Page 7 of Deeply Examined

It’s my lunch break. I should eat but instead I’m staring at a photo.

Black and white, grainy with age.

It’s from my high-school yearbook. I searched through box after box in the back of my closet after the visit fromher, Jessica. For a minute I’d had a rising sense of panic. I’d been worried I threw the damn thing out. It would make sense, really—I hated that yearbook and all the memories it contained. Luckily, I was lazy and never bothered to get rid of it. I found it finally in an old moth-eaten suitcase I’d bought from a thrift store when I was a broke-ass college kid.

The spine cracked with a loudsnapwhen I opened the dusty book. I’d flipped through it, confirming what I’d remembered—that Jessica Jones was on practically every page. There she was leading the freshman welcome rally. There she was, class treasurer, posing with the Student Council. She was feeding the homeless, teaching kids to read, walking rescue dogs during after-school outreach programs.

So shiny I can’t look away from her.

Like the obsessive asshole that I am, I brought the yearbook with me to work today, so I can page through it during this time off. The same way I’d looked at it every night since that odd appointment with Jessica. The one where she—nope. Not thinking about that, a promise I’ve broken every day so far with my dick in my hand.

There’s a knock on my door. I blow out an annoyed sigh, exhaling sharply through my nose. My staff knows not to bother me during this rare thirty minutes of alone time.

I bark out a harsh, “Come in.”

Hayley, the new front office assistant, creeps in like she’s walking into a minefield.

Another burst of irritation. My staff respect me, some even like me, but they’re also scared of me. I’m strict, rigidly professional, and quite frankly, never any fun.

Dr. Benedict, one of my partners, gives each staff member a ribbon-topped mason jar of homemade snack mix for Christmas. She hand writes thank you notes, with personal details inside. I give them each a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. My gift cost at least eighty dollars more than hers, but they always clasp the jars and notes like they’re cherished heirlooms versus the stiff nods and forced smiles I got in return for the cold, hard cash. I don’t get it. Do they not understand basic economics?

No matter. I’m not in the market for friends.

Just an efficiently run medical office.

“What is it?” I ask Hayley with a scowl.

She wrings her hands like they’re wet dishcloths, and she needs to squeeze them dry, “I—I’m so sorry, Dr West. I made a mistake.”

“What?”

“There was a patient…I should have scheduled her for an annual with pap, but I only put her down as an annual. You saw her earlier this week.”

Foreboding stirs. My stomach does a nauseating flip flop. “Which patient?”

“Ms. Jones, sir.”

I hate it when she calls me sir. I’m in my early thirties, hardly a relic.

“Doctor.” I correct automatically.

Her face burns red, “Sorry…doctor.”

I return to staring at Jessica’s photo. Distracted by long blond hair in a high ponytail, I absently tell Hayley, “Reschedule Ms. Jones with Dr. Benedict whenever her first available appointment is. It’s okay if it’s a few weeks from now.” I don’t look up, assuming she hears the dismissal in my tone.

“Um…I can’t sir—doctor.”

Running out of patience, I slam the yearbook closed and spit out, “why not?”

“Because she’s in exam room six. You had a cancellation, so I put her in the spot.”

The air shifts, grows thick, suffocating. My grip tightens around the yearbook, the brittle spine cracking beneath my fingers. My pulse hammers at the base of my throat.

She’s here.

My expression must be thunderous because Hayley squeaks out a quick, “I’m sorry! Did I do the wrong thing? I figured you’d want her back as soon as possible.”

I open my mouth to yell at her, so she never makes such a stupid mistake again when her words hit me.

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