Page 43 of Six Month Wife
12
Parker
The beepingof heart monitors and the rustle of curtain dividers blur into white noise. It’s midday on Saturday, peak chaos in the ER, and I’m the one stuck on call—low man, meet totem pole.
Tourist season’s in full swing, which means alcohol, dumb decisions, and sunburns with a side of drama. We’ve already handled three bar fights, a nasty stomach virus, and one cardiac event since I've been here for over an hour.
I need the distraction. The adrenaline. Anything to drown out the thoughts banging around in my head. I've got a lot weighing on me--my father’s sudden interest in the will, the estate manager showing up next week, and Adair.
Especially Adair.
She’s been radio silent all day. She hasn't responded to any of my texts or calls. I even swung by Citrine and her place, like a total lunatic.
She doesn’t owe me a damn thing.
But it still bothers me that she's ignoring me.
I’m finishing up a delicate suturing procedure on a young guy who thought it’d be fun to juggle broken beer bottles when I hear a commotion. It's small at first, but unmistakable.
My neck tightens instantly. I know that cadence.q
“Ah, come on now, sweetheart. You can’t possibly be stuck behind this desk all day, can you? What’s a man gotta do to get a little tour of the place?”
Leeland Matthews. My father. A man who could sell ice to a polar bear while convincing it that global warming is a suggestion.
I pause, hands hovering above the patient’s arm, and glance toward the reception area through the slightly open curtain.
There he is. Flashing his megawatt smile like he’s running for office. He leans on the counter like he owns it with his charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and an energy that clashes with every sterile inch of the ER.
“Doctor Matthews?” The nurse assisting me clears her throat.
Right. Sutures. Focus.
I mumble an apology and drop my gaze back to the last stitch.
“Is that your dad?” the patient asks, still grinning, his voice lazy from whatever pain meds are pumping through him. “The receptionist called him Mr. Matthews Senior. Also, you’ve got the same nose.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, tying off the final knot. “That’s my old man.”
I pull off my gloves, toss them in the biohazard bin, and put a hand on his shoulder, his hazy gaze meeting my stern one. “And, buddy, lay off the drinking while performing circus acts, alright? That's a good way to get yourself killed.”
I step into the main area of the ER, where Leeland’s holding court. He's got one hand gesturing like he’s mid-deposition, the other tucked casually in his suit pocket.
He’s charming the nurses now, spinning some wild story with enough charisma to make them laugh loudly. My father doesn’t enter rooms. Hetakes them over.
“Dad.” My voice cuts sharper than I mean it to.
He looks up, and for a split second, something like warmth flickers in his eyes. Then it’s gone, replaced by the smug smile he reserves for all the suckers.
Showtime.
“TheDr. Matthews!” He spreads his arms like we’re long-lost castmates in a primetime reunion special. “My boy, look at you! Saving lives, making me proud.”
I know that’s a load of bullshit. He’s always resented that I didn’t follow him into law. But I give him a thin smile anyway, for the audience.
I grab his elbow and steer him away from the desk before he can get someone to agree to give him a badge and that private tour he keeps asking for. The last thing I need is him poking around and cataloging the ER’s shortcomings for future lectures.
We reach the break room, and I push the door open and gesture for him to come inside. It’s small and sterile, the overhead lights buzzing faintly above a sad excuse for a coffee machine. Leeland’s nose wrinkles like he’s stepped into a crime scene.
