Page 70 of The Potter

I shrug. “The texture bothers me.”

She snaps back. “Isn’t the texture the same as most meats?”

“No.” I frown, getting back to my own meal—steak, not chicken.

“And you thinkI’mridiculous.” Halle laughs, taking a sip directly from the wine bottle I had sent up. She refuses to allow me to drink it as she claims I had my share of alcohol earlier, and my liver needs a rest.

I pretend to concede, only because she’s probably right. Clearly, drunk Vance fucks up more than sober Vance when Halle is involved. It’s probably best if I dry out before I do something really crazy like enjoy Ms. Belle’s company more than I already do.

“So, tell me, Dr. Potter. What happened with you and Twat-tankerous earlier?”

A piece of food gets hung in my throat, and it takes me a few moments to clear it before I can reply. “I’m scared to ask what Twat-tankerous even means.”

Halle waves me off, totally serious. “She’s Serena’s sister, isn’t she? I knew the cunt didn’t fall far from the cunt tree.”

Setting my food down, I fight off a grin and take a deep breath. This isn’t a conversation I want to have with an employee or a patient, but Halle’s colorful use of derogatory nicknames has me answering just to see if she can come up with more. “No, Calista is not related to Serena.”

“Calista sounds like she’s bitchy, too.”

I sigh and shove the food away before scooting up the bed and resting against the headboard. “She wasn’t always. Years ago, we were inseparable.”

Done with her food, too, Halle grabs the bottle of wine and moves in closer, handing me the bottle. I lift a brow. “Thought you said my liver needed a break?”

She shrugs, and I chug it before she can change her mind. If I plan on telling more of this story, then I definitely don’t want to be sober. Can’t have any of those pesky blackouts taking me down again in front of Halle. It’s liable to ruin my less than stellar impression with my new patient.

When I can feel the alcohol working its way down my chest, I finally hand back the bottle. Halle takes it and she, too, chugs, gulping several times before she sets the bottle on the nightstand and looks over at me, her body coiling with tension. “Was she your girlfriend?” she asks carefully.

I bark out a laugh, feeling it deep inside my belly. “Calista? No.” I shake my head. “She was always Logan’s girl.”

“Who’s Logan?”

My chest seizes at the mention of his name, and I fight to breathe. “He was my best friend.”

“Was?” Her voice is soft and full of pity. I don’t like it.

“I killed him.”

Always, the charmer, Vance. That’s one way to get rid of Ms. Belle. This story will surely have her scrambling for another job and surgeon.

“I don’t understand. How—” I just want this story, this confession, over. The sooner Halle knows the truth, the sooner she can move on with her life back in Georgia.

“Logan and I were childhood friends. Both of our fathers were surgeons, and we were expected to follow in their footsteps, just like Astor and Duke. We were all friends, going to the same country club every weekend.”

I rake my hands through my hair, a fine sheen of sweat dotting my skin. “Calista’s father owned the country club. I remember when she and Logan met.” I chuckle. “At seventeen, Logan was an awkward bastard. He would watch Calista lying out on the pool chairs every afternoon in her yellow bikini. Then one day, he decided he was going to talk to her and took her a lemonade—her favorite.” I burst out with genuine laughter at the memory. “He tripped, spilled the lemonade, and ended up splitting his lip on the edge of her chair. He bled all over that yellow bikini of hers.”

I chuckle, but it doesn’t feel authentic anymore.

“They fell in love after that?”

I chance a look at Halle and nod. “They were married during our second year of med school.”

They were the couple who would have made it fifty years had it not been for me.

I swallow, knowing the next question she’ll ask. “Two years ago, Logan was in a motorcycle accident.” My voice cracks, and I have to cough to right it. “A year later, after his injuries healed, he asked me to refine a few of the scars. He was scared Calista would leave him because he didn’t look the same anymore.”

Halle’s eyes gloss over as tears collect at the corners. I wipe them off, knowing she probably has felt similarly. You don’t endure a tragedy and come out of it the same person you were. Physical scars are only part of the change. The mental battle of waking up that first day after an accident and seeing the person you are now, knowing it’s not the same as when you went to bed. Your body is different. Some parts scarred beyond recognition. You can’t imagine someone else loving this new version of you because you don’t love this version of yourself yet.

It’s a brutal process.

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