Page 82 of Six Month Wife
I sit in the car for a moment. The thought of going home to my empty condo next door to her feels unbearable.
Two days and still no word from Adair.
I haven’t called her either. Not because I don’t know what to say—I do. I know how it’ll sound. Like an excuse. Like I’m scrambling after getting caught.
I sent one text. It was half-assed and vague, the kind of message you send when you’re not sure if you’re welcome anymore. She didn’t respond. I don’t blame her.
I haven’t called Rose, either. What would I say?
Hey, sorry. Remember that favor I asked? Turns out the woman I wanted you to help and I were mid-hookup when you chimed in with your little Parky-poo routine.
And since I never told her about you, or why you were calling, she thinks we’re fucking, too.
Oh, and bonus twist? She’s my temporary wife because mycrazy Uncle Roger, you remember him? He left behind a riddle wrapped in a secret estate that’s turned my entire life into a slow-motion explosion.
Nope. That would go over like a lead balloon. Super believable.
There’s no version of any of this that doesn’t sound too convenient. Or plain unhinged.
She heard Rose’s voice, filled in the blanks, and came to her own conclusion.
Wrong math. But I didn’t stop her.
So now I’ve got two problems. One I care about.
And one who calls meParky-poo.
And somehow, I’ve managed to piss off both.
I drop the phone in my lap and wipe my hand over my face.
As soon as I do, my phone buzzes again. I grab it quickly, hoping it's her. Disappointingly, the screen flashes the name Gunner. I click to answer on the car’s Bluetooth.
“Hey, Gunner,” I say, keeping my tone light despite the fatigue settling into my bones.
“Parker.” Gunner’s booming voice greets me. “You got a minute?”
“Sure, I’m off my shift and getting ready to go home,” I reply as I pull out of my parking space.
“I’m following up on our last conversation,” he says, clearing his throat.
My mind fires straight to the cafeteria when he floated the idea of me going for the soon-to-be-vacant assistant general surgeon slot. The one I never followed up on.
“I wanted to see if you’d be interested in assisting our chief of surgery, Dr. Kowalski, tomorrow morning. Routine procedure, but he thought it’d be good to have you scrub in with him.”
A working interview.
Shit.
I haven’t even had time to think about what I want to do after all of this is over.
My spine straightens on instinct, like my body’s trying to decide for me. Heat rolls under my collar, and my pulse picks up, pounding through my wrists.
Dr. Kowalski doesn’t waste his time on basic cases. He’s the guy we call when things go sideways. He's at the top of the food chain.
“Ahh,” I say, feigning a cough. “That would be amazing. Thank you for thinking of me.”
A jolt fires through my chest, like a live wire snapping under my ribs. That familiar, jittery hum that only hits when there’s a scalpel in my future and pressure on the line buzzes through me.
