Page 72 of From Air

“Was she legal?” Maren prods.

“She. Was. In. Medical school.” Will huffs an exaggerated breath.

“I heard you.” Maren claps her hands with each word. “Was. She. Legal?”

Jamie chews on the inside of her cheek, gaze ping-ponging between Maren and Will.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I don’t know. Who the hell gets into med school before they turn eighteen?”

“Everleigh Reichart.” Jamie cringes when Will eyes her with a scowl. “And can I add that she thinks you broke her heart? So if you meet for coffee, just be careful.”

“How did it get brought up? Did you two have a little extra time between patients and decide to compare notes and names about your first times having sex?” Will’s failing miserably at containing his frustration.

“I can speak from experience—as a victim, that is—that Jamie talks about other people’s sex lives a lot at work,” I say.

“Fitz!” Jamie shakes her head. “That is not true.”

“She tried to get me to raise one of the other nurses’ kids as my own.”

Maren and Will snort.

“I have to pee. I may or may not be back.” Jamie’s eyes shoot daggers at me before pivoting and stomping her sneakers toward the door.

“How did she not kill you in Florida?” Maren scolds me with atsking noise.

“Luck,” I mumble. “I’m grabbing coffee. Want any, Will?”

“No thanks. Maren, come hold this while I mark it.”

I no sooner get my K-Cup in the machine than Jamie comes downstairs whistling.

“I need you to stop thinking you can fix me. I’m not broken.” I retrieve a mug from the shelf.

Her jovial spirit dies, and she runs her hands through her hair, untangling it. “Where is this coming from?”

“From you asking Will about my family.”

“Fine.” She slips her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. “Then I’ll ask you: Are you estranged from your family?”

“Yes. Satisfied now?” I focus on the coffee dripping into my mug.

“Why?”

“You’re not my therapist. You’re not evenatherapist.”

“I’m not trying to give you therapy.”

“Great. Then drop it.” I sip my coffee and turn toward her.

She steps beside me with her hands on the counter’s edge while watching Maren and Will cutting the siding by the garage. “Do you think about our weekend in Miami?”

“What are you doing?” I don’t want to think about Miami. And I definitely don’t want to talk about it.

“I do. And I think, for someone who keeps all used condoms and counts every sperm, you dropped the ball in Miami. What would you do if I were pregnant? Did you go to your follow-up appointment after your procedure to see if you’re truly sterile? Would younevertell me about your family? Would our childneverknow his family?” She turns with her chin up and expectant wide eyes.

I face her and sip my coffee while weighing my words. There’s no way to sugarcoat this. “I’d tell you to get rid of it.”

She flinches.

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