin for Jeremy and Eden Lambert?”

Her words are a bucket of cold water right in my face. The chill soaks straight into my bones. “Yes? Are they okay? What happened?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lambert, there’s been an accident. You need to come to the hospital.”

I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

For a moment, I’m frozen. Sitting on the edge of my armchair, holding my phone to my ear, I disassociate. Whatever this is, it isn’t real. This phone call isn’t real. The person on the other end isn’t either. Any second now, I’m going to snap back to reality and continue with my evening as planned.

But I don’t. And it doesn’t. I’m still holding my phone to my ear and the woman on the other end is still talking.

“Mr. Lambert? Are you there?”

I give myself a little shake.Snap out of it, Lambert.“Yes, I’m here.”

“Do you need the address of the hospital?”

“No, I know where it is.”

The call disconnects and I jump into action. This is not the time for emotions, for shock or fear or anything other than taking decisive steps forward. My brain races, throwing thoughts at me a mile a minute: make sure I have my phone, my wallet, my keys; pull out the file folder with all of Jeremy andEden’s emergency information; grab the phone charger from the bedroom, and a bottle of water from the kitchen; double check the stove is off.

And while my conscious mind is assessing the situation, creating a game plan, and executing it, a ball of unease grows in the pit of my stomach. There was something off about that woman’s voice over the phone, something not quite right. A touch too much sadness, perhaps. A noticeable lack of urgency. I don’t like it. I don’t like what I think it means.

The trip from my apartment in Alphabet City up to the hospital in the Upper East Side takes almost twice as long as it should. I swear to god, the taxi hits every red light along the way, and pedestrians keep darting out onto the road like this is some fucking obstacle course. My leg won’t stop bouncing the entire ride.

When the cab finally spits me out in front of the hospital, I’m itching to run inside, but I force myself to walk instead. Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay in control. I put a stranglehold on the emotions that are building inside me and force them down. This isnotthe time.

“I’m Owen Lambert. I got a call about my brother and sister-in-law. Jeremy and Eden Lambert.” I can hear myself speak. It’s flat and rigid, cold and distant.

The receptionist directs me up to the eighth floor and I jab at the elevator buttons, convinced that pressing them multiple times makes the damn thing move faster. A doctor is waiting for me at the nurses’ station, and from the apologetic expression on her face, I know I’m not going to like what she has to say.

“Mr. Lambert?”

“Dr.Lambert.” The correction slips out before I’m able to stop it, landing just shy of harsh and demanding. I’m not sure why I do it. It wasn’t a conscious choice. But that small change inaddress keeps the floor under my feet just a little bit firmer. “I’m a veterinarian.”

She flashes a quick, understanding smile. “Dr. Lambert, let’s sit down over here.”

---