Page 67 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

He hesitated again, then shook his head. “It’s not about you. It’s just... a long day. Clinic stuff.”

I wanted to press, to dig into whatever was pulling at the corners of his eyes. But something in his tone warned me off—like a door gently closing, not slamming, but still firmly shut.

So I leaned up and kissed his cheek, letting it go. For now.

“Then let’s finish this walk,” I said. “Before the mosquitoes declare war.”

We looped back through the garden path, pointing out new buds and laughing at the crooked stepping stone Hazel had misaligned during setup. We were fine. Still us. Just... stretching.

But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting—quietly, like roots twisting beneath the soil. I just didn’t know if it was growing us stronger… or pulling us in different directions.

Later that evening, I dropped Damien off at the clinic for his last consult of the day. He kissed me quickly on the sidewalk, promising to be home in an hour.

I watched him disappear into the building’s double doors, the automatic glass swallowing him whole.

Inside, the lights flickered on.

I didn’t know then that the girl waiting for him in that consultation room would change everything.

That her chart would list symptoms he knew too well.

That her case would wake up something in him he’d tried to bury deep beneath small-town routine and garden beds.

But I would know soon.

And when I did... everything would bloom and break all at once.

Chapter eighteen

Damien

The girl’s name was Ava. Fifteen. Pale, trembling, and barely holding on beneath the wires and blinking monitors. Her mother clutched her hand like it was the only thing keeping her grounded to the earth.

They rushed her in an hour before closing. Chest pain, dizziness, a fainting spell. I scanned the vitals, the ECG, and then the history. It was all there—quiet and subtle like a whisper in a crowded room. But I’d heard it before.

My fingers hovered above her chart.

Congenital. Rare. Often missed until it was too late.

Until someone didn’t come home from gym class.

I swallowed hard.

The staff looked to me like they already knew. Not just because I was the senior physician on call—but because they’d seen the shift in me the second I read her file.

Because this wasn’t just any case.

This was the kind of diagnosis that took my career skyward in New York. The one that filled headlines and journals. The one that had made my hands famous.

And here it was again, blooming in Cedar Springs like a ghost I never asked for.

I stepped out into the hall and dialed the number I hadn’t used in over a year.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Damien,” came the gravelly voice of Dr. Philip Ross. “Never thought I’d hear from you again, son.”

I didn’t waste time. “Fifteen-year-old female. Intermittent syncope. Fatigue. Ejection murmur confirmed. Suspected anomalous origin of the left coronary artery. Echo pending. But I already know.”

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