Page 85 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Turns out the best kind live in towns with wildflower gardens.”

Hank let out a quiet chuckle, rough and soft at the same time. Then his eyes turned glassy, and he quickly cleared his throat, looking away.

“I’ll try,” he muttered.

“That’s all I need,” I said. “And if you need backup, Ruby’s got a tea for just about every ailment known to man. And some that probably aren’t.”

He snorted. “That girl’s got spirit.”

“She’s got heart,” I said. “More than anyone I know.”

We sat for another few minutes, watching bees dance lazily between blooms. I didn’t feel the need to rush him back inside. Didn’t feel the pressure to push through patients like puzzle pieces.

When Hank finally stood, he turned to me with a gruff nod. “Thanks, Doc.”

“See you in two weeks.”

He walked off toward the gravel lot, boots crunching steady now.

I stayed behind a little longer, eyes trailing the garden paths.

This. This was it.

Not the glitter of operating rooms or the roar of crowded emergency wings. Not six-figure bonuses or newspaper profiles.

It was a man with rough hands letting his guard down. A bench shaded by roses. The kind of medicine that grows alongside its people, not above them.

The phone in my pocket buzzed—a message from the New York recruiter. I didn’t open it.

Instead, I took the long way back inside.

The morning paper was still warm from the press when I unfolded it on my desk, the ink smudging my fingertips as I smoothed out the front page. And there she was—Ruby, mid-laugh, her arms full of wild blooms and confidence, beneath the bold headline:Florist Wins Innovation Award at Regional Showcase.

I should’ve felt pure pride. Maybe I did. But beneath it, something else tightened in my chest—a sense of missing something vital, like standing outside a house glowing with warmth and realizing you left the key on the kitchen counter. She looked radiant. Alive. Like she belonged exactly where she was.

I traced the corner of the picture absently, then reached for my pen. I’d written her one letter since she left for the competition. Maybe it was time for another. Something real. Something that didn’t dance around the truth.

Dear Ruby,I miss the way your hair smells like citrus and chaos. I miss your laugh echoing down the garden path. I miss you...

I tapped the pen against my lip, then sighed. No. I balled the paper and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It missed. Of course it did.

I stood and paced, my eyes drifting toward the manila envelope still sitting on the edge of my desk—the job offer from New York, unopened for two days now. The weight of it pressed like a cinder block on my chest. Reinstatement. Full privileges. Research. Resources. Everything I once thought I needed.

But the cost was clear. A life built around eighty-hour weeks and hotel rooms. A city with no Ruby, no garden, no awkward breakfast meetings with Hazel ranting about town zoning codes. No late nights sketching plans by candlelight with coffee-stained fingers and her head on my shoulder.

I sat back down and rubbed my temples. The deadline was in less than twelve hours. I had to respond.

I reached for the envelope just as my phone buzzed sharply on the desk.

Cedar Springs Clinic: EMERGENCY — Teenage Patient, Cardiac Arrest in Progress.

My breath caught. The world narrowed to a pinpoint. My muscles responded before my mind fully caught up. I was out of the chair, grabbing my keys, running.

…

The clinic was chaos when I arrived. Nurses shouted orders. The girl—fourteen, maybe fifteen—lay still and gray on the gurney, wires tangled around her like vines trying to hold her together.

“She collapsed on the soccer field,” the paramedic explained. “No history, just dropped.”

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